The Book of the Seven Delights (6 page)

"What has brought you to Casablanca, mademoiselle? A lovely young woman… traveling alone…"

Something in the way he caressed the word
alone
as it rolled from his tongue made her glad she hadn't accepted the wine he offered her earlier.

"I am here on a research mission." She countered his increasingly personal tone with professional purpose. "I am a librarian at the British Museum. I study manuscripts and I came to search for some historic texts."

"Texts?
Writings
, you mean? There are libraries of sorts in some of the mosques… dusty, silent places tended by withered old men." He gave her a sweeping look. "I cannot see in you that sort of scholar, mademoiselle."

"Then look harder, monsieur." She set her jaw. "For I am just that kind of scholar."

"Truly?" He studied her with amusement, templing his fingers. "Are you sure you did not come to dig for buried tombs filled with precious artifacts?"

Precious? She prayed her twitch wasn't visible.
Priceless
.

"Quite sure. I seek
books
… though not books as we know them… more like scrolls or
papyri
… things the ancient Egyptians would have written on."

"Egyptians?" His smile developed an edge. "You would do well to study maps as well as your 'texts,'

mademoiselle. Egypt is a long way from Morocco."

"Nevertheless, I will travel to Marrakech. All I need is a guide, a horse, and a porter or two—"

"What makes you think you will find anything of value in Marrakech?"

He leaned forward slightly in his chair and she sensed expectation coiling beneath his genial expression.

She choose her next words carefully.

"I have studied a goodly number of documents collected by a fine classical scholar whose works passed into my hands at the British Museum. Professor T. Thaddeus Chilton researched these texts extensively, and I am certain he discovered the key to their location. His work points clearly to Marrakech and south."

"So"—he barked a laugh—"you do follow a 'treasure map' after all."

The noise around them lowered the instant LaCroix uttered those fateful words. All around them, grizzled male faces were suddenly turned their way, alight with interest that could only be described as hungry.

"Not
treasure
," she said with increased volume, intending the words to carry to the ears attached to those curious faces. "Unless one considers the words of the ancients to be rich in wisdom."

LaCroix's attention shifted abruptly to the archway leading to the hotel lobby, where two men had just arrived. His gaze darkened as they paused and nodded anxiously, requesting his attention. Both men had sweaty faces and wore dirt-smudged shirts. The smaller of the two was sporting a split and bleeding lip and the larger had a darkened swelling on his jaw and scrapes on his knuckles.

"Pardon, mademoiselle." The monsieur rose with a polite nod of apology and exited, pulling the men just outside the door to the dining room. The pair seemed to be delivering news that upset the dapper Frenchman. His features tightened and his posture grew rigid as he listened. Then he looked up and found her watching his reaction. He forced a smile and gradually turned his shoulder so that she could no longer see his face.

A few moments later, he dismissed the men, who hurried off at a purposeful pace, then returned to the table with a grave expression.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, hoping for an excuse to end the evening early. "Please don't think you must entertain me if you have pressing—"

"No, no. Nothing too serious." He paused and seated himself. "Can you tell me… was there anything of great value in the third bag you lost?"

"There were items of great value, but only to me. Books, papers, and a few personal things. Why do you ask?" she said, coming alert under his scrutiny.

"It seems that my men located your third bag. And as they were bringing it here, they were set upon by another thief who surprised and attacked them." Her gasp brought a mollifying gesture from him. "No, no… you saw… they were not badly injured. Except for their pride." He gave a rueful smile. "Are you certain, mademoiselle, that there was nothing of greater value?"

"Just simple maps and a professor's journals." She lowered her voice as she spotted curious glances aimed their way. "The journals are all written in classical Greek. The language of Aristotle and Homer and Plato. They would be of no benefit to anyone but me." She winced, reconsidering. "Or some other master of ancient languages."

"You can truly read such things, mademoiselle?" His eyes widened and he sat back in his chair with a chastened look.

"I am quite adept, monsieur. I have studied ancient languages all my life."

"Then you are indeed a scholar, mademoiselle, and I must beg your pardon for not taking your important work more seriously." He pressed a hand over his well-padded heart. "It is simply that brilliance and scholarly achievement seldom come joined in so beautiful a personage."

She lowered her eyes in a counterfeit of modesty and groaned silently.

"You must allow me to make it up to you, Mademoiselle Merchant," he declared, thumping the table with his hand. When she looked up, he gave her a smile so unctuous she wondered that it didn't slide off his face. "You say you need transport to Marrakech. Well, I am the owner of a export company that does much business in Marrakech. I have a caravan leaving for there in two days and would be honored to have you join it." He brightened further as he recalled additional resources: "I can even provide you a guide who knows Marrakech and the roads beyond."

"I am grateful, monsieur." She groaned silently, scrambling for an excuse to decline and finding none beyond her uneasiness at being indebted to a man whose eyes never seemed to register what his lips and words were saying. "But I cannot put you to such trouble. You have already been much too kind."

"Nonsense," he said, breaking into a beaming smile that also failed to reach the dark centers of his eyes.

"It is no trouble at all. And you would do me a kindness to allow me to exercise the generosity of my nature." He chuckled and lifted his wineglass in a genial toast. "There are those who might say I could use such practice."

Abigail had to suffer through two additional toasts to her beauty and brilliance before she could call a halt to his effusive adoration and make her way to her room. Even then, the monsieur was so attentive that she was afraid he intended to head straight for her door with her. She forestalled such a happening by stopping by the front desk to inquire after her messages—not that she expected any—and engaged the desk clerk in conversation that allowed her to take leave of the Frenchman and climb the stairs to her room alone.

Her shoulders ached and the nerves of her legs vibrated with unspent tension as she produced her key and turned it in the lock. She slipped inside, locked the door behind her, sagged back against it. Thank heaven that was over. She stepped defensively across the darkened room and felt her way along the bed to the lamp on the bedside table. Reassuring light bloomed around her.

"About bloody time," said a male voice that nearly caused both her knees and her bladder to fail. "I had just about given up on you."

She stumbled back against the bed with a strangled cry.

There, crouched over one of her carpetbags on the floor, was her hard-drinking, hard-gambling, one-eyed nursemaid from the ship. Smith straightened and as he did so she caught the glint of metal at his side. A knife, she realized as he slipped it into a sheath tucked into the top of his fitted, knee-high boot.

Her gaze climbed khaki trousers and a shirt that had a faintly military look to them, and took in a leather belt rig with a diagonal strap across his chest. There was a fresh bruise on his left cheek.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, her gaze dropped to that sheathed knife and the bag beside it. "Going through my luggage?"

"Bringing back your property." He nudged the carpetbag with his foot. It took a moment for her to realize that it was the one that had been missing.

"Where did you—how did you—" She sank to her knees beside it and produced a key from her inner pocket to open the lock. "But, Mister LaCroix said it was stolen from his men."

"Stolen back," he corrected irritably. "By me."

She looked up at him in confusion.

"You stole it from them after they had recovered it from the thieves?"

He tucked his thumbs into his belt, looking pained.

"You don't get it, do you? They were the ones who stole it in the first place."

"Don't be absurd. I saw the wretches who took my things." She yanked open the bag and began to pull items from it to make certain everything was still there. "They were dirty and half-naked—what the sailors called 'wharf rats.'"

"Shills," he declared. "Paid to take the bags so that LaCroix's men could 'recover' them. It's a dodge. A buck." Her bewilderment made him expel a harsh breath. "A
confidence
trick." When she frowned even deeper and shook her head, he glowered. "You really are a babe in the woods. It's a scheme where they fake a crime and then solve it for the victim."

"What could possibly be gained by that?" She located the professor's journals and hauled them out, counting and stacking them in her arms.

"Your
confidence
. And trust. So that later, they can steal something a lot bigger and more important from you."

"That's ridiculous. Mister LaCroix would never permit his men to engage in something so underhanded."

"You don't have a clue who he is, do you?" he demanded, hands on hips.

"He is a merchant. An importer and exporter of some sort."

"He's a crook, a thief, and a double-dealer. Get tangled up with him and you'll disappear before you get to Marrakech and never be heard from again."

"That's absurd," she said, feeling a tightening in her throat at that validation of her doubts about the Frenchman's intentions.

"No more 'absurd' than you sitting in a cafe at the edge of the Kasbah flapping your tongue about ancient books and treasure maps. Good God, woman—you might just as well have climbed up on a rooftop and shouted 'come, rob me!'"

"You were
listening
to my conversation?"

"The whole damned
Kasbah
was listening. I come to give you back your bag and find you dining with the sultan of Casablanca's seamy side." He leaned closer. "By morning, every criminal and cutthroat in the city will know about Miss Boston America's treasure map. And half of them will have a plan in motion to relieve you of it."

"I don't have a treasure map. If you were
listening
, you must have heard me tell the monsieur that."

"Yeah. And I heard him reading between the lines. I also saw the way half of the cafe was watching"—he bent and flipped the edge of the journals—"and wondering what is in your bag that makes it so valuable."

The memory of dozens of hungry eyes on her in the restaurant sent an echo of unwelcome agreement up her spine. She finally gave in to the urge to meet his gaze and looked up.

Pirates of the Barbary Coast… the 300's… History.

"You have to get out of Casablanca—fast." He grabbed her wrist and pulled her up. She was close enough to detect a hint of liquor on his breath and it jolted her back to a rational level of skepticism.

"I intend to do just that. Monsieur LaCroix offered me a place in his trading caravan to Marrakech." He groaned and started to protest, but she talked right over his objections: "But I intend to make my own arrangements. I am going to the British Consulate first thing tomorrow morning to get help securing transportation and a guide. I'll be on my way in a day… two at most."

He looked at her as if she'd gone totally daft.

"You don't have a day, Boston, much less
two
."

He reeled her closer by her wrist, studying her with a conflicted expression that was some part exasperation, some part annoyance, and some part genuine concern. That unexpected combination disarmed her momentarily.

She examined his face even as he searched hers. Strong features. Angular. Intriguing. Her gaze settled on that darkening bruise on his cheek… acquired from LaCroix's men… on her behalf. She inhaled sharply to counter a sinking sensation in her stomach and smelled something else on him, something that seemed to be more like perfume than liquor. She took another slow, quiet breath. Was that honey? Out of nowhere came the disconcerting memory of sweetened oats…

He stiffened, looking like he was wrestling with something.

"All right, dammit—I'll take you to Marrakech."

"W-what?" She swayed as he released her, then she backed two steps to steady herself against the footboard of the bed. "I didn't ask you—"

"Keep to this room until I come for you. Don't let anybody in. Not even the manager.
Especially
not the manager; he's LaCroix's tool. I'll be back as soon as I get horses and supplies."

"I'll have you know, I am perfectly capable of—"

"Getting yourself robbed, molested, or sold into a harem somewhere."

"Of conducting my own affairs and deciding who I will and will not hire."

He stepped over her opened carpetbag and headed for the darkened window, where he closed and latched the wooden shutters. She dropped her journals onto the bed behind her and crossed her arms, watching him stalk back and forth, lifting and assessing the furniture.

He was mad, she decided. Or possibly drunk. She hadn't had much experience with drunk men.

"This ought to do," he said, dragging the washstand toward the door, upsetting the earthenware pitcher in the basin and setting both rattling. "Lock the door and push this against it when I've gone. Don't open to anybody but me. I'll be back before daylight. " He paused for a moment, looking her over. "And change your clothes. Wear something to ride in. And no damned cinchers."

Before she could say that she did not intend to let him dictate either her wardrobe or her itinerary, he stopped that thought dead with a simple question.

"Do you have a weapon? Something to defend yourself with?"