The Book of the Seven Delights (12 page)

"You mean, he wants to
buy
a bride?" She looked between the two men and frowned. "Barbaric. Selling women like chattel."

"No more barbaric than dowries and marriage settlements in England."

"I wouldn't know," she said with a frosty smile. "I'm from Boston."

"
L'argent est pour les cadeaux
," Haffe was either embarrassed or overcome enough by the subject to lapse entirely into more familiar French.

"Silver for gifts," Smith translated.

"
Cadeaux pour le papa
." Haffe rubbed thumb and fingers together in a universally understood gesture for money. "
Et maman. "
More rubbing. "
Les frères
." Still more rubbing. Apparently a lot of people would have a hand out. "
tout la famille
." Then his eager face softened. "
Et la belle fiancee
." For a moment his gaze drifted into vistas of delight that only he could see. Then he returned with a wistful air. "

Et les chameaux. Beaucoup de chameaux
."

"
Chameaux
?" she echoed, wishing she had stopped to absorb at least one other living language before immersing herself in dead ones.

Smith made an impatient "tsk" and took a seat on the far side of the fire.

"Camels," he said. "Lots of camels. The proper currency, apparently, for the acquisition of a Berber bride. The more desirable the girl, the more camels must be given to her family."

"
Oui. Chameaux
—camels." Haffe looked back and forth between them, nodding eagerly. "Man-ny camels."

"Just how many camels are we talking about?" she asked. Bartering animals for women. Appalling.

Smith asked him and Haffe sighed and rattled off an explanation of the local pricing scheme that included words that sounded like "dozens" and "beauty" and "grand."

"Three or four dozen should do it," Smith said, producing a small cigar from the top of his boot and lit it.

"Haffe here has fairly exalted tastes."

"So I gathered." She tried not to scowl at Haffe. "He wants a great beauty."

"A great
big
beauty, actually." He did a pantomime with his hands of expansive feminine curves. "Berber men, like their Arab cousins, appreciate a bit of heft in a woman." He looked to Haffe. "
Grosse
. Fat.
Oui

?"

"
Oui
." Haffe was nodding hopefully. "Beautiful
fat
wife."

A muffled sound halfway between a whine and a groan escaped her. Brides by the pound. And she thought Boston's society balls were degrading.

"Sweet wife. Sleep soft." The little Berber made a cuddling motion. "Make babies. Man-ny babies. Fat little babies." He gave a deep, wistful sigh.

The hiss that came from her was the sound of outrage being deflated.

"Which brings up another matter," Smith interjected. "Our Berber friend here needs money, and, considering the sort of trouble I seem to be in, I certainly could use some extra coin. I think it's time we talked about our fee for getting you to Marrakech."

"
Fee
?" She nearly choked on her own juices. "I'm not paying you a cent. You got me into trouble with the authorities and used me and my luggage to carry your papers. Consider yourself already more than fully compensated."

Then she looked to Haffe's anxious face and felt her anger going a bit spongy. Something about his eagerness for a plump wife and fat little babies made her want to make him an exception to her belief in the superiority of the Western concept of women's rights.

"You on the other hand, I will pay," she said, thinking she must be losing her mind. "One silver coin per day… for your help as porter and cook."

"I don't think so," Smith said, calmly, stretching his long legs out before him and leaning back to prop an elbow on his saddle. Haffe looked at him in confusion. "Haffe and I come as a package deal. I'll tell you what… we'll make you an offer. We'll guide you and help you find your library, wherever it is, for… half of the proceeds."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, straightening. "There won't be any 'proceeds.' I'm searching for books."

"Old books," he countered. "Very old books. Probably worth a fortune to some museum somewhere."

"Not 'some museum,' the British Museum. Which I represent. I am here to find the library and secure the right to remove whatever books or manuscripts it contains to the British Museum for study and preservation. The 'prize' is a footnote in history… which will enrich nothing but a scholar's reputation."

"
Your
reputation." He drew from his cigar and blew a stream of smoke.

"And T. Thaddeus Chilton's, since it was he who first uncovered the references and did most of the research work."

"And that's all you want? Just a bit of respect and scholarly renown."

"Yes."

"Bullshit."

"I beg your pardon!" She was suddenly furious. "I am here in a scholarly capacity and I resent—"

"The truth is. Boston"—he shot to his feet, his body taut—"you don't have a clue what's at the end of your search."

"Yes, I do.
Books
."

"And nothing else? For all you know, there could be temples of gold and vaults filled with treasure beyond your wildest dreams."

She got to her feet and stood her ground, her blood boiling with the urge to take a cot leg to him.

Unfortunately, she'd left them all behind. Never in her life had she met anyone who incited her to physical violence like he did!

"It's a
library"
she declared. "Long-dead and completely forgotten."

"What about the people who carried it out here? Those forward-thinking devotees of learning? Hard to believe they wouldn't have had the foresight to take a little traveling money with them."

"Fine—they brought money. Whopping great bags of it. And fabulous jewels and altars of gold—whatever makes you dream in color at night. But it's long since spent and they're long since dead."

"And what if it's not all gone?" He sat abruptly forward, staring up at her. "I have a proposal. How about this: You take the scrolls and books and we'll"—he pointed between Haffe and himself—"take the spendable stuff."

"Don't be absurd.
There is no treasure
!"

"Then we will have gambled and lost."

"Absolutely not. In Marrakech, we part company. You go your way and I'll go mine."

"Look, hiring us right now will save you time and headaches. You're going to have to find somebody who knows the desert—"

"You mean… someone who knows better than to throw away mosquito nets?" she snapped and he had the grace to redden.

"All right—I forgot that some oases have a little bug problem. I was thinking about the desert, further on.

How are you going to be sure some other guide won't just take you into the desert and take the rest of your money and just leave you there?"

"How do I know
you
won't?" she tossed back.

He shoved to his feet in one fluid motion, clearly angered.

"Look, Boston, I've already rescued your hide
twice
now. And I returned your bloody bag to you"—he rubbed his bruised cheekbone—"at some cost to myself. Then there's the little matter of the coin I spent to provide you horses and help."

"All so you could get your own precious papers back," she charged.

"I'll not deny I wanted them back, but I also knew I had put you in jeopardy and wanted to make it right. I'm taking you to Marrakech, aren't I?"

Abigail took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself to think.

The prospect of continuing for weeks in Smith's overbearing company had to be weighed against the time she would save by not searching for another guide and having to go through lengthy explanations and caveats concerning the object of her search. And, of course, there was the little problem of finding someone knowledgeable, capable, reliable, and honest… at least honest enough. What were the odds of finding such a desert-wise saint in Marrakech… without even a sham of a British consulate to ask for help?

She looked from Smith to Haffe and back. He had helped her aboard the ship… and there were those men on the rooftops… Her best bet, she reluctantly admitted, might be the devil she knew. S.O.S. Smith.

"All right, I'll give you a chance." She prayed she wouldn't come to regret this. "You guide me to Marrakech and help me do my research there… and I'll consider purchasing your services for the rest of the expedition."

Partners. That was what Smith called them. Each time he used the term she objected and insisted their relationship—if and when they got to Marrakech—would be strictly employer-employee. Partnership, she declared fiercely, implied both shared goals and a high degree of trust… neither of which applied to them.

Whatever they were, they were stuck with each other for the foreseeable future… through good weather and bad… riches and disappointment… ease and discomfort… in sickness and in—wait—they'd already had the sickness part. No more sickness.

But if the conditions that night and the following day were any indication of what lay ahead, they were going to be hard-pressed to avoid the "disappointment" and "discomfort." He insisted they get an early start and after a night spent in a half-sitting position against a palm tree, every bone and joint in her body ached at the thought of climbing back on a horse. Then he set a grueling pace and refused to stop until they reached the village. She looked forward to a night under a roof—or at least on a roof pallet somewhere, but when the locals said there were no horses or mules to spare in the village, he insisted they move on and camp in the open countryside.

"I don't see why we couldn't have stayed the night," she said feeling every mile they rode etching its way into her saddle-sore bones.

"They didn't want us there," he said shortly. "Berbers love horse trading. If they won't trade horses with you, you're not welcome. And in Morocco, if you're not welcome, you'd better not hang around."

Disappointment didn't quite capture her darkening mood as she dragged together a pallet of palm fronds that evening, donned her safari jacket and deerskin sheet, and sat down to remove her boots.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," Smith said. She looked up to find him on the opposite side of the fire, staring at her, wrapped against the mosquitos in a ratty-looking wool blanket.

"I haven't had these boots off for two days," she said irritably. "Mary Kingsley says that too much time in damp footwear in equatorial climates fosters all manner of rashes and foot maladies."

"Oh, well, if
Mary
says so," he muttered.

Ignoring him, she wrestled with her footgear until one boot came sliding off. She extended her stockinged foot into the cooling night air and wiggled her toes with a sigh before removing the other boot.

"Just be sure to shake out your boots before you put them on in the morning," he said, lying back and propping his head and upper shoulders against his saddle. "The spiders and scorpions that collect in these groves love to crawl into empty boots at night."

She stared at her stocking-clad feet and dusty boots, then warily around at the vegetation and rocks.

When she looked back at Smith, his eyes were closed but she could have sworn he was smiling. More of his alarmist nonsense; he was determined to make her think she couldn't get along without him. She clutched her boots to her chest, tucked her doeskin sheet tighter, and lay down to rest.

Eventually—despite aching joints and anxiety over every rustle of grass and leaf—she managed to fall asleep. But not even bone-deep exhaustion could keep her from feeling something moving across lower legs some time later. She came upright with a start and was on her feet and kicking frantically to dislodge something large and dark and many-legged from the cover at her feet.

"Aghhhhh!"

She wasn't aware of her scream as the creature fled for nearby underbrush and rocks. She was startled by Smith's arms clamping around her, and she slapped and shoved at his arms.

"Whoa! Boston—take it easy!" He lifted her off her feet briefly to get her attention before dragging her back against him.

"Something was
on
me." She suffered an eloquent, whole-body shiver.

"Did you get a look at it?"

"It was big and had a lot of legs!" The edge of hysteria in her voice alarmed her almost as much as the crawling beast had.

"How many legs? Did it have pincers?"

"It was running, for pity's sake—in the dark—I didn't get a good look!"

"All right—it's all right." He tightened his arms fiercely around her for a moment. "You're safe."

"I know that—" But her heart was beating a thousand times a minute and every nerve in her body was screaming for release.

"Any burning? Stinging?" His voice softened, as if he were soothing a panicky horse. "If you were bitten, you'd be feeling it by now."

She twisted around in his arms to face him with wide eyes. He searched her face with an anxiousness that belied the calm in his voice, even as she searched her internal sensations. Jangled nerves, wild heartbeat, and a searing flush of heat—none of which seemed to come from a bite or a sting.

She shivered again and suddenly every volatile, impassioned impulse she had harbored toward him boiled up within her. So many times in the last three weeks she'd wanted to set hands to him, and now she was. Her arms were sliding around his waist, pulling him closer as she lifted her face to him…

His mouth was descending over hers…

"Look! See! Here!" Haffe's voice broke over them like icy water.

They lurched apart. Smith swiped a hand across his mouth and blinked across the fire at Haffe.

"What?" he demanded, his voice strained.

"Scorpion." Haffe held up a sizeable dagger with a large black scorpion impaled on it, still wriggling. He was beaming. "Fat tail. Very bad."

"Is that what was on—" Abigail turned, having reclaimed some composure, but lurched backward at the sight of that formidable arachnid.

"You're sure you weren't stung?" Smith demanded.

"F-fairly sure. Nothing hurts or burns." She looked down at her stocking-clad feet in the dirt and then at the creature that had just given up the ghost on Haffe's blade. She rushed to pick up her boots, shook them frantically, then sat straight down on the ground to pull them on.