Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [172]
Watching her, Nefret was reminded of something Ramses had once said about the art of disguise. It wasn’t so much a matter of physical change as of demeanor and gesture, speech and movement. She had played a boy’s role well, but she couldn’t have pulled it off if they had not thought of Justin as not quite normal. No wonder she had reacted so vehemently to being touched. She might bind her breasts and wear loose boy’s clothing, but her body was a woman’s.
“But now that’s out of the question,” Justin went on briskly. “Those same gaping witnesses saw both you and the Professor board the boat; they had told him you were here and he was prepared to tear the place apart to find you. We had no choice but to move up the time of our departure and take both of you along.” She sighed. “Poor Maryam. She can’t go back and pretend innocence now.”
“Where is she?” Nefret asked.
“Sulking in her cabin. She’s been complaining all day,” Justin added contemptuously.
Nefret’s eyes wandered to the window. It opened onto the deck. The shutters had been thrown back. She could see stars, and the dark outline of land not far away. Her heart sank at the idea of abandoning Emerson, but if she could get onto the deck . . .
Nefret made a dash for the window. Her legs were still shaky, so it wasn’t so much a dash as a series of stumbles. François was after her the moment she moved. He twisted her arms behind her and held her.
Nefret shook the straggling hair out of her eyes. Knowing you look like a fright, dirty and sweaty and disheveled, has a demoralizing effect on any female. The woman lounging on the couch knew that; smiling, she ran her hands caressingly over her body. She made a very pretty woman with that head of crisp curls, bright as gold shavings, and that slender young body.
Nefret tried to stop herself, but it was no use. She had to know. “Why did you take Ramses prisoner? What would you have done to him if he hadn’t got away?”
“It was a test, of sorts, to see how well my people performed,” Justin said, stretching like a cat. “And I was curious about what Maryam saw in him. Then—well, I saw. I thought it would be fun to have him make love to me.”
“You’re insane,” Nefret said. “You couldn’t have made him do that.”
“Oh, yes, I could, if I’d had a little more time. I quite looked forward to it. I enjoy men, and he is a particularly handsome specimen—in every way. Maryam doesn’t appreciate that sort of thing. She only married that vulgar American because she wanted his money. She thinks she’s in love.” The tone was one of pure disgust.
“You’ve never been in love?” Nefret asked. She was following one of the family’s basic rules: Keep the other person talking, watch for a slip of the tongue or a moment of carelessness. One never knew what might turn up! And there was a horrible fascination in the conversation. She had never encountered a woman like this. But then, she reminded herself, I never knew Bertha.
“In love?” The pretty mouth curled. “I wanted him, though, and I’d have had him if he hadn’t got away from me. I may succeed yet. I generally get what I want, and I expect he’d be willing to do anything to keep me from hurting you.”
“Not anything,” Nefret said. “And you’d be a fool to let him get close to you when he’s angry.”
“What an innocent you are,” Justin murmured. “There are ways . . . I know most of them.”
She was baiting her prisoner, only too successfully. Nefret swallowed the sickness rising in her throat. “What are you going to do with us?” she demanded.
“Nothing just yet” was the careless reply. “We may need you.”
“What for?”
“Wait and see.” Laughing, Justin sat up and clasped her hands. “Wouldn’t you like to freshen up before dinner?”
The room to which François took her was a distinct improvement over the other. The shutters over the windows were closed, and barred from the outside, but the gaps between the wooden slats admitted air. There were a bed and a washbasin and even a lamp, hanging on a bracket by the washbasin. An impromptu prison, this, not as formidable as the other,