The Desert Castle (28 page)

‘
She
’
ll come,
’
he said with certainty.

Marion gave him a frightened look.
‘
Why do you want to keep me here?
’
she asked him. She stood in the rain, feeling as though she were about to meet her executioner. His answer meant everything to her. On it turned all her hopes—hopes which he himself had raised only a few minutes before.

‘
I need you to finish restoring the frescoes. Why else?
’

She turned her face away.
‘
Is that all?
’

‘
What else should there be?
’
he asked. He was as tense as she, watching he
r
closely as she struggled to hide the despair that swept over her.

‘
Nothing.
’
She held her head high and looked him straight in the eye.
‘
I shouldn
’
t want to lose your castle
!
’

He shrugged.
‘
I won
’
t live there for ever, but I shouldn
’
t like to move quite yet,
’
he agreed.

‘
Where will you go when you leave Jordan?
’
She was not quite in control of her voice and it trembled lamentably, which she tried to disguise with a cough and very nearly choked.
‘
To the Lebanon, I suppose,
’
she said when she could.

He raised his eyebrows.
‘
Does it matter to you?
’

‘
Of course not
!
’
she denied. But it did matter. It mattered terribly. The Lebanon meant Denise and all that Papa Dain
’
s money could buy. She could see Denise
’
s smirking smile of triumph now and knew she never would have liked the other girl in any circumstances, but that now she was coming perilously close to hating her.

‘
I like to spend a certain amount of time in England,
’
Gregory told her.
‘
Most of the time your mother will have my house to herself, but I always spend at least three months of the year there if I can.
’

With Denise? That would indeed make it impossible for Marion to live there no matter how hard her mother tried to persuade her. She would be very alone when she went back to England, She thought, exiled from all she held dear. She didn
’
t know how she would find the strength to endure it.

‘
My mother will be pleased to see you,
’
she said formally.

‘
I hope so,
’
he returned, and led her firmly forward through the rain.

They had gone some way along the path that led round the western face of El Kubtha when the Silk Tomb came into view. Set well back in a deep excavation as it was, one could see the whole facade at a glance and, even in the rain, it was possible to see the fantastic colouring that had given it its name. Whites, blues, greys, salmon pinks, and plum dark reds, swirled into one another in a brilliant array of natural pigment.

‘
Oh, I wish I
’
d seen it yesterday!
’
Marion exclaimed.

Gregory nodded.
‘
The colour is everything. Architecturally it isn
’
t very interesting.
’

‘
I don
’
t know enough about it to tell,
’
Marion admitted.

He pointed out the main features of the various tombs, demonstrating with a
s
tick in the sand the different traditions which had been used and developed by the Nabatean builders. There was the heavy, so-called
c
row-step, monumental style that had been imported from Assyria; the Persian influences that had modified the earliest styles; the Nabatean classical facades, heavily influenced by the new ideas from the western civilisation of Greece and Rome; followed by the Byzantine period and the beginnings of decay.

‘
Didn
’
t the Nabateans have any ideas of their own?
’
Marion asked when he had finished.

‘
Their most original genius lay in their irrigation schemes and their pottery. Their pottery is some of the finest the world has ever seen.
’

If Marion had not believed him, when they went into the Museum she was able to see a few fragments of their pottery for herself. Most of the best pieces had been taken away to the museum in Jerusalem and, later, to the museum that was being built up in Amman, but there were some fine pieces remaining, impossibly fine and decorated with the leaves of plants in highly sophisticated patterns.

‘
It
’
s as fine as porcelain
!
’
Marion declared. The
quality
was all the more dramatic when compared to the much thicker and far less elegant Roman pots that lay alongside the Nabatean plates and bowls.

‘
It
’
s all the more remarkable when you consider that porcelain is turned out of a mould and these were thrown on a wheel
.
How did they make such flat and exquisitely thin bowls? Nobody could do it today.
’

Marion, who had thrown pots herself during her training to teach, was deeply impressed.
‘
Are the Nabateans making an appearance in your book?
’
she
asked him.

He laughed.
‘
No. They had already moved on when my book begins. Most of my characters are land-hungry Normans looking for new estates under the guise of defending their religious sites. They had already moved into England, southern Italy, Sicily, and other places too. Europe was getting too small for them and they burst into the Middle East with enthusiasm. The Crusades were an extraordinary adventure by any standards.
’

The museum was in yet another cave, but it was cold in there, and Marion began to shiver, her clothes sticking to her as
sh
e dripped all over the concrete floor.

‘
I think we
’
d better go over to the camp and get some hot food inside you,
’
Gregory suggested.

‘
It
’
s standing about that makes one cold,
’
Marion said, her teeth chattering.
‘
I was all
right when we were moving.
’

But
sh
e was glad to follow him down the steps to the floor of the valley and across the Colonnade Street to the camp which had built right into the middle of the ancient, forgotten
ci
ty. Towels and hot water awaited her and she stripped off her clothes and wrung the worst of the water out of them,
hanging
them in front of a paraffin heater to dry. She found a blanket and wrapped it round herself as though it were a sarong, fastening it over her
sh
oulder with a large safety-pin from her handbag. When she was ready, she tested her original dress with some anxiety, but, providing she kept reasonably still,
sh
e thought it would stay up and she sat down on the edge of the bed and waited for Gregory to c
ome
and find her.

It might have been her imagination, but she was sure there was a slackening in the rain when, hugging her blanket to her, she ran across from the tent
sh
e had been given to the dining-room beyond.

‘
What will happen if we have to stay the night?
’
she asked Gregory.

‘
Lucasta will go
s
pare if she comes back and finds me gone!
’

He looked amused.
‘A
s you did over her?
’
he teased her.
‘
It will do her good to worry about someone else for a change.
’

She hoped the rain would abate before then, all the same. If she and Gregory were to be alone there all night what would he expect from her? It was a searing thought; a mixture of ecstatic fantasy and the certainty that she would disappoint him, and it made her more nervous than ever in his presence. How could anyone not be aware of him sitting opposite across the table? She knew every detail of the way he looked with her eyes closed. If she had not known before she would have known now that she was ve
r
y much in love with him, and she wondered how it could have happened so quickly and with such finality. There would never be another man for her—and that knowledge made her feel lonelier than ever.

‘
I don
’
t think
Mrs.
Hartley will think I
’
ve made a very adequate chaperon,
’
she volunteered on a sigh.
‘
Lucasta is sure she
’
s in love with Gaston. I wish I were as certain a match between them will meet with success.
’

‘
But you don
’
t
think
so?
’

She shook her head.
‘
Gaston won
’
t sell out his independence easily.
’
She remembered belatedly that it was his sister and brother-in-law she was talking about and said no more.

‘
I agree with you,
’
Gregory said.
‘
But you needn
’
t worry that they
’ll
blame you. It will be something else to be laid at my door.
’
He grinned.
‘
My sister has always wanted to run my life for me and she
’
s never been able to understand why her fingers have been burnt every time she tries it.
’

An answering smile lit Marion
’
s face.
‘
Judith?
’
she prompted him.

‘
There have been others too. Felicity has a vast acquaintance all over the world and I have suffered accordingly.
’

‘
I can
’
t see you as an easy martyr,
’
Marion teased him.

‘
I try to keep things pleasant—on the surface at least. Blighting unrealistic hopes can be a painful experience, though.
’

‘
I suppose so,
’
Marion agreed.
‘
Poor Judith.
’

‘
I
wasn
’
t thinking about Judith at that moment,
’
he responded.
‘
I
was
thinking
of someone much nearer home.
’

H
erself? But he couldn
’
t possibly know how she felt about him! Yet there was nobody else that he could mean. The
humiliation
of the moment swept over her and she tightened her hold on her blanket in an unconscious gesture of defence.

‘
You might be flattering yourself,
’
she pointed out in a small voice.
‘
Or does every girl you meet fall in love with you?
’

T
he glint in his eyes destroyed what remained of her confidence.
‘
It isn
’
t only love that makes a girl think she might like to marry,
’
he told her cynically.
‘
Love is something quite different
’
He leaned forward.
‘
Tell me, Marion Shirley, if I wanted a girl to fall in love with me, do you think
sh
e could withstand me for long?
’

‘
I don
’
t know,
’
she managed to whisper.

‘
B
ut you must have some opinion on the subject,
’
he prompted her.

S
he pulled at her hand, but he wouldn
’
t let her go and she was more afraid than ever that the blanket and she would part company. She gave a final tug to it with her free hand, clutching the edges together as if her life depended on it.

‘
I don
’
t know anything about it,
’
she cried out.

‘
Nothing about love at all?
’
He leaned nearer still.
‘
Shall I teach you about love, little Marion?
’

S
he couldn
’
t answer. She simply couldn
’
t! She stared
at him, her eyes wide and alarmed.
‘
No
!’
she blurted out.

H
e sat back, letting go her hand, and managing to look very pleased with himself.
‘
Perhaps you
’
re right,
’
he said almost casually.
‘
This is neither the time nor the place. Are you hungry? Shall we eat?
’

S
he nodded her head, maintaining a dignified silence. But she didn
’
t feel dignified at all. She wished with all her heart that she had had the courage to have said “yes” instead of “n
o.
” Tears blurred her eyes and it no longer seemed to matter whether the blanket stood up or not.

‘
I
’
m not very hungry.
’
She bent her head. If he saw that she was crying, he would despise her, she thought, but the tears kept on coming and her dignity disintegrated into racking sobs that shook her whole body.

G
regory
’
s arms were very gentle as he gathered her up from the chair and drew her down on to his knee.

‘
Darling, must you?
’
he asked her.

‘
I
’
m not your darling! I
’
m
nothing
to you
!
’
she wept.

H
is laughter was very disturbing.
‘
Having just said
you know nothing about it, I shall ignore that remark,
’
he said, stroking the back of her neck just where the roots of her hair began to grow.
‘
Marion, if you don
’
t stop it I shall kiss you!
’

S
he gulped back a laugh, remembering how much she had been going to enjoy her day, stolen by the rain for her, with only
him
to share it with her.
‘
I
’
m sorry,
’
she said.
‘
I don
’
t know why I
’
m crying—Gregory! Don
’
t do that! This blanket comes apart very easily
!
’

‘
Would that matter?
’
he mocked her.

‘
Indeed it would. I haven
’
t a stitch on underneath and I haven
’
t any desire to do a striptease for your benefit.
’

‘
Pity,
’
he said, his face full of laughter. He set her on her feet and wound her blanket more tightly around her.
‘
Feeling better?
’

H
is eyelashes were the longest she had ever seen on
a man. How many of his girl-friends had envied him them? She longed to put up a hand and touch his hair where it curled into his neck, but it would never do for him to know how much he disturbed her.