Lady Emily's Exotic Journey (16 page)

The room was rocking, not much, but enough to make Emily's stomach unhappy. She turned on her side, but the movement made her head hurt even more. Something was covering her, a heavy blanket that made it hard to breathe. She clawed at it—it didn't feel like one of her blankets—until she finally pushed it away and could breathe.

That was a bit better, but the room was still rocking. She was going to have to open her eyes if she wanted to know why.

Opening her eyes a slit, she saw the wall right in front of her, not a foot from her nose. Only it wasn't a wall at all. It was dark canvas, not just dark but dirty canvas, covering—what? She opened her eyes a bit more and turned her head to look up. It was covering some sort of box or crate. When she looked a bit higher, she saw sky, not ceiling.

Her eyes opened much wider, and she took a deep breath. Then she swallowed. All right. She wasn't in her room. She wasn't even in a building.

Where on earth was she?

She started to push herself up almost to a sitting position, leaning on one arm, but quickly discovered that was a mistake. Her stomach heaved, and her head screamed in agony. She moaned and closed her eyes again, leaning against the crate and waiting for her stomach to subside. At least the crate provided solid support.

After a few minutes, or maybe quite a bit longer, it seemed safe to open her eyes again. The light was bright enough to hurt them, but she could see that there were two crates, one on each side of her, and they were providing some shade so that she wasn't actually in the sun. That was up ahead of her, dancing on the water. Glaringly bright sun dancing on the water.

Water?

She blinked and looked again. Yes, it was water. She edged up a bit until she could look around the corner of the crate and see land, the gardens and palm trees that edged the Tigris everywhere she had seen. She took another deep breath. All right, she was on the river. In a boat? No, it had no sides. She was on a raft, a kelek. What on earth was she doing on a kelek and how had she gotten here?

Her legs were still tangled in the cloth that had been covering her, a piece of filthy canvas like the stuff that was covering the boxes. Disgusting. She pushed it away and pulled herself up to stand more or less vertical. That much exertion left her trembling, and she leaned against the crate until she felt steadier. The boxes were higher than her head, so she was still in some shade. That was a mercy, since the light she could see was painfully bright. Even so, there was more than enough light for her to see that her dress was filthy. Lavender muslin was obviously a poor choice of costume for whatever she was doing here. She tried to brush it off, but her hands were as filthy as her skirts.

It felt as if half of her hair was falling over her face, and when she tried to push it back, her hand came away sticky. Blood. Filthy as her hand was, she could still see that it now had blood on it. Her blood, coming from the painful place on her head. Her stomach turned at the sight.

What had happened to her?

Whatever had happened, all she wanted now was to go home, and this raft wasn't likely to be taking her there. Rafts leaving Mosul only traveled downriver to Baghdad. They could not travel back upriver against the current. She had learned that much in her time here. Whoever was in charge of this craft was going to have to at least put her ashore. Surely once she was ashore, someone would help her get home. Surely. Once she explained who her father was…if she could manage to explain anything to people who would not understand a word she said and who would have no idea who her father was.

She swallowed down the panic. Panic was not going to help.

She could hear soft voices chanting one of those sad Arab melodies. At least that didn't sound intimidating. A few steps brought her to the end of the boxes. She winced as the bright sun hit her eyes, but she could see two men lazily plying the oars while a third, the captain, held the steering pole. They did not notice her, so she coughed gently.

The result was electrifying. The oarsmen stared at her wide-eyed and openmouthed while the captain dropped his pole and began a high, piercing cry.

She winced as the sound sent stabs of pain through her head.

“Please,” she said, holding on to the crate to remain upright, “please, I need to go ashore.” She gestured toward the river bank.

The captain raised his hands and looked at the sky as he uttered wailing sounds. She thought she heard the word “Allah” a number of times. Was he praying? She reached a hand out toward him and said, “Please…”

That didn't seem to help. The man closest to her leaped to his feet and began shouting and waving his arms as if trying to drive her away. She gestured at him to stop, but he only shrieked more loudly and the others joined in.

She took a step toward them and tried to make herself heard over their shrieks. That was obviously the wrong thing to do, because all three of them turned and dove into the water, leaving her alone on the raft.

She sank to her knees. What on earth was she supposed to do now?

* * *

Lucien tried to work out the time, but he couldn't be certain. It had been past noon when he rode out of the city, close to one o'clock, he thought. And Mélisande had lured Emily down to the waterfront early, but that could not have been before sunrise. That was early, around five at this time of year, but it was unlikely to be earlier than six when they went to the waterfront. Time had to be allowed for the kidnapping attempt, time for Irmak's intervention, then Mélisande's attack. Who would have thought the child was such a vicious little beast? If anything had happened to Emily, he would…

No. He would not consider such thoughts. He must work out the time. The attack on Emily would have taken place at seven o'clock perhaps. That would put him six hours behind her.

No, not that long. The crews for the rafts had not arrived when Emily was attacked. So the rafts would probably not have set off until close to eight. That would put him five hours behind them. Perhaps only four. And then the rafts were heavy and unwieldy under their loads of stone. They would have to travel slowly to navigate the curves in the river, and all the islands—that would slow them down even more. On horseback he could go much faster.

Surely he could catch up to them.

He had to catch up to them, and it had to be soon.

His stallion thundered over the plateau above the river. The river curved out of sight from time to time, but never for long. Certainly not long enough for the entire fleet of rafts to be out of sight. Frustratingly, the only crafts to be seen were a few fishing boats.

Lucien forced himself to slow the horse to a trot. He would accomplish nothing by killing the beast, and his route was much shorter than the twists and turns of the river. At the worst, even if he missed them on the river, even if he rode past while they were hidden behind a bend, he would reach the place where they would stop for the night before the rafts reached it. That would be the sensible goal. At that point he could rescue Emily from whatever raft she was on easily and safely.

If she was still safe.

If she was not too badly injured.

If she had not already been discovered and…

No. He was not going to think about those possibilities. He would find her, and she would be safe and well. She would never be in danger again. He would make sure of that. He swore it.

The horse eased into a canter.

Time passed, but he had no sense of it. Nor could he say how far he had come. There was only the sound of the horse's hooves—a trot, then a canter, a trot, then a canter, the rhythm repeating over and over. And every now and then a halt when the river came into view and he paused to scan it, longing for a glimpse of the rafts.

His rounded an outcropping of rocks and discovered that his route was near the river once more, and this time—Yes!

Looking down the slope, he could see rafts, a dozen of them, maybe more, all transporting cargoes of crates covered with tarpaulins. One of the numerous islands in the river—a long one, this time—was forcing them into a narrow column. He started to urge the horse into a downhill race to intercept them before they could spread out again, but pulled up abruptly.

He saw her. It had to be her. He was much too far off to be able to discern features, but a figure in what looked like European skirts had emerged from behind the crates on one of the last rafts. Someone in a lavender dress. Someone who was standing and moving. It had to be Emily, Emily alive and well.

He gave a shout. She could not hear him, not at this distance, but he could not hold in his joy and relief.

He had just started to alter his course when he saw the crew of her raft stand up and jump overboard. What the devil was going on? He kicked the horse into a gallop and they flew down the incline and across the fields to the river's edge.

Emily's raft was drifting rather than traveling. The other rafts were leaving it behind. She was standing up and seemed to be trying to guide her raft to the bank with the steering pole, but with no one to man the oars, it was frequently spun about by eddies in the river. By some miracle, it had not crashed into any rocks, but it was traveling in circles. He was close enough to see her clearly now, having arrived at the bank downstream from the raft, but she did not seem to hear his shouts.

Muttering curses, he flung himself off the horse and had the presence of mind to tie it to a tree before he kicked off his boots and dove into the water. With powerful strokes that made nothing of the current, he headed directly for the raft, adjusting to its erratic course with barely conscious effort. Once he reached it, he hoisted himself aboard, only noticing the effort his swim had required when he had to lie still to catch his breath. He stood to see Emily, her face shadowed, her eyes wide with astonishment.

“Lucien,” she breathed. “Lucien, it is really you. Thank God!”

He reached out a hand to her, and she flew into his arms.

Unable to speak, he held her so tightly she seemed a part of him. She was a part of him, though he did not know how to tell her this. He dropped kisses on her hair and face between murmured endearments. She clung to him in turn, whispering his name over and over.

A sudden jolt as the raft bounced off a rock almost knocked them from their feet, and they came apart enough to look at each other. His first clear sight of her stopped his breath. Those shadows on her face were streaks of blood. He reached out trembling fingers to touch her face.

“Ah,
chérie
, what happened?” He could barely get the words out.

“I don't know. I don't even know where I am, except that this seems to be a raft like the ones we came on. All I know is that I woke up with a terrible headache, feeling sick, and I was all tangled up in a piece of cloth. Filthy cloth,” she said, with a bit of resentment creeping into her voice.

Although he was glad to see irritation begin to replace the fear that had been in her eyes when he first reached the raft, his own fears remained. “You are ill?”

“The nausea is better, but my head still hurts a bit.”

He smiled slightly. “I do not doubt it. You must have been unconscious for hours. You've been traveling down the river for quite a while.”

“Hours?” She looked around in bewilderment. “But what is this raft? And how did I get here?”

He did not want to deal with the second question, not yet, but the first was easy enough. “This is one of the rafts your papa hired to carry the carvings from Nineveh down to Baghdad. There are many of them.” He pointed up ahead, where a dozen other rafts were nearing the end of the island that had narrowed their passage. “But what happened to the crew of this raft? I saw men leaping into the river.”

“I don't know that either. I don't understand it. It took me an age to untangle myself from that horrid cloth. When I finally worked myself free of it, I managed to drag myself up, holding onto those boxes, crates, whatever they are. I could hear voices, and I thought they could tell me where I was and how to get home. I tried to ask, but they didn't seem to understand. At first they just stared at me, but then one of them pointed at me and shrieked something that sounded like
afraid.
Then they were all shrieking, and they dived off the raft, leaving me here by myself. Why on earth should they be afraid of me?”

He frowned, puzzled, and then laughed aloud when he suddenly realized what had happened. “Not
afraid
,” he said. “
Afreet.
An evil spirit. They thought you were an afreet.”

“Well that's hardly flattering.” She sounded affronted. “All I did was ask for help. I realize they probably didn't understand, but I did try waving at the shore.”

He kept smiling, whether from amusement or relief he was not sure. “Many of the workmen are convinced that these carvings are haunted by the spirits of the ancients. Well, not haunted, precisely, but they fear the spirits are angry at being disturbed. I know it was most difficult for Oliphant to find men willing to ferry the crates down to Baghdad. There was much fear. Once men believe in the presence of evil spirits, it is impossible to convince them otherwise. And then you appear like, well, to tell the truth, like a ghost with your face pale and streaked with blood, and your hair also.”

“Oh! Blood? On my face?” Her hands flew up and she looked appalled as she felt the matted tangle of her hair and the streaks on her face. “Blood all over me. Oh dear, I must look dreadful. Horrible. Why didn't you say something?”

Ah, but she looked adorable, so worried about her appearance. He pulled her to him. “All that matters is that you are alive and well. You are the most beautiful sight I ever saw.” He cupped her head with one hand, tilting it so that he could kiss her properly. And he did.

He sipped at her lips, tasted, drank deeply. He molded her to him—she fit so perfectly against him—and caressed her. Holding her felt so right. It was as if chains that had bound him, chains he had not realized were there, suddenly melted away, and at last he was free.