Night of a Thousand Stars (18 page)

We rode on, and I continued to work it all out even as the donkey shook my bones to aspic. We were the best suspects in Hugh’s death, from circumstance and also from the perspective of the Damascene authorities. If nothing else, failing to present ourselves promptly would make us look thoroughly guilty. There was no way at all to explain what had happened with Hugh and why we had not come forward.

Unless Sebastian fell on his sword. I looked ahead to that proud back, rising in the saddle at the top of the trot, strong legs working like pistons, robes flowing behind him in the wind. Something in him reminded me of Gabriel Starke, that same self-sacrificing nobility hidden by a veneer of deprecation and wry humour. They played at being villains, but there was some finer metal in both of them. Gabriel had sacrificed every bit of his own happiness for Evangeline’s safety, and although I was merely an acquaintance to Sebastian, I had no doubt he would do the same for me rather than allow me to be taken into custody as a suspect in Hugh’s death. No, in his version of events, I would be his victim, an innocent party, and that would be his story, no matter how long and how hard they pressed him to tell otherwise.

I knew then that I had to keep Masterman’s existence a secret—but not for my sake. For his.

* * *

By the time the sun was high overhead, Sebastian stopped in the cool green shade of a pomegranate orchard. He drew his horse a little off the road—enough to be discreet but not suspicious. He dismounted lightly and did not bother to tether his horse as he slid the rein from mine out from the saddle. He flicked me a glance as Rashid trotted up, scarcely winded after his long run. His beautiful skin gleamed in the sunlight with the sheen of fresh perspiration and he smiled broadly. He at least was having the time of his life.

Sebastian looked up at me. “Aren’t you getting off?”

I blinked. “I don’t think I can.”

“Whyever not?” He took the precaution of tying the donkey, but apparently trusted the horse not to bolt. She merely stood by, batting long lashes at Sebastian as Rashid stroked her nose.

“He isn’t exactly an easy mount.”

Sebastian grinned. “Shook you a little?”

“Rattled my teeth like castanets,” I told him. “And now I’ve clung on to him so long, I don’t think I can get off.”

With a smothered laugh, Sebastian strode to the donkey’s side, raising his arms. “Come on, princess,” he ordered.

I turned stiffly in the saddle and tried to slide down, but somehow my boot got caught and I ended up slithering down Sebastian’s chest until he caught me. My legs were jellied, and he held me up a moment before I could support myself.

I looked up to thank him, but he dropped my arms. “Walk it off,” he instructed briskly. “The more you move, the faster the blood flow will come back. Rashid, my friend, you need water.”

He turned away to share his water with Rashid and attend to his horse and the donkey. I began to pace the orchard. I hobbled to the end of the row, but by the time I had turned and made my way back, I was moving a little more smoothly. When I returned, I found they had watered the animals, and Sebastian was murmuring endearments to the horse.

Rashid approached then, smiling in triumph. “I have found pomegranates. The windfall from after the last harvest. These will be the last of the season,” he told me. He broke open one of the fruits and showed me the seeds, glittering like jewels.

He gestured for me to turn over my palm and when I did, he tapped the skin of the fruit sharply, causing the ruby seeds to rain out of the soft white flesh. I ate a few and he smiled.

“The Prophet Mohammad, peace be unto him, taught that eating the seeds of the pomegranate would purge hatred from the soul and sweeten the temper,” he told me.

“Then feed her plenty,” Sebastian told him.

I resisted the urge to put out my tongue at him.

“And speak Arabic to her, Rashid. She’s appallingly badly educated.”

That time I did put my tongue out, but I turned to Rashid with a smile. “He isn’t entirely wrong, though. I don’t speak Arabic and I ought to learn. How does one say
thank you
?”

“Shukran,”
Rashid replied.

I repeated it, and Rashid took his responsibility seriously, repeating the phrase twice more as I mimicked him. He lifted his brows. “Very good,
sitt
.” He turned to Sebastian. “Her accent is better than yours, my friend.”

Sebastian curled a lip. “It’s one word, Rashid. Let me know when she can actually put a sentence together.”

Rashid and I settled down in the shade of one of the slender trees to enjoy our fruit. “You are Bedouin, is that right?”

He lifted his chin proudly. “I am,
sitt
. My tribe is from the north, near Palmyra. Our winter pasturage is very close to the ruins of the great city.”

“I should love to see it,” I breathed, thinking of the vast stretches of columned ruins, once the playground of the fabulous warrior queen, Zenobia, vanquished only by Rome and led through the city streets in golden chains.

Rashid grinned. “Many ladies like Palmyra. It is because of the great queen.”

“No doubt,” I mused. “And now you have a king. What of your own people? What do they think of Feisal?”

He shrugged. “He is a Howeitat, a southerner. He is not one of us.”

“I have heard others say the same. So, he does not speak for your tribe?”

Rashid’s smile was patient. “That is not our way,
sitt
. A man is responsible for his family, and the family is responsible for the tribe. There is much discussion and much cooperation because the rules are not written. They are understood. As a man, I am answerable to my kinsmen, the men of my own blood. How can a Howeitat hold me responsible for my actions when they are not my kin?” He did have a point, and I thought it interesting that his views should be so similar to those of Armand. Rashid went on. “But the rule of an Arab over his own people is preferable to that of a foreigner,” he said firmly. “The French, the English, they have no place here except to help us become what we must be.”

“And what is that, Rashid?”

“Masters of our own fate,” he told me. We talked a bit longer, sharing fruit and chatting idly until he rose. “I will go and find more pomegranates. Take the last,
sitt
,” he insisted, pressing two of the fruits upon me.

Sebastian was still murmuring endearments to his horse, stroking her long nose.

“What is her name?”

“Albi. It means
heart
in Arabic,” he told me.

“She’s utterly gorgeous,” I said, holding out a pomegranate on my palm. She gave me a long look then snuffled her velvet lips over my hand, taking the fruit up as daintily as a princess.

“She knows it,” Sebastian said seriously. “That’s her trouble.”

She crunched on the pomegranate and I held the other out to the donkey. “And this one is an utter menace.”

Sebastian shrugged. “I looked his feet over when you were playing with the pomegranates. He’s going lame.” He held out a goatskin full of water. “Drink up. We’ll have to get on again as soon as Rashid returns.”

I groaned but did as I was told and in a very few moments Rashid appeared, carrying a bag stuffed with late pomegranates. Sebastian stowed the goatskin and together they looked the donkey over and discussed the options. Rashid seemed deeply upset, talking rapidly and sketching wide gestures of dismay with his arms.

Sebastian soothed him down and after a long moment, took the rein from the little donkey and handed it to Rashid.

Rashid bowed in a gesture of
salaam
. “We must part here,
sitt
. I am to return this worthless animal to the city.”

Sebastian’s jaw was set—I could tell that much from the mulish expression of his beard. “If we push him onto the coast, it will only get worse, and he’ll hold us back. Better we travel fast even if we have to go alone.”

I started to put out my hand, then remembered the customs of the land. “I am sorry to lose your company, Rashid.”

He smiled his beautiful faun’s smile. “And I yours, dear lady.”

He brushed his fingertips to his mouth and made a graceful gesture of farewell. I felt a little flutter in my stomach as I watched him go.

“If you’re quite finished mooning over Rashid, we ought to be going,” Sebastian said, his words clipped and icy.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I wasn’t mooning,” I protested. “But you have to admit he’s a beautiful boy. Besides he’s already got two wives.”

Sebastian rounded on me. “How the devil do you know that?”

I shrugged. “We chatted. He’s a trifle worried about the second wife. Apparently she’s expecting her first child and having a wretched time of it.”

He gaped at me. “I’ve known Rashid for the better part of five years and he’s never mentioned a wife.”

“What can I say? People tell me things.”

He gave me a dark look and carried on. “Can you ride astride?”

“Yes, actually, I can.”

“Good,” he said, and as he had done before, he put his hands under my heel and tossed me into the saddle. This time the perch was much higher, and as I sat there astride the gorgeous horse, she bobbed her head a little, making the bells on her headstall ring.

“I can ride her?” I asked in delight. He didn’t answer. Before I could protest, he shoved me as far back in the saddle as I could go, perching me uncomfortably on the very top ridge of it. “Sebastian, I don’t think—”

As was becoming his custom, he ignored me and did as he pleased. He mounted Albi swiftly, careful not to knock me off as he did so, settling himself neatly into the space just in front of me. As he sat, I slid down off the top edge of the saddle and ended up wedged snugly against him, hip to hip.

“Oh, you cannot be serious,” I muttered.

He turned his head slightly. “It’s either this or walk. And frankly, I don’t much care.”

I sighed. The boots were gorgeous, but they were a trifle tight and I didn’t relish a long dusty walk to the coast. “Fine.”

“Then mind you hold on. I’m going to give Albi her head and if you fall off, I’m not going back for you,” he instructed.

He touched her lightly with his heels and gave a single command in Arabic. She sprang forward and I clasped my arms about Sebastian’s waist. It was smaller than I expected. The baggy clergyman’s suit he had worn in London had hid a multitude of things, I decided. Among them a pair of rather impressive shoulders and a narrow, athletic waist.

I held him tightly as we rode, the wind blowing our veils behind us, the dust of the road billowing as we went. It was all I could do not to let out a whoop of sheer joy as we rode. This was adventure at last.

Fifteen

We stopped twice more, both times to rest and water the horse. Sebastian drank deeply but took no food although he forced me to eat.

“You’re not accustomed to this sort of travel, and I won’t have you fainting like a Gothic heroine,” he warned me. “Try these.”

He passed me a sticky paper twist. I stared into it suspiciously. “What are they?”

“Raisins. Soaked in honey. If you don’t want them, give them back,” he ordered.

I nibbled one and gave a little moan. “Oh, they’re heaven. I hope you bought enough for yourself, too.”

He pulled a face but let me keep them as we set off again.

As the afternoon wore on, the roads became smaller and narrower as we wended our way up into the Anti-Lebanon. The triple peaks of Mount Hermon stood guard to the south as we picked a path into the hills, turning slightly to the north and skirting the edge of Mount Lebanon. Albi’s brisk pace meant that a breeze fanned my cheeks under the veil, but I was thirsty and tired by the time we turned off the last road and onto a narrow track that wound upwards through a rocky landscape that seemed to lead nowhere.

“Where are we going?” I asked. Sebastian shrugged, the muscles of his back rolling under my clasped arms.

“Looking for a suitable site to camp for the night.”

We’d been riding for hours, and although I would have died rather than admit it to Sebastian, I was thoroughly exhausted. I gave a sigh of impatience and dropped my head to his back. He jerked, nearly throwing himself off the horse. His sudden lurch irritated her and she tossed her head, crossing her feet sideways.

“For God’s sake,” I muttered irritably. “What’s the matter with you? Anyone would think
you
were the Gothic heroine.”

He reseated himself and calmed the dancing Albi. “Don’t do that again,” he ordered through gritted teeth.

I sighed again. He was getting touchier and more irritable the longer we spent together, I decided. Perhaps rough travel didn’t agree with him. Or perhaps he wasn’t as comfortable with fieldwork as I had expected from someone who had spent his war years actively engaged in espionage.

For that matter, I reasoned, he might not have been that active at all. His specialty had been languages. Clearly he had been sent to Syria to be close at hand if Gabriel needed assistance maintaining his cover as a dashing Bedouin hero out of folklore, but it seemed likely to me that Sebastian had spent his war years tucked away in an office waiting for Gabriel’s field reports and preparing memoranda for the London office. Even Gabriel’s remark about Sebastian’s prowess in a knife fight seemed like a joke. After all, he certainly hadn’t knifed Hugh when he had the chance. He’d merely incapacitated him and left as quickly as possible. I began to wonder if he was afflicted with a bit of genteel distaste for violence.

It wasn’t entirely fair either, I decided. After casting off the shabby garb of an impoverished English curate, he looked like a hero out of myth. The least he could do was behave like one.

I was still happily occupied in dissecting his character when Albi pulled us up over the lip of a rise onto a small plateau. Part of the plateau was rock but most was a narrow meadow with fresh grass for the horse and a thin stream trickling down from the snowy peaks in the far distance.

“Where are we?” I asked.

Sebastian half-turned in the saddle. “In the Lebanon now. We slipped over the border some distance back. We’ve made good time in spite of riding double. We’re very near Sidon.” He lifted his hand and pointed. “And over there on that ridge is Djoun.”

I gaped. “Lady Hester Stanhope’s home! But can’t we—”

He knew exactly what I was about to ask. “We can’t stay there. The place is deserted now, but there’s a village at the base of the ridge full of curious folk who’d make note of travellers poking about.” He gave me a quick grin. “Besides, I’ve already been inside. It was a long shot that there would be anything of note left in the old ruin, but I made a point of breaking in and making a thorough search of the place.”

“And there’s nothing left?” I shaded my eyes to make out the sprawl of the distant compound. “It looks simply enormous.”

“Big enough,” he agreed. “And packed to the rafters with rubbish, not surprisingly. It’s changed hands a dozen times since Lady Hester’s death, and it gets more derelict with every new owner. Someone ought to pull it down and start over.”

It was a disappointing coda to the thrill of stopping so close to Lady Hester’s old home. It seemed too cruel to be so near the place and not be able to step foot inside. I must have been fairly vibrating with excitement, because Sebastian flicked me a sideways look.

“There won’t be gold here, Poppy. If she did find it and brought it here, it would have been discovered by now. But I thought you’d like to see it for yourself, and this little plateau will be as good a place as any to shelter for the night. Now, hush. I want to make certain there’s no one around before we get too comfortable.”

But no sooner had he spoken than I felt him stiffen in the saddle. Just behind us, emerging onto the plateau was a party of horsemen. Sebastian wheeled Albi smartly and hissed through gritted teeth, “Let me handle this. Eyes down. No English.”

He adopted a relaxed pose as he watched them pick their way towards us. There were three horsemen, and to my surprise, I saw as they came near they were Europeans—explorers of some sort. They wore unflattering khaki garb and their horses carried bulging saddlebags. They rode slowly, no doubt held up by the little donkey tethered to one of the horses, its back heaped with various cases and boxes.

“Hello, there,” hailed the fellow in front. “I say, hello!
Assalam aleikum
,” he said, drawling the words heavily as he waved.

Sebastian inclined his head with slow grace.
“Aleikum assalam,”
he returned.

They closed the distance, and as they reached us, I realized the second horseman was in fact a woman. She rode astride like the men, and her costume was every bit as plainly serviceable.

The last man was more preoccupied with getting the donkey where he was supposed to be, and the woman looked frankly bored, but the first man gave a wide smile and stood in his stirrups, gesturing broadly towards the plateau.

“Did you mean to camp here, friend? Only it’s the best ground for miles, and we thought we’d do the same. D’ye speak English?”

Sebastian inclined his head again. “I do. But my wife does not.”

I suppressed a flicker of irritation and concentrated on looking mystified by the conversation.

“Oh, splendid. I’m afraid my Arabic isn’t all it ought to be,” the man said. He removed his hat, showing a stripe of bright white skin above the flaming pink of his sunburnt brow. “My name is Johnson, Richard Johnson. This is my wife, Rosamund. And bringing up the rear back there is Alec MacGregor, Old Lecky we call him. We’re archaeologists on our way to a dig near Palmyra.”

Sebastian gave him a long, cool look. “You are a long way from Palmyra, my friend.” He had adopted a slightly accented version of English with Rashid’s soft vowels. It was astonishing how different that little trick of the voice made him sound. He was suddenly quite foreign to me, and I understood then how far I had come from the girl who had run out on her wedding only a few short weeks before.

Mr. Johnson laughed, a quick barking sound, like a fox. “Yes, we are. But it’s the missus’ first time in this part of the world. Thought she’d like to see where I spent my bachelor days,” he added with a wink.

Sebastian nodded towards the end of the plateau. “There is a stream there with fresh water for your horses.”

“And you don’t mind if we share the camping?” Mr. Johnson asked. The other two seemed to have no opinion on the matter. Mrs. Johnson was studying her nails and Old Lecky was trying to wake up the donkey, which seemed to have fallen asleep standing up.

“Not at all,” Sebastian told him.

“Very kind of you,” Mr. Johnson said. “You must share our meal as soon as Rosamund has prepared it. Perhaps your wife would lend a hand?”

I kept my expression carefully blank but poked Sebastian in the back as he nodded. “Of course,” he said graciously. “You will permit us to wash first and water our horse?”

“Absolutely, my dear fellow. Come along to our camp. We’ll pitch the tents now and start getting things in order.”

Sebastian clicked to Albi and she surged forward. By the time we reached the stream, I was seething.

“Are you quite mad?” I asked softly as I slid stiff-legged from Albi’s back. “You expect me to be able to keep up the fiction of not understanding English for an entire evening with those people? And since when do I cook your supper?”

“Since I want to know more about our coincidental strangers,” he said with a grim look.

“Coincidental? You don’t believe them?” I trotted behind as he led Albi to the water to take a deep drink.

“I think their appearance is a little too timely. We’ve been out of Damascus for exactly one day and already we encounter a party of fake archaeologists?”

“How do you know they’re fakes?”

He shrugged. “Intuition.”

“Intuition? That’s not very spylike,” I grumbled.

He rolled his eyes as he unstrapped Albi’s saddle. “What do you know of it? Intuition is nothing more than swift observation and calculation so rapid your mind doesn’t even register it. My instinct says they’re not what they seem. If you want particulars, you’ve no further to look than Johnson’s complexion.”

“What’s the matter with his complexion?”

“He’s badly sunburnt. An archaeologist who’s spent time in the field—as he claims he has—wouldn’t burn so badly. He would also have quite a collection of lines about his eyes from a lifetime of squinting at the sun. He’s got none in spite of his age. Neither has his portly little friend. They’re no more archaeologists than I am.”

“All right, you’ve persuaded me. But what are they really doing here and why lie about it?”

Sebastian shrugged. “They might be doing surveys secretly for the oil companies. You can’t ride a mile out here without stumbling over a group of them. And none of them ever tells the truth about what they’re doing for fear of tipping off the others to a likely spot.”

I glanced about the meadow with its soft spring grass. “Is this a likely spot?”

“No, but they said they were on the way to Palmyra. Much more promising landscape for that sort of thing. And Mesopotamia is heaving with the stuff. You can’t throw a rock without hitting a geyser of it.”

“I think you might have chosen the wrong line of work,” I mused.

He shot me a dark look as he tended to Albi, rubbing her down and supplementing her grass with fodder he had brought from Damascus. When we had washed our hands and faces and Sebastian had rigged up a small tent, we made our way to their campsite. They had accomplished a remarkable amount in so short a time. They had pitched tents—three, I was interested to see. Apparently the Johnsons’ marriage was not a demonstrative one. And they had arranged picnic rugs around a merrily crackling fire to make a sort of seating area. A flat rock had been cleared for Rosamund Johnson to use to prepare the food.

I gave her a quick smile to show my friendliness, but she sized me up coolly. “You don’t look remotely useful in that costume,” she said. “Sit there.”

She pointed to another rock and I gave no sign of understanding anything she said, only the gesture, which was unmistakable. I seated myself and watched as she expertly mixed up flour and water to make flatbreads and assembled a sort of stew made of meat and spices. She moved with an economical grace, every movement efficient and tidy, her long white hands stirring and shaping and reaching as she worked. She must have been aware of my scrutiny, but she said nothing, merely continued her preparations with the same chilly precision. Her hair was black, but not the flat hennaed black of mine. It was a rich black, glossy as a crow’s feathers, with a blue sheen in the depths, but scraped back into an unflattering style, old-fashioned and heavy, plaited tightly and pinned at the nape of her neck. Her eyes, when they turned on me, were an odd grey, almost silver, and her brows were highly arched and might have been expressive if she had not been so perfectly detached. Her features were lovely, and it occurred to me that she had deliberately downplayed her beauty with her choice of clothing and hairstyle. A little powder and rouge and she would be devastating, I decided, and I wondered whether I should offer her a bit of Sebastian’s kohl as an improvement.

She finished assembling the food then turned to me, her generous mouth curved into a sweet, sudden smile. She held out a bowl of oranges. “Would you mind carrying these, you stupid whore?”

I smiled broadly, holding out my hands as her husband came over to where we stood.

“Well?” It was a single word, but it carried a world of meaning.

Rosamund Johnson shook her head. “He was telling the truth. She doesn’t understand English.”

He smiled at me and reached out to take an orange from the bowl. “Excellent. He’s a merchant from Damascus. He and his bride are going to visit family at the seaside. Thought he’d take her the scenic way round,” he told his wife with a lip that curled faintly into a sneer.

“Quite the honeymoon,” she said lightly.

“Quite,” he returned. “But better than ours,” he added with a meaningful look.

She gave him a smile as honeyed as the one she had offered me. “If you attempt to come into my tent again, I will kill you. And I won’t bother to make it look like an accident. If you want my help, get rid of these two in the morning.”

He gave her a speculative glance. “When you say ‘get rid of—’”

She made an impatient gesture. “I mean let them leave. They’re no use to us.”

He held her eyes a long moment then nodded. “As you wish,
darling
,” he said, drawing out the last word in an exaggerated caress.

He walked back to where Sebastian stood chatting with Old Lecky. My face hurt from smiling, but my winsome expression hadn’t slipped so much as an inch.

Rosamund Johnson gave me a cynical look. “Keep smiling, little one. I just saved your life.”