Rough Surrender (2 page)

“He says it was murder–been bashed and whipped hard but the body’s gone, spirited away where no one will find it. Mary, he reckons was her name. Damn bad doings, hey? Gosh. To think he knows all this... Do you think Smythe knows? It was a girl of his, apparently? Leonhardt?” Jeremy flicked back his disorderly black curls and turned on the seat. “Leonhardt? You okay?”

Dismay, disgust and horror were vying for first place in his mind. “Yes, I heard you Jeremy.” He dragged his hand over his face.
Damn, what am I becoming? Am I a man like that? I did nothing last night! Except to whip a woman in the same way...one mistake, that’s all it would take. One.

* * * *

A year later: Cairo, 1910

The bow lanterns on the fleet of felucca boats reflected off the wide black waters of the Nile as if a city had submerged and waited for Faith to join those trapped below. She dismissed such dark thoughts. Someone had already joined the denizens of the river, though not willingly. One was more than enough. She didn’t intend to be the next victim.

The boat slid through the water like a greased knife. Above, the sleek triangular sail slapped at the air. Even here the smell of Cairo reached her–donkeys, unwashed flesh and something that reminded her of burned dung...and probably was exactly that.

Faith smiled grimly. A few hours off the steamer and this awaited her. Someone had been dragged in by the crocodiles. The alarm had gone up an hour ago and, though most of the steamer’s passengers had gone on to their hotels, she’d not been able to resist volunteering to help search. Jeremy, being a family friend, had felt obliged to accompany her onto the boat.

The barest touch at her elbow alerted her to Jeremy Henleyson’s presence. “How are you holding up, Faith? We can avoid this entirely if you wish?”

“
Hmph
. I’m perfectly all right.” She quirked an eyebrow. “We are not likely to find anything except a body, are we?”

“No. If that, Miss Evard.”

She smiled at the
Miss Evard
. Though they hadn’t seen each other for a few years, she and Jeremy were childhood playmates. No matter how formal he might seem, his voice brought back memories of playing tag and blindman’s bluff.

A black, flickering silhouette in the moon and lantern light, Jeremy shrugged then ran a hand through his curls. When the steamer docked that afternoon, she’d observed him from the deck of the steamer. From above, he’d been little more than a mop of black, unruly locks. The rest of him was properly restrained, of course–polite and oh so British. This was the man her stepfather, Henri, had hopes of her marrying.

She sighed. Like all men, he did little for her–fun, in his laidback way. But Jeremy–she’d rather marry a pot of custard. Well-meaning, nice and handsome to a degree yet darning a sock excited her more than he did. Still, without that, this trip to join the first gathering of aviators on the African continent would have been harder to arrange. Henri had almost choked on his croissant when she’d first suggested it. She’d have done it anyway, but keeping Henri happy made everything just...well, she never liked disappointing him.

That thought only reminded her, of how she ached, literally ached, to discover the whereabouts of her poor airplane.

Such a petty thought. Here she was worrying about a hunk of metal, timber and canvas when someone had died this night.

She leaned on the rail and resumed searching. The fabric of her dress brushed against her calves–caught by the southerly evening winds–light material, barely there, sensible for Cairo but sometimes the new French fashions bothered even her in their flimsiness.

A swirl in the surface diverted her. Something gleamed. Water gurgled past.

“Ah!” She pointed. The Egyptian captain of the felucca swiftly arrived with hooked stick in hand. He jabbered something to his crew, the sail kinked and the vessel slowed.

I have to learn the local lingo
.
Have to. And soon
.

With Jeremy to one side and the captain to the other she pointed again. “There!”

“No.” The captain shook his head ruefully. “I see nothing.”

“I also, Faith.” Jeremy leaned over the rail. “What is it you...”

She grabbed the stick from the captain, lunged and hit something solid. The hook penetrated whatever it was and she hauled it in.

“Miss! Miss!” The captain repossessed his hook, pulled the thing over the gunwale and aboard. Something soft thumped onto the deck.

“Oh. My. What have you found, Faith?” Jeremy sounded chagrined.

Faith stepped over to the find. “Tell them to bring the light.”

The light arrived faster than she’d thought possible. She glanced up and over her shoulder and her gaze locked with that of the other European aboard–the mysterious one who’d not bothered to introduce himself.

The glow from the lantern the man held sharpened edges and deepened hollows–accentuating the crease of his pale trousers and the shadows between the long fingers of his hand. Bald and six feet or more, perhaps... God take her for a dull-brained idiot but he seemed a charcoal drawing come to life–magnificent and meant for admiration.

If I touch him, maybe he’ll smudge
. She almost smiled at that, until her imagination leaped farther. What would it be like to slide her hand between the opened buttons of his shirt? Her mouth turned desert dry and, for once, she regretted not ordering a few pairs of the newer underwear. The crotchless pair she wore suited her older dresses–ones that would never dare flip up in the breeze.

As if to emphasize her wanton thoughts, coolness teased between her legs.

Her judgment seemed cast awry by the lateness of the hour, the strange circumstances and, most of all, by the throbbing in her private parts that she really could have done without.

He bowed his head a trifle, lifted the light higher. “You’ve found him. I do believe.”

She looked down and gulped.

An arm. She’d found an arm. Raw, severed, the flesh was studded with bite marks and gouges and bloated as if it had been pumped full of air. A blue ring gleamed on a finger. Sickness welled up from her stomach, twisting a bitter flavor of bile into her mouth. She swayed.

“Hold on there.” Hands, arms held her still. Warm arms–the stranger’s she realized, but she cared not at all, instead concentrating on not bringing up the last of the jellied eel she’d eaten on the steamer.

“I’m perfectly fine.” She gulped again though, and shivered.

“Don’t look.” The man behind swung her away, forcing her to break off her examination of the arm.

“I’m not–”
A child
. She put her hand to her clammy forehead. Ridiculous. She’d seen wounds before...only not on pieces of the anatomy that were bereft of their human owners. That thought was enough to remind her stomach. “Uh, no. Let me–”

This time, with a gentle urging of his hands, he showed her to the gunwales. Water shone blackly a yard from her nose.

To her relief, lunch remained where it was, though the surge and splash of the hull made her shudder yet again. All the while his large hand rubbed between her shoulder blades. By the time she’d recovered and wiped her mouth with a handkerchief, he’d stepped back. She turned.

“Thank you, sir. I’m sorry to be such a trouble.”

“Think nothing of it.”

The depths of his rumbling voice, spoke to her at some primal level where animal logic ruled, where beasts prowled and mated as they willed.

Sweet Lord above
.

She stared. The raw intensity of the man made it impossible to break away. At the edges of her vision, the crew gathered about the arm where it still lay on the timber plank of the boat–drained of blood, raw and lifeless. If only she could breathe normally, she might have felt some gratification at her success.

She licked her lips. “And you might be, sir?”

“Leonhardt Meisner, mademoiselle, at your service.”

I doubt that
. The steel-backed gaze of this man told her quite firmly, he was at the service of no woman, and possibly no man. For a moment, her heartbeat fluttered.

* * * *

Leonhardt wondered at the strength of this woman, Faith Evard. Recently ill, imbalanced, yet she glowed with vibrancy. Even in the night gloom, her hair shone, as if she’d spent the day polishing the ebony waves that gently swept back and gathered at her nape. If he put his hands out, he could easily place them on her shoulders–from the lightness of her dress, he’d feel the muscles beneath and her feminine frame.

She still stared back at him. He allowed himself the smallest smile as he returned the examination. Wouldn’t do to let her think she held the upper hand.

The quick lowering of her eyes satisfied him.

He took a deep breath through his nose.

Satisfied him in ways he’d not thought to allow himself since London. Damn himself to Hell and back. He’d come here to escape such impulses. The whores at the brothel had borne his whip, his obsession with binding them and his other whimsies... No, he sharply corrected himself...his aberrations, because he’d paid them to, even if he’d always picked those who enjoyed the affair. He’d never figured out why he needed his partner controlled and subjugated, but after the tragedy, he’d sworn to no longer let it rule his life. This young woman deserved the best of his manners.

“Pardon my staring, mademoiselle.” He bowed again then held out his hand.

With the smallest of pauses, she put her hand up for him to take. He took her fingertips in his, kissed the back of her knuckles very gently. At the brush of his lips she started and made as if to remove her hand. He firmed his grasp.

As if to divert them both from his grip, she asked, “Are you French, sir? I would have thought Leonhardt to be Germanic.”

“It is,” he murmured, noting the rasp in her voice and the surreptitious tug as she strove yet again to free herself...the parted lips, the small heave of her breasts. His feral urges resurfaced. This time, he let them stay. God in heaven, she entranced him. “I am from Luxembourg. We have all manner of nations in our blood–French, German and, of course, the main one, Luxembourgian.” He released her hand.

“Er-em,” Jeremy cleared his throat. “You do realize we have a part of a man’s body at our feet? And, my word, I think I recognize that ring.”

Chapter 2

An Egyptian police officer met their felucca at the jetty, his white uniform standing out like a beacon. A small crowd of men, most of them dressed in the loose, long-sleeved
gallibaya
, surrounded the arm as it was brought ashore wrapped in cloth and cradled by the captain like a regal exhibit. Considering all the shouting when they’d docked, Faith was surprised more of Cairo’s population wasn’t waiting.

Once she disembarked, Mrs. Willoughby rejoined her, steaming through the small crowd majestically, with the bustle of her outdated Victorian dress following her like the slipped hump of a camel.

Faith smiled at the woman. The dust of the day’s travel on the bun of dark hair and the slumping lines of her face, made it clear her self-appointed chaperone was exhausted. Though she had no real need of Mrs. Willoughby’s protection, she’d not the heart to shoo her away. For the entire steamship journey the woman had made it her job to guard Faith from what she termed
uncouth menfolk
.

“You should be in bed, Mrs. Willoughby,” Faith murmured.

In their eagerness to see the arm, several of the crowd bumped at her elbows. The circle around the arm became more boisterous–some shouting what seemed curses. Again, if she knew the language, she’d know for sure. Being ignorant was frustrating.

“In bed! And so I would be if you weren’t gallivanting off being Florence Nightingale.”

“The man’s dead,” said Leonhardt. Coming unexpectedly from a foot above and behind her right shoulder, his words made the fine hairs of Faith’s neck rise. Mr. Meisner, for his size, had an uncanny way of sneaking up. “I don’t think even Florence Nightingale could’ve saved him, Mrs. Willoughby.”

The flow of men close to Faith abated. By standing where he was, Mr. Meisner, with his towering and bulky presence, shielded her from further assault. She blinked. Was this deliberate? Strangely, the idea pleased her.

Mr. Meisner was like a comfortable fire there beside her...no, she swallowed as she imagined how close he must be if she could feel his heat... He was more a well-restrained volcano. She closed her eyes for a moment. Why was she breathing as if she’d run a race? Men did not affect her. It must be the Cairo air.

Mrs. Willoughby sniffed. “You think not, Mister Meisner?” She adjusted her broad-brimmed hat. “Miss Nightingale could do anything.” A single electric lamp dangled above the jetty. Against the light, insects batted and whined. The middle-aged woman’s eyebrows angled up like poised daggers. “And now, Miss Faith and I shall retire to our hotel, away from these dad-blasted mosquitoes and sweaty men!”

Jeremy pushed between two men. “Not intending to aim that insult at me, I do hope? I’m neither mosquito nor sweaty!”

Nor a real man
. Jeremy, despite being only a few inches short of Leonhardt’s height, didn’t seem to cut the mustard.
Am I being hasty?
She never could seem to see him as other than a jovial friend–a man, no. Thin and overly cheerful summed up his attributes. Faith frowned, thinking over Mrs. Willoughby’s remark about retiring to the hotel.