The Wild Rose (46 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

Willa was ready.

It was a few minutes before eight. She was washed, combed, and dressed. The gown Max had bought had been made for her. It caressed her slim body beautifully and set off her dramatic coloring—her pale skin and dark hair, her luminous green eyes. She was wearing the necklace he’d bought for her in the souk. One of the younger nurses had put her hair up in a soft, fetching twist and loaned her a tube of lipstick.

“My goodness, Miss Alden,” Max said when he came for her. “You are absolutely beautiful.”

Willa smiled. She was standing by the foot of her bed. Dr. Meyers had gotten her a new leg, to replace the one battered in the plane crash. It fit her well and allowed her to walk relatively easily—though no one knew that but her.

“Why, thank you, Mr. von Brandt,” she said. “You look very handsome yourself.”

Max bowed his head at the compliment. Willa took a few slow steps toward him, reaching for his arm.

Max frowned. “I’m going to get you a wheelchair. I saw one downstairs.”

“It’s not necessary, Max,” Willa protested. “I can walk. I should walk.”

“We’ll only use it to get you to my house. Once you’re there, you can walk all you like.”

Willa sighed. “If you insist,” she said.

As Max pushed her through the city streets, Willa commented on the number of animals in the streets and asked many questions. Who lived in the splendid stone house? The whitewashed one? The tiled one? Where did Jamal Pasha live? What was Max’s house like?

“You can see for yourself,” he replied to her last question. “It’s right there.”

He wheeled her up to a beautiful whitewashed house, one of a row of houses about a half mile from the city square. Its arched windows were framed by intricately painted Arabic designs. The entrance—which was set back slightly from the street—was tiled in squares of blue, green, orange, and yellow. Lush red roses climbed the pillars flanking the door, and a stained-glass lantern hung over it, casting a warm glow.

“Max, it’s lovely!” Willa exclaimed.

“I’m glad you like it. I’m renting it from a wealthy Turkish merchant. He and his family decamped to Aleppo.”

“Are we close to the souk here?” Willa asked. “I’m afraid I haven’t got my bearings yet.”

“The souk is about four streets west of us. Southwest, actually. Over that way,” Max said, pointing.

“Ah, that explains all the animals in the streets,” Willa said.

“Yes, they’re sold there on Sundays and Wednesdays. But the traders bring them in the night before, which is why there were so many of them in the streets just now. Tomorrow’s Wednesday of course.”

Willa knew that already. Sister Anna had told her about the animal markets. But she did not let on. The Wednesday animal market was the reason she had said yes to Max’s invitation tonight. Had his offer been made for another night, one that did not precede an animal market, she would have begged off, pleading fatigue.

Max’s butler, a tall Damascan in an embroidered robe and silk turban, welcomed them. He told Max that the cook had made a most divine meal and that it would be ready shortly.

“Will you show me the house before we dine?” Willa asked, getting out of the wheelchair and taking Max’s arm.

Max said he would be delighted to and began to take her around, walking her from room to room.

They started in the sitting room. Willa marveled at the ornately carved chairs and settees, all upholstered in heavy silks, and the thick, patterned Persian rugs on the floor.

“Did the merchant let the house to you furnished?” she asked.

Max nodded. “He left everything in the house. Furniture, rugs, books, kitchenware. He even left some of his robes in the closet. In case I get the urge to go native, I guess.”

In the billiards room, there were zebra rugs underfoot and lion and tiger heads on the walls. Antique swords and pistols were also displayed on the walls, many with jeweled hilts and handles.

“Toys for boys,” Willa said, running her hand over one heavily crusted sword handle.

Max laughed. He led her into the study, where the walls were lined with books, some in English, some in Turkish and Arabic. They were all beautifully bound in leather. More books, and magazines and newspapers, were piled haphazardly on tables and chairs. A pair of Max’s boots and a riding crop lay on the rug by a settee. His desk was covered by maps and memos, some of which had fallen to the floor. Willa glanced casually at the desk as she passed by it, then turned to Max and said, “Very sloppy, Mr. von Brandt. I think you need a wife.”

Max walked to the desk. He shuffled the memos into a pile, then turned them over.

“Any candidates in mind?” he asked her, as he rolled the maps up.

“Let me think about it,” Willa said. “Perhaps I can come up with one.”

Just then, Max’s butler came into the room, bowed, and informed them that dinner was served.

“Are you hungry?” Max asked Willa.

Willa reshelved a book she’d been looking at and turned to him. “Desperately,” she said. She took his arm again, then added, “Hungry for good food, good wine, and good company. After years in the desert, I feel like I’ve suddenly stumbled into Paradise.”

“Come,” Max said, leading her out of the study and to the dining room. “Let’s see what the cook has made for us.”

The dining room was beautiful and romantic. Candles in silver holders had been set on the table. They cast a soft glow over the room. Roses in vases perfumed the air. Max seated her on the left of one of the short ends of the dining table—a long, ornate affair, made of ebony and inlaid with ivory, malachite, and lapis lazuli. He took the end seat himself, so they would be close together.

As Willa laid her napkin in her lap, he filled her glass and then his own with wine—again a rare Bordeaux.

“To you,” he said, lifting his glass.

Willa shook her head. “No, Max, to us,” she said.

Their meal began with mezze—a tantalizing array of appetizers. There were grape leaves stuffed with lamb and rice, chickpea patties, hummus, and a dish of grilled eggplant, sesame seed paste, olive oil, lemon, and garlic that Willa could not get enough of.

“This is so good, Max,” she said, savoring a bite of stuffed grape leaf. “I’ve never had such wonderful food. Your cook is amazing.”

Max sat back in his chair, watching her eat and smiling, enjoying her enjoyment of the meal. The mezze was followed by fattoush, a peasant salad made of toasted bits of bread, cucumbers, tomatoes, and mint. Then the butler brought out chicken kabobs and kibbeh—minced lamb balls, stuffed with rice and spices. To go with the meat dishes, there were lentils cooked with rice and garnished with fried onions, a dish of stuffed squash, and another of spiced potatoes.

“Max, did your other dinner guests cancel?” Willa asked halfway through the feast. “Your cook made enough for twenty people!”

Max laughed. He leaned forward and refilled Willa’s wineglass and then his own. “It’s all for you, Willa,” he said. “I want to fatten you up. Make you healthy and hearty and happy again.”

As they ate, Max asked her about Lawrence, about the sort of man he was. Willa told him, admiringly, about Lawrence’s bravery, his intelligence, and his enormous charisma.

“Were you lovers?” Max asked suddenly.

She looked at him over the top of her wineglass, then teasingly said, “Why? Would you be jealous if we were? I should like you to be.”

“Yes, I would,” Max admitted.

“We were not,” she said. “Lawrence has only one mistress—and it’s not me.”

“Who is it, then?” Max asked.

“Arabia,” Willa replied.

Max nodded. “Well,” he said at length, “I fear Lawrence is going to have to learn to get along without his mistress, because she won’t be his for very much longer.”

Willa forced herself to smile. She asked Max to pass her another chicken kabob. She wanted to eat as much as she could. She did not know when she would find food again after tonight.

“Let’s not talk about Lawrence or the war,” she said. “Not tonight. Let’s talk about Everest instead.”

They did. Max told her that as soon as he was finished here at Damascus, he would return to Germany and he would take her with him. He would be needed in Berlin until the war was over, but as soon as he could get away, they would travel east again. They talked about plans for their future for quite some time. Until the bottle of wine had been emptied, and another brought. Until the supper dishes were cleared, and a platter of fresh fruit, dates, and honey pastries had been served. Until the candles burned down and Max had dismissed the servants.

As they sat together in the candlelight, reminiscing about Rongbuk, Max suddenly reached across the table and covered Willa’s hand with his own. “I want you, Willa Alden,” Max said. “I’ve wanted you all night. All during the trip from the hospital. All through supper. I want you so much I can’t bear it.”

“What about dessert?” Willa coyly asked, biting into a date. “Don’t you want any?”

“You are dessert,” Max said. He rose from his chair then, picked her up, and carried her to his bedroom.

He put her down, kissed her, and gently unbuttoned the back of her dress. It slipped off her arms, down her slender body, to the floor, where it lay—a shimmering silk puddle at her feet. As she stood in her camisole, petticoat, and stockings, he took off his jacket and shirt. Then he stretched out on his bed, took her hand, and pulled her down to him. He kissed her mouth, her throat, the delicate bones of her neck. She buried her hands in his thick blond hair and kissed him back. He was gloriously handsome. His body was hard and smooth. His face, that of a stone god.

I could have loved you, Max, she thought, if things had been different.

She remembered his warm hands, his passionate kisses. She remembered the feel and smell of him. She saw him as he had been on Everest—strong and daring, hard and fearless. He had been her lover then. Now he was her enemy. She must not forget that, not for a second. It would cost her her life if she did—hers and many more besides.

Max untied the string at the top of her camisole. He started working at the buttons down the front of it. She stopped him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her.

“I’m . . . I’m afraid, Max,” she said.

“You? Afraid? Of what?”

“I’m afraid you won’t want me if you see me. Underneath these beautiful things you gave me, I’m not beautiful. I’m all bones and bruises. I look like . . . well, like I’ve been through a war.”

Max laughed. He propped himself on one elbow and looked into her eyes. “When I first saw you, in Kathmandu, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I still do, Willa. I don’t give a damn about bones and bruises,” he said. “Let me see you.”

“All right,” she said, pulling his face to hers and kissing him hungrily. “But first, more wine.”

Max started to get up, but she stopped him. “No, I can get it. You’ve indulged me enough this evening. Surely I can walk to the dining room and back.”

She left the room walking slowly and deliberately, but as soon as she was out of his sight, she hurried. The seductive smile had fallen away. She had seconds only. Moving as quickly as she could, she hiked up her petticoat, rolled back the top of her stocking, and took out a small, folded square of paper. It contained white powder. She’d ground the pills between the soles of her new shoes earlier that day, when she was supposed to be sleeping, and brushed the powder into a piece of tissue paper from Max’s gift boxes. She dumped the paper’s contents into one of the wineglasses, poured wine on top of it, then stirred the mixture with her finger, praying it would speedily dissolve. She poured wine into the second glass, then picked up both glasses, careful to note which had the ground pills in it, and carried them to the bedroom.

“Here you are,” she said, handing the spiked drink to him. He took a sip, put the glass down on the floor, and reached for her. He had her camisole and petticoat off in a twinkling. Then he finished undressing himself.

Willa smiled and nuzzled him as he did, but inside she was panicking. He had to drink more than a mouthful. She didn’t know how strong the mixture was, or how fast it would work, but she was certain that if he became woozy, instead of unconscious, he would figure out what she’d done. And then it would all be over.