Scoundrel's Honor (18 page)

“Caliph Rajih.”

Huntley made a sound of disbelief. “You are certain?”

Thomas nodded. “Aye.”

Dimitri turned to study the duke's shocked expression. “Are you acquainted with him?”

“We attended school together,” Huntley admitted, his brows pulled together in a puzzled frown. “He is Egyptian, although he spent a good deal of his life in England and Europe until the past few years. From all accounts a favorite of Muhammad Ali Pasha.”

Dimitri sympathized with Huntley's astonishment. “Why would he be interested in Sanderson?”

Thomas glanced about to ensure there was no one near. “When the females that Sanderson has been buying are no longer of value in London, they are taken to the slave markets in Cairo.”

“Bloody hell,” Huntley breathed.

A sudden chill arrowed down Dimitri's spine and, barely aware he was moving, he had reached to grab the woolen scarf wrapped around Thomas's neck, giving him a small shake.

“Where is the caliph now?”

With a practiced movement Thomas managed to free himself from Dimitri's grip, his expression knowing.

“He sailed away from London three days ago.” The man rubbed his bruised throat, his eyes never straying from Dimitri's tight features. “Along with a female who looked remarkably like the woman posing as your wife.”

M
UCH TO
E
MMA'S
frustration the journey from Alexandria to Cairo was postponed for three days as Rajih had revealed a sandstorm was sweeping through the desert without warning.

Her patience wasn't improved once they were aboard the shallow sailboat that carried them along the yellowish water of the Nile. There was a beauty to be found in the stunning scenery that slid past. The stark, reddish carpet of desert on one side and the rolling green fields on the opposite side. And most impressive of all the looming pyramids that made Emma want to pinch herself and ensure this was not all some strange dream.

At last they landed in Bulak and traveled to Rajih's home on the outskirts of the old city.

Or at least, what he called a home.

To Emma the sprawling three-storied building with mosaic-tiled floors and delicate tapestries, as well as ornate chandeliers was more a palace than a simple home. She had counted three formal courtyards, a private mosque and a domed pavilion before being hurried into the private gardens surrounding the women's quarters.

Behind the towering doors guarded by armed servants, Emma had found herself surrounded by a series of elegant apartments that framed the private baths. The floors were tiled with a lovely blue-and-ivory pattern while the walls were painted with frescoes that portrayed women bending at the feet of a long-forgotten caliph. Next to the vast gardens there was a charming room with low divans and
gold-framed mirrors that reflected the vibrant colors from the blooms that spilled through the open archways.

Emma waited only long enough for Rajih to brush a light kiss on her cheek and warn her to stay out of the afternoon heat before sneaking out the back of the gardens.

Rajih was without a doubt a charming, well-educated companion who had treated her with tender care. In truth, he was precisely the sort of man she had dreamed of as a young girl in Yabinsk and if not for the aching concern for her sister, and of course, Dimitri Tipova…

She shut off her futile thoughts and quickened her step.

She was in Cairo for one purpose, and one purpose only.

Anya.

Clad in a traveling gown of pale lilac and a bonnet that possessed a thick veil to cover her face, she adjusted the small pistol she had brought from London that was tucked in the full sleeve of her gown.

She was not stupid. She understood that a woman traveling the narrow, dirt streets alone was foolishly dangerous, but what other choice did she have?

Rajih might be handsome and attentive and willing to indulge her in many ways, but to his mind she was a mere female who should bend to his will. He would conduct his search for Anya in his own manner and in his own time.

That was unacceptable.

Searching for the bazaars, Emma ignored the leers from the passing men as well as the shrill laughter from the women who leaned over wooden balconies to reveal their lush bodies barely hidden by the gauzy robes. In truth, she was more unnerved by the large dogs that darted among the crowd and the young men on donkeys who seemed intent on riding down hapless pedestrians.

A drop of sweat trickled down her back as she turned a
corner, reminding her of Rajih's warning that she was not yet prepared to endure the afternoon sunlight. Abruptly, she halted as she caught sight of the open gate that offered a glimpse of the covered bazaar beyond. Her heart gave a small leap as a potent perfume wafted through the air.

Was it possible?

Her scream went unheard as a hand was shoved over her mouth and an arm wrapped around her waist from behind. She struggled, but she was unable to halt herself being pulled back toward the street. Then, thankfully, she recognized the musky scent of Rajih's cologne.

“I believe that will be enough sightseeing for today,” he drawled, bundling her into the waiting carriage with barely leashed anger. Settling her on the seat next to her, he yanked off her bonnet and tossed it on the floor. “I begin to sympathize with your poor Cossack. Do you possess no sense of self-preservation whatsoever?”

She folded her hands in her lap, attempting to hide her unease.

“I am here to search for my sister, not to be hidden away in your harem,” she said, her chin tilted.

His dark, beautiful features were rigid with anger. “And you do not trust I am doing my best to make certain she is found?”

She shifted to glance out the window, seeking the words that would make Rajih understand the relentless need that burned deep inside her.

“Anya is my sister and my responsibility. I could not bear thinking I did not do everything in my power to protect her.” Her hands curled into tight fists of frustration. “Is that so very hard to understand?”

There was a brief silence, then slender fingers cupped her face, gently turning her back to meet Rajih's dark, searching gaze.

“Do you know,
habiba,
I find myself quite envious of your sister,” he said, his voice husky.

“Envious?”

His fingers tightened on her cheek. “You love so fiercely. Any man would be honored to have earned such a rare gift.”

She grimaced, considering the few men who had bothered to pay her attention.

“Thus far the gentlemen I have known are not particularly interested in earning a place in my heart,” she said, deliberately meeting his smoldering gaze. “Only my bed.”

His thumb brushed her lower lip. “There are many men who can be extremely stupid.”

“So I have discovered.”

“And there are those men who find it far easier to reveal the desire of their bodies rather than confess the secrets of their hearts.”

Her own heart gave a treacherous leap, warning her that a small part of her still longed to believe that Dimitri had considered her more than a convenient body in his bed. Which simply proved just how foolish she could truly be.

“It does not matter.” She shrugged. “I have no interest in offering my heart to another.”

“No?”

“My place is at Yabinsk, tending to my business and caring for my sister.”

His gaze lowered to her lips, his thumb continuing to tease at the corner of her mouth.

“You do not truly believe you can return to such a mundane existence, do you?”

Emma shied from the thought of her small coaching inn and cramped cottage.

“What is my choice?”

“You could remain with me.”

“As your concubine?”

He brushed a soft kiss over her lips. “Are you proposing a more formal arrangement?”

Heat flooded her cheeks at his teasing. “Certainly not. In fact, I presume you must wed for political gain.”

Without warning his hand dropped from her face and his expression became guarded.

“I will bow to the pasha's will.”

Emma regarded him with a frown, sensing that she had touched a source of distress.

“Does the thought of marrying for political gain trouble you?”

His smile was forced. “I have known I was to be a pawn from the moment my father sent me to England to be groomed as a diplomat.”

“That does not answer my question.”

The dark eyes narrowed, as if caught off guard by her persistence. And perhaps he was. Rajih was obviously unaccustomed to sharing his feelings. No doubt the burden of being born a caliph.

For a moment she could easily imagine Rajih as a young boy, forced to watch as his country was overrun with infidel invaders, and then the pain of being sent to England where he must have felt alone and terrified by his strange surroundings.

What man would not have learned to guard his emotions?

At last he offered a slow nod. “Yes, Emma, it troubles me greatly that my life is not my own to arrange as I would desire, but I accept my duty.” His expression softened as his gaze swept over her upturned face. “And more important, I have discovered the importance of embracing happiness when it makes its rare appearance.”

She ducked her head, unwilling to encourage his flirtations. She suspected that his gentlemanly restraint would be tossed aside with the slightest encouragement.

“Have you discovered nothing of my sister?”

Rajih heaved a faint sigh, then he pulled a curtain across the carriage window, thankfully blocking out the relentless sunlight.

“I have learned the
Katherine Marie
docked two days before we arrived at Alexandria and that the crew remained at least one night in the city.”

Emma was torn between relief that she was still on her sister's trail, and the frustration that she continued to remain just out of reach.

“And when they left, did they come to Cairo?”

“That was their intention.”

She stiffened as she heard the edge in his voice.

“What are you not telling me?”

“The Russian who was in charge of the girls was determined to flee Alexandria,” he said. “Perhaps he sensed he was being followed.”

She grabbed his arm, wanting to shake the truth from him.

“Rajih.”

“As I told you, the most convenient means to travel is by boat, but it is also the most noticeable.” He grimaced. “A smuggler could not risk attracting the attention of the pasha's guards.”

His words made sense. The men responsible for kidnapping the girls had proven an undeniable talent for remaining invisible.

“So how did they travel?”

“By caravan.”

Emma frowned. Since arriving in Egypt she had often seen the long line of camels and occasionally horses as they moved over the distant hills. It had not appeared a particularly comfortable means of travel, but it was not unusual.

“I do not understand—” Her words came to an abrupt
halt as she was hit by a sudden realization. “Oh, dear Lord. The sandstorm.”

He gave a sharp nod. “Yes.”

“Were they—”

“Nothing is known of their fate, Emma,” he gently assured her. “It is quite possible they were disoriented by the storm and remain in the desert. I have sent word among the Bedouin tribes to search for them.”

She bent forward, covering her face with her hands as her stomach clenched with a dread that was becoming all too common. Last night she had dreamed that Anya was still a baby and that she had gone to her cradle only to find it empty. She had raced about the dark cottage, screaming for help that had never come.

Had it been a premonition?

Was it possible that Anya was dead?

Without warning, the obstinate belief that she would rescue her sister and return them both to their home in Yabinsk wavered.

“It is almost as if fate is determined to keep me from Anya,” she choked, tears filling her eyes.

She felt Rajih's strong arm circle her shoulders, pulling her against the hard muscles of his chest.

“They will be discovered,” he murmured.

Her hands lowered as she tilted back her head to meet his concerned gaze.

“So I have been assured over and over, and yet I am no closer to Anya than when I left Russia.”

He frowned, his thumb brushing away her tears. “Come, Emma, it is not in your nature to lose hope.”

She shook her head, potently aware of the heat filling the carriage and distant chanting from the mosque. Never had Russia, and the life she had fought to build, seemed so far away.

“It is not so much a matter of losing hope as it is
accepting I do not have the skills necessary to be useful to my sister.”

The carriage came to a halt, and with care, Rajih led her through the gardens to the seraglio, the whisper of his robes melding with the tinkle of the fountains in an oddly soothing sound.

“You are tired and hungry,” he assured her. “By morning you will have regained your spirits and no doubt will have some new means to terrify me.”

Emma nodded, realizing he was right. She could not recall the last time she had slept through the night.

“Yes, I am tired.”

Halting at the arched entry into the harem's private gardens, he motioned toward a slender woman covered in veils who hurried forward.

“Put yourself in Samira's hands.” He brushed his lips over her forehead. “She has a magical touch.”

With an uncharacteristic sense of weariness, Emma allowed herself to be led into the cool shadows of the harem. Perhaps it was the heat, or the weeks of gnawing anxiety, or the long journey, but suddenly Emma felt in dire need of a few hours of peace.

Reaching the inner apartments, Emma allowed Samira to help remove her gown and undergarments. She sighed in pleasure as the heavy fabric slid away and she understood the logic of the loose robes and silken trousers preferred by the local women. It was far too warm for European clothing.

Once naked she allowed the servant to lead her into the sunken baths, stretching out her body and leaning her head against the tiled edge to study the glass dome that loomed above her.

Slowly the tension drained from her muscles and she cleared her mind of Anya and Dimitri and Caliph Rajih. For a few hours she desired only to forget her troubles.

A delectable hour later she left the baths and wrapped herself in a thin towel. Samira gestured for her to follow her into a shadowed alcove where velvet pillows had been piled in the center of the tiled floor. Arranged beside the pillows was a silver tray with various bottles of oils and burning pots of incense.

There was another flurry of gestures and Emma awkwardly lowered herself facedown onto the pillows, hiding her face in the velvet softness as she felt the towel being tugged aside. She was not a noblewoman accustomed to having servants seeing her naked, and certainly not touching her with such intimacy.

She heard a shuffle of feet and the clink of bottles before she sensed someone kneeling at her side. Warm oil was poured over her bare back, the intoxicating scent teasing at her nose and sliding sensually over her skin.

Still adjusting to the strange sensations, her breath caught in pleasurable surprise as warm male fingers stroked down the curve of her back. It felt…sinful. Decadent. And utterly wonderful.