Desert Rogue (2 page)

“Hmm, Lady Victoria Reed. I like the sound of it already,” the bride-to-be said with a smile, sinking down onto one of the small benches near the fountains replicating those found in the Shaw gardens in Warwickshire. “Perhaps we should postpone the wedding until Hayden receives that title.”

“Victoria, you are scheduled to marry in less than three months. It would be highly inconvenient to alter our plans now. Since you were the ones who wanted to be married quickly, you should dispense with such foolish notions,” chided Grace, impatient with the heat and wishing she hadn't mentioned her husband's hopes. “Come along, now. We have written barely half the invitations. We must get back to them.”

“I do wish the British community in Egypt was not quite so large or that you and Father didn't know everyone.”

“As the representative of the bank holding the notes on a major portion of the khedive's debts, it is your father's duty to invite almost everyone with whom he is acquainted,” sniffed Mrs. Shaw. “Besides, a good number of invitations are for your friends and people Hayden wishes to impress.”

“Mother, I promise you, if you permit me this half hour until dinner, I will produce beautiful copperplate from the moment we finish eating until my hand falls off—or until you grant this prisoner a pardon.”

“Such flippancy is hardly necessary—”

“All right, until we have finished,” corrected the young woman with a winsome smile. “Just let me enjoy the air. Even if it isn't cool, looking at the water makes me feel better. See, there's even a
falucca
on the river. I don't recognize it, but someone else is appreciating the charm of the Nile.”

Mother and daughter watched the graceful Egyptian boat gliding downriver, its occupants invisible as it barely skimmed the water, making the motion seem effortless. Used for hundreds of years, the design was timeless, and one rarely knew where the crafts were heading or from where they originated. Only one's imagination could attempt to solve the mystery.

“Very well, but don't make me send the servants to collect you for dinner. I expect you at the table when I sit down. With your father in Constantinople, I detest eating alone. I always feel the serving girls are waiting for me to spill something.”

“Thirty minutes, Mother, I promise,” agreed Victoria, inordinately pleased at her precious few moments of privacy, time to dream of Hayden and their upcoming life together.

Her fiancé was so much an English gentleman that it was difficult to remember that he had lived in Egypt nearly twenty of his thirty years, she mused, leaning back and closing her eyes to picture him at his desk at the consulate.

His chin was square, his features finely chiseled, so he appeared aristocratic even though he couldn't lay claim to nobility. Indeed, Senior Consular Agent to the Vice Consul was the only title Hayden Reed owned, but if Father could really influence the prime minister, life would be sweet, indeed. Marriage and a title, what fabulous treats were in store for her in the months ahead!

First, of course, was the ceremony, then a honeymoon voyage home to England, shopping in London, walking the estate in Warwick in cool, crisp country air. Images of bliss cascaded through Victoria's mind, the blessed promise of tomorrow making her oblivious to the heat of the evening until unwelcome noises called her back to the river.

The sudden sound of feet landing heavily on the quay and subsequent running awakened Victoria from her daydream. Rising, she was astounded to see two natives hurrying up the landing while a third man secured the
falucca
she had noticed earlier.

“This is private property,” she announced sternly, waving her hand at the men in dismissal. The audacity of the Egyptians was unusual; everyone in the area knew the Shaw lands were not available for public docking. It could be that the men were from upriver, but she'd send them on their way quickly enough. “There is a landing site about two miles from here.”

Still the men approached, moving even more rapidly toward her. Maybe they didn't understand English.

“I say, be off with you now or I shall be forced to notify the authorities that you are trespassing,” she cautioned. “My fiancé is connected with the consulate and he won't deal with this matter lightly, I warn you. Now go.”

Despite her urgent commands, for the first time in all the years Victoria had spent in Egypt, the natives did not scurry to do her bidding. Instead, they kept coming closer and closer. The distance between them was barely a few feet now, and, for a brief instant, Victoria felt panic and wondered if she should cry out for the old man working in the far gardens.

But why should she cause a fuss, argued her common sense, when they hadn't threatened her? Maybe they were heading for the house to deliver a message for her father. They were somewhat scruffy-looking, but that didn't mean they were intent on mischief. Perhaps they were only lost. Supremely confident of her position once more, she spoke again in an authoritative tone.

“If you have a message to deliver, one of you may take it to the house. But the others will have to wait with the boat,” she insisted, raising her arm to point to the
falucca.

“You come with us,” responded the shorter man, grabbing Victoria and yanking her to his side.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said, laughing, wresting herself free and stepping backward, losing her hat in the process. Yet, despite her evasive tactic, Victoria found herself captured by the rock-solid arms of the second man. “I am a British citizen and Hayden Reed's fiancée. Neither he nor my father will stand for my being treated this way.”

All at once a coarse rag was shoved in her mouth and she began to choke at the unpleasant taste. Trying to breathe in such a way so as to avoid the foul flavor of the cloth, Victoria felt herself being lifted and tossed unceremoniously over the tall Arab's shoulder. Horrified, she worked feverishly to free herself from his grasp, kicking her small pointed shoes toward the man's stomach with as much force as she could deliver.

Suddenly she knew success and failure simultaneously as her flailing feet evidently hit a sensitive spot. With an anguished cry, her captor dropped her on the riverbank, just yards from the moored
falucca.
Quickly she scrambled to her feet, but before she could pull the rag from her mouth and begin screaming for help, the smaller man had pinned her arms behind her back and was busy tying them tightly together.

Realizing that she might not be able to free herself from their company for a while, Victoria composed herself enough to notice that the shorter one had a small scar on his left cheek before she was dumped facedown into the
falucca.

As the craft began to move, she knew only frustration at her unexpected predicament. To think she had protested writing invitations tonight! Any moment Grace would be sending the servants to find her, but they would be too late. Still, there was Hayden. Once he knew she had been kidnapped, he would have both Egyptian and British forces out searching for her, stopping at nothing until she was found. Of that she had no doubt.

Unwilling to consider the possibility that she, an English woman and the only child of a wealthy banker, could actually come to harm, Victoria felt little more than aggravated at the thought of the waiting invitations that would now have to wait that much longer. But then, Hayden would rescue her long before breakfast, certainly.

Lulled by the boat's forward motion, she concentrated her thoughts on Hayden's coming to rescue her, her blue eyes hardening at the memory of the villains' touch. For surely death awaited them for their unpardonable crime!

T
hough Ali had moved off quickly in pursuit of the American through the narrow winding streets of the
medina,
he had lost his quarry. He refused to give up, however, and began a methodical search of the Arab Quarter, a hunter stalking his prey.

Twice he had found himself tossed out into the street for daring to demand information, but the man seemed to have disappeared. Ali could think of only one place to look for him, the brothel district.

Determined to see justice done, he directed his steps to this neighborhood and set up a vigil, telling himself that if he did not catch sight of the man he sought within the hour, he would go home to Fatima.

Suddenly, a hundred yards ahead of him, the lanky foreigner appeared, turning unsteadily into Nadir's brothel.

Ali hesitated outside in the alleyway. If Fatima ever learned that he had visited a house of pleasure, she would leave him and return to her father's house. Still, there was the matter of the five thousand piasters he was owed, nearly a month's income from the shop. He could not afford to forsake such a fee, regardless of Fatima's disapproval of his methods. With any luck whatsoever, his beloved wife would never learn the details of this evening's activities. It would be enough to go home and show her the American's money.

Dismissing the doubts that plagued him, Ali lowered his head to his chest, intending to remain temporarily unnoticed while he surveyed the brothel. When no eruption followed the American's entrance, Ali decided it was safe to pursue him inside.

A deep breath calmed his racing heart as he crossed the threshold into the shadowy recesses of Nadir's front room. Looking around surreptitiously, he spied the villain already moving up the stairs to the small cubicles above.

“No, no, you cannot go up to the girls without paying,” protested an overweight Egyptian behind the table, holding up a paunchy hand as Ali started for the staircase. “It is not permitted.”

“I am not here for pleasure. I am with the American,” lied Ali, sidestepping the proprietor and beginning the upward climb. “I stand outside his door to guard his privacy while he enjoys the sweet treats you provide.”

“Oh, room six, then,” agreed Nadir, not wanting any trouble. The American had already paid for the girl's services. “Just stay in the hall. The girls get more money with an audience.”

Room six was the last in the corridor and Ali stood quietly outside. He would give the man a few minutes to become so involved that flight would be the furthest thing from his mind.

Then it was time for a quick tap on the door, followed by a pause and another staccato tattoo.

“I bring message,” he called. “Urgent message.”

The flimsy door opened abruptly and Ali pushed his way into the shadowy room, its only light provided by a few half-burned candles. A slender, half-clothed Egyptian girl stood by the door while the bare-chested American lay sprawled on the rumpled pile of cushions on the floor, a bottle of whiskey in one hand. Taking a long swallow, he held it out as if to offer it to Ali and nodded casually.

“Here, have a snort and tell me your message. Another job waiting, I suppose, though heaven only knows how you found me.”

“It is simple, sir. You owe me five thousand piasters for the damage you did to my shop,” announced Ali solemnly. “Pay me at once and I'll leave.”

“Oh, it's you, you filthy dog,” Jed growled, trying to make his eyes focus. “The brass merchant from the bazaar! It seems your merchandise isn't the only thing that's made out of brass. Get the hell out of here!”

“What? I do not understand.”

“You interrupt my pleasure to present me with a bill?” yelled Jed, struggling to his feet to confront the Egyptian. “I was never in your shop. It was the fool polecat I tossed against the wall who did the damage.”

“Your memory fails you because of the drink. I told you he had no money,” Ali explained rationally, refusing to be intimidated. “You must pay.”

“Pay nothing,” bellowed Jed. “Woman, get out of my way. I'm going to toss this ragged shopkeeper out on his ear and then we can get back to business.”

Ali, however, was lighter on his feet and swifter than the drunken Jed and he effortlessly sidestepped the other's lunging motion. Extending his arms to harness the American's momentum, Ali used it to propel his opponent headfirst into the corridor, where Jed made contact with the wall and slid to the floor.

In an instant, though, the American was back on his feet, spoiling for a real fight. No one had ever knocked Jed Kincaid to the ground so that he stayed there, and no scrawny Egyptian peddler was going to succeed now. Uttering a screaming war cry, Jed lowered his head and ran at Ali, butting him in the stomach and thrusting him into the adjoining door.

The impact of two flying bodies crashed the thin panel without warning. Suddenly Ali and Jed found themselves on an already-occupied mattress, its occupants none too happy.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” demanded the man on the bed as his companion sought to cover herself.

“He struck me without cause,” protested Ali, moving quickly to his feet, preparing to strike back at Jed. But as fast as he regained his stance and swung, so did the American.

Unfortunately, however, while Ali's fist swung wide and hit only air, Jed's connected soundly with the stranger's jaw, at the same instant Ali spied the jacket of the Egyptian police slung casually over a chair. Groaning, he turned hurriedly toward the door, hoping to escape even as their victim rose to tower over them. Muttering angrily to himself, the officer snatched up the manacles intended for another purpose and grabbed Ali's wrists while calling his men from nearby rooms to block Jed's escape.

“Constable, it wasn't my fault,” the shopkeeper protested, already dreading the scene to come. “I apologize that we disturbed you, but—”

“Constable?” echoed Jed, a dull pain beginning between his eyes. Somehow he doubted the manacles were a good omen, especially when a second set appeared and clamped his own wrists together. “I can explain everything. I was simply having myself a good time next door when this wild man interrupted—much the same way he, ah, we barged in on you—”

“Enough,” the policeman snapped, donning his uniform jacket. His evening's pleasure had already been lost, but he might as well get credit for an arrest or two, he decided, herding the prisoners toward the stairs.

Disturbing the peace, disorderly conduct, attacking a constable, and probably another charge or two to begin with, he mused gleefully until it dawned on him that the foreigner had been speaking to his Egyptian opponent in English. How could he arrest someone who was possibly a subject of the British Crown? Giving in to such folly without consulting the English authorities could put him in jeopardy of never being able to patronize Nadir's again.

With a heartfelt sigh he adjusted his uniform and ordered the felons to be taken to the office of the consul general.

* * *

Grace Shaw had lost count of the number of circuits she had made of Cameron's study, pacing to and fro, but feeling somehow closer to her husband in this room though he was miles away. She had endured dinner alone when Victoria hadn't returned, stubbornly refusing to send the servants after her errant daughter. But when darkness fell, the worried mother capitulated and dispatched the household in search of her. Yet Victoria was nowhere on the grounds and Grace was very frightened.

What would Cameron do? she wondered as the clock struck midnight. If she worried Hayden and it turned out Victoria had merely slipped away to visit a friend in order to avoid addressing those blasted invitations, the Englishman would think ill of his fiancée. Still, if she didn't tell him and Victoria was in trouble, he would think her a fool or worse.

It was more than four hours since she had left Victoria on the riverbank, where the old gardener had found her hat. But the girl was impulsive. Many was the time Grace had seen her toss her bonnet aside because she found it bothersome in one activity or another.

If only Cameron were here, fluttered the anxious mother. He would know how to avoid scandal, and the longer Victoria was gone, alone and unchaperoned, the more likely it appeared that would be necessary. Perhaps if she sent a note to Hayden, deploring the hour and asking him to escort Victoria home? That was it. She would dispatch a message as if nothing were wrong and the girl had planned to visit him tonight. If Hayden sent word that he hadn't seen Victoria, then Grace would have garnered his assistance without directly asking for help.

Relieved at having made a decision, she sat at her husband's desk to compose the note, only to be interrupted by the houseman.

“This was just delivered, Mrs. Shaw. The boy said it was urgent or I would have left it until morning,” he explained, handing over a heavy envelope sealed with wax that bore no imprint.

“Thank you, Ahmet. I shall need you to take a message to Mr. Reed for me shortly. I will ring when it is ready.” Her hand shook only slightly as she slit the packet, her unacknowledged fear finally taking hold. Victoria was missing, a young white woman in uncivilized Egypt. What else could this be but a monetary demand to guarantee her safety?

With icy fingers, she turned the envelope upside down, spilling out a crudely drawn map, a page of irregular print and the brooch Victoria had worn that evening. Her fears were confirmed.

Scanning the poorly spelled missive, Grace Shaw expelled a slow breath and, leaning back in Cameron's chair, uttered a prayer.

“Oh, Lord, I don't often ask favors of you, but please take care of my dear girl. I vow I'll get the money these devils lust after, but let them be satisfied with that,” murmured Grace. “Surely if I do as they say, they won't harm her. Hayden will know how to handle them. He's good at problems and he cares for Victoria. I know he'll see the ransom paid if I give him the money. And then Victoria will be home safe and sound.”

But after she had been abducted would Hayden Reed still wish to claim Victoria for his bride? With a strenuous effort, Grace concentrated on the matter at hand. There would be time enough to worry about that later; until then, emotionless efficiency must be her goal. First the message to John Thomas, Cameron's assistant at the bank, asking him to discreetly release the funds to Hayden. Then the letter to Hayden himself.

* * *

Hayden Reed, consular agent, finished buttoning his trousers and passed the back of his hand across his sleep-laden eyes. Struggling to attach his shirt's stiff collar, he wondered what emergency it was that would call him from his bed at two o'clock in the morning. He hoped that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with him and his work. Yet no matter the situation, the tall, slim Englishman vowed he would handle it. With unperturbed movements that belied his nervousness, he applied pomade to his hair, and a few swift strokes of his silver-backed brush soon had every golden strand impeccably in place.

He rinsed his hands and wiped them fastidiously, then checked his appearance in the mirror. Should the matter now demanding his attention call for the appraisal of his immediate supervisor, Hayden wanted to look every inch the proper British government servant. And if it was, indeed, his superior who had summoned him for questioning, a flawless appearance would not be amiss.

Easing into his expensively tailored suit jacket, and gently tugging the end of each sleeve so that not too much shirt cuff was exposed, he opened the door between his temporary bachelor rooms and the long hallway that led to the government offices at the other end of the building.

His inordinately fine leather shoes softly tapped out his progress as he trod along the corridor, happy that marrying Victoria Shaw meant he could leave his rather Spartan quarters behind and move into a house in a fashionable area of Cairo. A private residence would be so much more useful to a man in his line of work, and he looked forward to taking possession of it two days hence, a full three months before his wedding day.

When he reached the door that led to the office, Hayden straightened his tie and shoulders before making his entrance, his left eyebrow cocked to a suitably inquisitive yet critical degree.

Prepared for just about any crisis, the tall, wiry Englishman had never expected a sight the likes of which greeted him. It caused him to breathe easier. There standing on the costly, intricately handwoven carpet before his desk were two of the most bedraggled human beings Hayden had ever seen in the company of a common Egyptian constable, who appeared to be tempering his own irritation toward the pair with obsequious apologies for disturbing him at such an odd hour.

The unlikely duo was a study in contrasts. One was Egyptian, of obvious Bedouin stock, yet his demeanor and clothing, shredded though it was, proclaimed him to be a man of business rather than a nomad. But it was the other man who commanded Hayden's attention. A Caucasian, the fellow was nonetheless one of the scruffiest-looking specimens Hayden had encountered in quite some time. Dressed in the sort of well-worn kit one might don on an archaeological dig, the man sported a heavy brown stubble of beard and, judging from his arrogant grin, an attitude that struck Hayden as even more prickly.

“What's all this, then?” Hayden asked condescendingly. The question had been directed to the police official, the two men apparently in custody being, of course, beneath his notice.

“Most honored sir,” the constable began, “a small problem has arisen.”

“If it is so trifling, why bother me with it?” Hayden inquired, not troubling to offer the policeman a seat. This was merely a civil matter and not his own actions being called to task.

“Please hear me out. You are aware, of course, that the Egyptian constabulary is autonomous,” the officer began, his spine straightening and his chest puffing out with importance. “It is only as a favor to you that I bring these two men here, and certainly not because we are subordinate to Britain.”