He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [29]
She pressed herself farther back against the stone. “My hat,” she said in a strangled voice.
“What about it?”
“It fell off.” Her slender throat contracted as she swallowed. “The strap must have broken. It fell . . . it bounced. . . .”
He looked down. One couldn’t blame her for losing her nerve. The angle of the slope was approximately fifty degrees, and she was two hundred feet up. Watching the pith helmet bounce from step to step to step, and picturing one’s body doing the same thing, must have been terrifying.
“The trick is to never look down,” he said easily. “Suppose you keep your back turned. I’ll go first and lift you from one level to the next. Do you think you could trust me to do that?”
She inspected him from head to foot and back, and then nodded. “You’re pretty strong, aren’t you?”
“Strong enough to manage a little thing like you. Come on now. No, don’t close your eyes; that does make one giddy. Just keep looking straight ahead.”
She gave him her hand and let him raise her to her feet.
He went slowly at first, till her taut muscles relaxed and she yielded trustingly to his grasp. She didn’t weigh anything at all. He could span her waist with his hands. They were still some distance from the bottom when she laughed and looked up at him over her shoulder. “It’s like flying,” she said gleefully. “I’m not afraid now.”
“Good. Hang on, we’re almost there.”
“I wish we weren’t. Miss Nordstrom is going to be horrid to me.”
“Serves you right. It was a silly thing to do.”
“I’m glad I did it, though.”
A crowd had clustered round the base of the structure. The upturned faces were ovals of coffee-brown and umber and sunburned red. One of them was a particularly handsome shade of mahogany. His mother must have sent his father to fetch him home; he’d lost track of the time, as usual.
He dropped from the last step to the ground and swung her down. When he would have set her on her feet she fell back against him and clung to his arm.
“My ankle! Oh, it hurts!”
Since she seemed about to collapse, Ramses picked her up and turned to receive the applause of the audience. The English and Americans cheered, the Egyptians yelled, and his father pushed through the spectators.
Emerson’s expression was one of affable approval; it broadened into a smile as he looked at the girl. “All right, are you, my dear?” he inquired. “Well done, Ramses. Present me to the young lady, if you please.”
“I fear I neglected to ask her name,” Ramses said. Now that she was safely down he was beginning to be annoyed with the “young lady.” There wasn’t a damned thing wrong with her foot; she was trying to look pathetic in the hope of staving off the expected and well-deserved scolding. To give the governess credit, she appeared to be more relieved than angry.
“It was my fault, sir,” said the girl. “I was so frightened and he was so kind . . . My name is Melinda Hamilton.”
“A pleasure,” said Emerson, bowing. “My name—”
“Oh, I know who you are, sir. Everyone knows Professor Emerson. And his son.”
“Most kind,” said Emerson. “Are you going to put her down, Ramses?”
“I’m afraid I hurt my foot, sir,” said the young person winsomely.
“Hurt your foot, eh? You had better come to our house and let Mrs. Emerson have a look. I’ll take her, Ramses. You can bring Miss—er—um—with you on Risha.”
Damned if I will, Ramses thought, as his erstwhile charge slipped gracefully from his arms into those of his father. His splendid Arabian stallion would make nothing of the extra weight, but Miss Nordstrom would probably accuse him of trying to ravish her if he hauled her up onto the saddle and rode off with her into the sunset or any other direction.
Emerson strode away, carrying the girl as easily as if she had been a doll and talking cheerfully about tea and cakes and the Sitt Hakim, his wife, who had a sovereign remedy for sprained ankles, and their house, and their pets. Did she like cats? Ah, then she must meet