To Catch a Bride (10 page)

“I will go.” She drank the last of her coffee, hesitated, then upturned the cup upside down on the saucer. Then she handed the cup to Laila. “Tell me.”

Laila examined the patterns of the drained grounds in her cup. It was all nonsense, of course, Ayisha thought. She wasn’t superstitious; she was educated, a Christian. Still, it was useful to know, just in case . . .

Laila frowned. “There is much happening here, many . . . contradictions. A powerful force will enter your life, and you will—” She broke off.

“What?”

Laila gave a careless shrug and put the cup down, “It’s not clear. Sometimes the coffee is like that.”

Ayisha didn’t believe a word of it. “Tell me.”

Laila sighed and took the cup back. “Some difficult—and very painful—choices lie ahead. I see danger. I see heartache. You are pulled in several directions, and the paths ahead are tangled and many. You cannot see which one to take and you will feel lost and afraid.”

Ayisha pulled a face. Nothing new then. She was already confused and unsure of what to do.

Laila continued, “There is a man and a question of trust. You must listen to your heart and follow it—even when it seems to be breaking.”

Her heart? Every instinct she had told her to get as far away from Rafe Ramsey as possible.

The man was dangerous. In all kinds of ways.

But there was Ali. She’d got him into it, she had to get him out. Laila called Ayisha her daughter of the heart. If that was so, then Ali was the little brother of Ayisha’s heart.

Follow her heart? The message was clear. Rescue Ali.

 

 

 

 

I
t had been a calculated risk, Rafe said to himself for the tenth time. Set her free, establish the beginnings of trust. He was a man of his word. He’d said he wouldn’t hurt Ali and she would see that it was true—if she came back. But if she cared about the boy—and he was sure she did—she wouldn’t leave him here. She would return.

If he was any judge of character.

Therein lay the rub. He could judge men, but women—now they were another matter entirely.

What the hell did she mean, Alicia was dead, there was only Ayisha?

Some kind of tortuous female logic, he presumed. Alicia Cleeve is dead indeed, when her own face looked back at her from Alaric Stretton’s drawing.

Rafe knew better than to try and unravel that thread of reasoning—if she wanted to be called Ayisha, he’d do it. He’d call her the Queen of Sheba if it got her to come with him to England without fuss and botheration.

But if fuss and botheration was what it took, he’d do it. He had no qualms about dragging her back to England kicking and screaming. And no doubt scratching and biting, he added to himself, gingerly touching the side of his neck where she’d scratched him last night. It still stung a little. The scratch of a she-cat usually did.

His valet, Higgins, had observed the marks this morning with pursed lips, too well trained to show his disapproval openly. He’d shaved Rafe very carefully, avoiding the long scratches, then applied one of his special salves, muttering that in Oriental climes it didn’t do to neglect wounds.

Rafe came downstairs. Ali was seated at the dining room table, stuffing his very clean face with toast, lamb sausages, and scrambled eggs. Higgins, who Rafe had appointed to watch over the boy, sat beside him, attempting, if Rafe were any judge, to teach Ali English table manners. He didn’t approve of Rafe’s order to have the boy served breakfast in the dining room. Such a boy, his demeanor indicated, should be lucky to eat in the scullery.

Higgins stood as Rafe entered.

Ali looked up and waved a fork at Rafe in a friendly fashion, clearly not intending to abandon his breakfast.

Higgins sighed and drew the boy to his feet by the collar. “Say, ‘good morning, sir,’ ” he said and demonstrated a respectful bow.

Ali, who’d grabbed a sausage in his hand as though he might be dragged off any minute, swallowed a giant mouthful of eggy toast and said to Rafe with a happy grin, “Goomorneesor, open sesameeee.” He gave an uncannily exact replica of Higgins bow that at the same time mocked it completely, then returned with all speed to empty his plate.

Rafe couldn’t help but chuckle. Cheeky little sod. “Thank you, Higgins.
Sabaah el kheer
,” he said to Ali.
Good morning
in Arabic.

Ali’s eyes widened. He responded with a torrent of rapid Arabic.

Rafe held up his hand. “Slow down,” he said. “I only know a little.” He filled a plate with scrambled eggs and sausages from the covered dishes on the sideboard. It was odd seeing the array of covered dishes set out on the sideboard exactly as it would have been in England, but this was a house that had been leased to various Englishmen over the last few years, and the handful of servants that came with the house had been trained accordingly. And no doubt if they hadn’t, Higgins would have seen to it. A man who knew just how things should be done, Higgins; he was more than a valet.

He bit into a sausage and an explosion of exotic tastes burst onto his tongue. It was nothing like an English sausage—made of lamb, not pork. It was highly spiced and fragrant with herbs, more like the sausages he’d eaten in Portugal and Spain. Delicious.

The important thing was that against all the odds he’d found Miss Cleeve. Alive and well. And not in a harem.

What the devil had possessed him to turn her loose?

If she failed to return this morning, he was back to square one.

A kitchen servant arrived with fresh coffee and poured Rafe a cup. “Higgins, has Miss Cleeve sent any message?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. I’ve been attending to this young savage. Wipe your mouth with the napkin, boy, not your sleeve,” Higgins told Ali, handing Ali a clean napkin.

Ali immediately pocketed it.

The doorbell jangled in the hall.

Rafe drained his coffee cup. Excellent, he hadn’t lost her after all. “Get the door, will you, Higgins? That will be Miss Cleeve.”

Rafe rose as his guest entered, looking around her suspiciously, the very image of a ragged street urchin poised to flee. Her gaze went straight to Ali to check he was alive and unharmed, presumably, then darted to each corner of the room, before returning to Rafe.

What did she think, that he would have half a dozen burly henchmen hidden, waiting to pounce on her? Her wariness sparked the flame of anger within him again: God only knew what she’d endured since her father died. He thought of her portrait at thirteen: the impression of a shy and vulnerable young girl.

Now, six years later, there was not a trusting bone in her body.

He took her hand. “Miss Cleeve, delighted you could rejoin us again.” Interesting, he thought. Her face was, if anything, dirtier than last night.

She snatched her hand back. “Don’t call me that. I told you, I know nothing of Alicia Cleeve; I am Ayisha.” She made her way to Ali and made a rapid inquiry in Arabic.

Rafe pulled out a chair and seated her beside the boy. She sat down absently, concentrating on Ali’s responses. The morning sun lit her skin. Rafe took the opportunity for a closer look.

As he thought, the dirt had been carefully applied. Along the chin she’d rubbed in a bit of ash, giving the faintest hint of the darkness of an incipient beard. An artist in dirt, Miss Cleeve.

“Yes?” She gave him a sharp look over her shoulder. Green eyes fringed with lush, dark lashes sparked a warning at him. Miss Cleeve didn’t like men standing too close, it seemed.

He was about to step back when he noticed a darker-colored patch on the other side of her jaw.

“Let’s just have a look at that,” he said and took her chin gently in his hand. She tried to pull away.

“Steady,” he said quietly. “I just want to look at the bruise I gave you last night.” He turned that side of her face to the light, and there they were, the marks of his fist clear and dark beneath the artistic layer of dust.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he released her. “If I’d known you were a woman . . .”

“It doesn’t hurt,” she said quickly and turned away.

Rafe signaled a servant to bring fresh coffee and as the man hurried off, Rafe placed eggs, toast, and sausages on a plate and set it in front of her.

She looked up. “What’s this?”

“Breakfast.” She was going to argue the point, he could see.

“But—”

“I always feed my guests, and since you’ve joined us at breakfast time . . .” He sat down.

She frowned at the plate. “Thank you, but I’ve already broken my fast.” She didn’t sound at all certain. Best not to push the point; if he tried to insist she would probably refuse.

He shrugged. “What can I say? The obligations of hospitality. A few morsels, and form has been observed. Ah, and here is the coffee.” He addressed himself to his coffee and ate another sausage just to make the point. Or perhaps not entirely to make a point. He was very fond of English sausages, but these spicy things were excellent. He didn’t look at her.

Ayisha stared at the plate. Two fat sausages, warm and plump and smelling heavenly. How long since she had eaten meat? And eggs, creamy and golden and smelling of butter and a hint of cheese.

But there were obligations once you’d accepted a man’s food . . .

“Don’t you want that?” Ali asked.

She glanced at his empty plate. “How many of these have you had?” She touched a sausage with her fork.

“Four,” Ali said proudly. “They are called
lemsausages
and they are the best thing I have tasted in my life, Ash. If I ate another one I think maybe I would burst. But I have two more in my pocket for later and if you don’t want those, I could—”

“No,” she said hastily, with a glance at the tall man at the end of the table. He was eating, apparently ignoring them. “It is bad manners to steal food when your host has offered it freely.”

Ali’s face fell. “Must I give them back?”

She hesitated.

“I have never eaten such wonderful things, Ash,” he whispered. “But I would not wish to insult Rameses when he has been so good to me, so if you say I must give them back—”

“Good to you?” she burst out. The Englishman looked up, and she instantly lowered her voice, even though she knew he couldn’t understand them. “He kidnapped you and tied you up.”

Ali shrugged. “I tried to steal from him. He could have given me to the pasha’s men, but he didn’t.”

“Yes, but—”

“He didn’t even beat me, Ash. And he brought me to his own table and shared with me food he himself ate. The best food I have had in all my life. Taste it and see.”

Bewitching aromas teased her, making her mouth water. Ayisha looked at the laden plate and glanced at the Englishman. He seemed engrossed in something on the table beside him, so she cut off a small piece of sausage and popped it into her mouth.

The flavors melted in her mouth. It was unbelievably delicious. And once she started she couldn’t stop.

“Told you,” Ali whispered beside her as she worked her way silently through first one, then the other sausage.
“Lemsausages.”

She ate the scrambled eggs, too, and the toast, and washed it down with milky European-style coffee. Heavenly.

“See, his food is good and so is he,” Ali said as she finished. “And I know you don’t believe me, but he did tell me a story last night.”

She blotted her lips with her napkin. “How could you know what he was saying? You don’t know English and he doesn’t speak Arabic.”

“I know what I know,” Ali said with that stubborn jut to his sharp little jaw she knew so well. “And I like him.”

Ayisha frowned. “The bath last night, what happened?” Ali usually put up some resistance to a bath.

“It was in a big tin, with hot water that came up to my ears, and soap that smelled good enough to eat.” He grimaced. “It didn’t taste so good though.”

“He didn’t hurt you? Or threaten to hurt you?”

“Who, Higgins? No. He just pointed to me and then the bath, and he stared down his long nose—he looks like a camel—until I got in.” Ali shrugged. “Then he took my clothes away and gave me a shirt to sleep in, and in the morning my clothes were clean. See?”

Ayisha rolled her eyes. After the trouble she and Laila usually had to get the little wretch to wash, all it took was someone to point at a tub of water and look down a long nose, was it?

“And nobody hurt you?”

“No, I was frightened at first, but they have been good to me, Ash.” He gave her an anxious look, as if she might spoil things by being rude.

She glanced down the long table at the Englishman, only to find he was watching her.

She looked away and a moment later glanced back. Still he was watching her. Why?

A bit of egg, maybe? Her hands itched to check. She crossed them over her chest. She shouldn’t care if there were bits of egg all over her face. She wanted to look as unattractive as possible, and food on the face was extremely unattractive. So if there was egg . . . that was good, she told herself.

It was just the way those blue eyes looked at her . . . It was very unnerving. Like a caress.

She felt her cheeks warming, put her chin up, and stared back at him. Not at all like a caress.

He smiled, folded his napkin, and rose, saying, “Now that you’ve finished your breakfast, Miss Cleeve, let us discuss your future in the sitting room.” He rang the bell.

Suddenly the food felt like lead in her stomach. “What about Ali?” she said. “I’m here now, let him go.”

“Ali stays,” the Englishman said crisply.

“But Laila will be worried about him—he’s been gone all night.”

He considered that. “Very well. Higgins,” he said to the man who’d appeared at the door. “Take the boy home. Take the interpreter with you and reassure this Laila that Miss Ayisha is safe. Will that suffice?” he added, turning back to Ayisha.