The Book of the Seven Delights (35 page)

"Smith!"

"Gilly," Apollo said, offering his hand to the little man.

"I thought that was you." Gilly had an Irish lilt to his voice. "The captain told me to keep something for you, in case you came back. Wait here."

He returned moments later with an envelope for Apollo, who looked at it for a moment before smiling and tucking it inside his shirt.

"And who might this be?" Gilly asked, staring eagerly at Abigail.

"Abigail, this is Gilly Farquar, the company's clerk. Gilly, may I present my fiancee, Miss Abigail Merchant."

Abigail was startled by his invention, but covered it smoothly and extended her hand to the clerk, uttering something inane but polite. Gilly blushed and quickly drew his hand back to cradle it in his other.

"Tell the captain… I thank him," Apollo said and Gilly nodded.

Apollo's friends collected outside Raissouli's and Apollo and Abigail took them inside and, to the dismay of the management, insisted they be given a room for the night. They protested they'd be just as comfortable in the stable with their mules, but Apollo persisted and they were finally given a large room at the back of the hotel. It was palatial compared to their usual accommodations, and after removing their boots, they strolled reverently around the room peering at the pictures and furnishings with their hands clamped behind their backs.

Apollo arranged for food to be delivered and then joined them with a couple of bottles of good whiskey, and shared a drink with them. It was almost like old times.

But it wasn't old times. And now he had a far more appealing bunkmate waiting down the hall. Finishing his drink, he advised them to get some sleep since they would have to travel hard and fast the next day.

"The same advice might go for you, old son." Flynn flicked a wink at the others, who laughed knowingly.

There was something about their winking and subtle humor that annoyed him. It was clear to them that Abigail was his… what? Partner? Woman? Lover? And what would she be to him once they reached Casablanca and she bought passage on the first steamer back to Portsmouth or London? The thought stopped him in his tracks.

After a moment, he squared his shoulders and continued on to their room. There would be time to think about all that after he had taken care of LaCroix.

When he stepped into their room he found her ensconced in a marble tub of perfumed water, looking warm and relaxed. He went to the side of the tub and knelt down.

"Are they tucked in?" she asked, opening her eyes.

He chuckled. "You should have seen them… meek as church mice."

She gave a throaty laugh. "That's hard to believe." Then she sat up and reached for the top button on his shirt. "Take those clothes off and join me."

He didn't have to be asked twice. Soon he was sinking into the tub and settling back, cradled between her legs, to soak away the dirt of the road.

"This might be our last night alone for a while," she said running her hands over his shoulders and arms.

"And since we have a tub for bathing and plenty of water, I thought this might be our best chance to try the fourth delight."

"You read ahead?" He looked at her over his shoulder. "Without me?"

"The fourth delight is
Tasting
."

He sat up and looked at her, then at the tray full of condiments on the table by the bed.

"Ahhh. Then that explains the cinnamon oil and honey and fruit…"

"'First you must learn the taste of the beloved's kisses,'" she quoted, sliding forward to pull his head down and give him a long, lingering kiss. "Ummm. Faintly sweet, like warm whiskey. 'Then progress to the taste of your beloved's skin, in all its variety and texture.'" She slid her arms gently around his healing ribs and nibbled her way up his shoulder, licking and tasting as she went. "Salty, slightly vinegary…

very… male," she pronounced. " 'Continue until you learn the taste of your beloved's tears and sweat and”

This delight was intimate in a way Abigail had never imagined a man and a woman could be, and yet, it seemed unabashedly playful in its suggested use of sweet oils and perfumes, honey and cream, wine and peaches… including 'a garment of sweetmeats to be nibbled from the beloved's body.'"

Later, after Abigail took her second bath of the night and while Apollo took his, Abigail picked up the envelope that had fallen from his shirt when he undressed earlier. Without hesitating, she opened it and pulled out two letters, both written in French. She carried them to him in the tub and ordered: "Read.

And translate."

"It's addressed to the Legion commander in Tangiers. 'Due to an error in casualty reporting, trooper Apollo Smith of the 4th Mounted Company posted to Casablanca has erroneously been listed as deceased. It is my duty and pleasure to report that he is in fact not dead, but presented himself to me this afternoon in my office, along with his own death certificate, which was sent to his family solicitor in England.

" 'The circumstances of this error and its reporting after the skirmish at Ati Tinehir, on the Algerian frontier, are highly suspicious. The referenced letter of condolence to his family actually predated the battle in which he was supposed to have died. The incorrect report of his death appears to have been an intentional act by his immediate superior, Sergeant Emile Gaston. This same sergeant, during said skirmish, is reported to have directed fire upon a house into which he had sent Smith and three other men from his own squad. Of the four troopers, only Smith survived.'"

"Also at issue is the matter of the transfer of Trooper Smith from the Ninth Infantry Company in Marrakech to the 4th Mounted Company in Casablanca. I took it upon myself to contact the commandant of the garrison at Casablanca. He neither received nor issued orders resulting in said transfer, nor have there been any other such transfers in recent months.'

"'I hereby request that headquarters initiate an inquiry into these 'false orders' and into the battle reports made by the officers at Ati Tinehir, to determine if disciplinary action may be required.'"

The second letter stated simply to the chain of command in Marseille: " 'There has been an error in the reported death of Legionnaire Apollo Smith of 4th Mounted Company posted in Casablanca. Trooper Smith is not dead, and in fact completed his contract just prior to the date listed for his demise. It is therefore requested that he be issued an honorable discharge from Legion service.'"

"So you showed the captain the death certificate you showed me," she said, making the connections.

"When we were in Marrakech before. The captain was always a fair and decent man. I asked him to look into it and apparently he did."

"Fine." She gave an irritable sigh. "What's this 'letter' he talks about?"

Apollo rose from the tub, wrapped some toweling around him, and retrieved a worn but familiar envelope from his saddlebag.

There were two letters in it, along with his death certificate. One was addressed to Jeanne Marie Smith, Apollo's mother… a letter of condolence, signed by Ferdineaux LaCroix. The other was a letter from a solicitor in London, verifying Apollodorus Smith's identity and stating that the accompanying death certificate and letter from F. LaCroix arrived at his client's home within days of each other.

"Your uncle wrote your mother to express regret at your death, when he was responsible for it? The man's a monster!"

"That's not all," he said, coming to point over her shoulder. "Look at the date of my supposed death and the date on LaCroix's letter."

"Good Lord—he wrote your mother before you officially died."

"A fact not lost on our keen-eyed family solicitor, who saved the letters and gave them to me when I arrived in England."

"So you knew LaCroix was involved." Mixed emotions swirled in her as she turned to look at him.

"I guessed he was involved. But I didn't know why or who else in the Legion had helped him."

"Besides Gaston," she said.

He nodded. "He seems to have been the only one. The rest was just ordinary Legion bureaucracy. He and LaCroix forged orders that sent me to a mounted company and appointed Gaston my sergeant.

Once those orders were slipped into the cue, the rest just followed naturally."

She slid her gaze over him, visually caressing his work-hardened and desert-tempered frame… lingering over his old scars and fresh bruises… thinking of all he had endured and all he had become. It had been a hard path for a hard-headed, arrogant young man with too much time on his hands and too many wrong ideas of the world. But Fate had been more instructive than vengeful. He had been offered an education in the true value of life and loyalty and love, and he had applied himself. He had truly learned what was of value in life, and she was fortunate to have met him after he did.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me that your Legion troubles were being resolved… that you're no longer dead and you're being honorably discharged. I should be flaming furious with you."

But instead she was standing half-naked, beside their rumpled bed, with tears of joy in her eyes.

She was learning, too.

She opened her arms and he walked into them.

Three days of hard dawn-to-dusk riding along the main roads had brought Abigail's and Apollo's party to the eastern gate of Casablanca in the late afternoon. Apollo and Abigail cloaked themselves in their burnooses, lowered their heads, and joined the stream of visitors and traders entering the city through the Bab Marrakech. Crocker, Flynn, and the other Legionnaires rode as a group, some distance back, giving the appearance of a squad of soldiers on dispatch duty… a routine sight at that time of day on that road.

As arranged, both groups made their way to the heart of the city and the Hotel Exeter, the place Abigail had planned to stay when LaCroix diverted her to the Marrat. There, Apollo and Abigail took a room and with the help of the hotel's porters, stowed the blanket-wrapped amphora safely in it.

"So this is what I missed," she said, gazing at the comfortable brass bed, thick carpets, and beautiful screened loggia running the length of the room. As the last of their baggage was stowed and the porters withdrew, Abigail headed straight for her small satchel and took out her gun.

"What do you think you're doing?" Apollo watched her nimble insertion of bullets into the chambers and got a very bad feeling.

"Reloading," she said calmly. "You have a gun. Crocker and Flynn and Ravi and Sanchez all have guns.

I'm not going out on the street without one."

"I'd prefer you didn't go out on the street at all," Apollo declared, grabbing for the weapon and missing.

She narrowed her eyes as she tucked it in the back of her waistband. He knew that expression. "Look, LaCroix has eyes and ears everywhere, and God knows how many hired thugs on the payroll."

"All the more reason for me to be armed and with you at all times."

"Come on, Abigail—" He towered over her, scowling.

"Don't you dare start 'Abigailing' me," she said irritably. "You came along on
my
expedition and I saved your hide more than once. So, don't even think of telling me to mind my place and act like a proper lady.

I'm a full partner in this venture and I'm a darned good shot."

There was no arguing that.

"Dammit," he found himself saying. "Swear to me you won't do anything stupid."

"Like what? This?" She pulled his head down for a blistering kiss.

"I was thinking more along the lines of you pulling your gun on LaCroix and shooting him before I get the chance."

She softened with a smile.

"If I see him first, I promise I'll hold him at gunpoint until you get there."

From his place at the parapet of a roof overlooking the intersection of two shadow-cloaked streets, the Legionnaire known simply as Banane could easily keep watch on the comings and goings around the walled house owned by Ferdineaux LaCroix. There was generally not much traffic in this quarter, where houses were large and gates were thick, but he had seen two parties come, pound the gates of a house they didn't know was empty, and depart disappointed… one stewing hotter in his suspicions, the other shouting that he would have the money LaCroix owed him or else.

LaCroix? Pay? Banane smirked at the thought. He had made sure he got a partial payment in advance for this bit of surveillance.

And a dull bit of work it had proven, thus far. There had been no sign of an uprising of angry investors, customers, or erstwhile partners… much less the local constables or the Sultan's personal guards. So much the better, for the arrival of the Sultan's men would spell major trouble for LaCroix, who was now vacating the city and taking everything with him that wasn't nailed down. He hadn't scrupled to spare even the ruler of the city in his latest bit of plundering.

Banane yawned and pulled back from the parapet wall to pace a bit and restore circulation in his legs.

The exercise took him around the edges of the rooftop sleeping rooms and garden and where he paused to peer over the edge into the shadows. A movement in the alley below caught his eye.

He pulled back out of sight, waited a moment, then peered over the edge to count four men. Two were in what looked like Legion uniforms, but the other two wore
jellabas
over Western trousers and boots.

The taller of the two wore what looked like an eye patch that was flipped up. He squinted for a closer look as the group tried the doors to the kitchens and the shuttered windows accessible from the street.

Finding no entry, they raised their attention up the house and spotted a stone finial at the corner of the parapet. Shortly a rope was lashing through the air.

They knew their way around. Rooftop doors were the least secure.

Banane retreated from the parapet, gathered up his gear, and melted back into concealing shadows of the sleeping rooms with their numerous carved screens. When he saw the first man scramble over the side of the parapet, a bolt of recognition went through him. He grinned to himself as he darted silently down the stairs and worked his way through the empty upstairs rooms to a window he had left unlocked.