He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [64]
By this time Emerson had proceeded with his other suggestion, and I felt a pleasant lethargy seize my limbs. I opened my mouth to speak, but found myself yawning instead.
“Close your eyes,” Emerson said softly, doing it for me. His fingers moved from my eyelids to my cheek. “You didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, and tomorrow will be another busy day. There. That’s right. Good night, my love.”
Through the veils of sleep Emerson’s gentle hands had wrapped round me I was conscious of a vague sense of irritability. His explanation had been reasonable, so far as it went, but . . . I was too weary to continue the discussion. Of all the questions that still vexed me, one of the most inconsequential pursued me into slumber. How the devil had Ramses got away from Mrs. Fortescue?
•
Five
•
From Manuscript H
He’d been as rude as he could manage and rougher than he liked. Most women would have taken offense at his frequent glances at his watch during dinner, but she appeared not to notice. After they had dined he led her straight to the most secluded alcove in the Moorish Hall. He expected at least a token protest, but she moved at once into his arms, and when he kissed her she kissed him back with a force that made his teeth ache. Further familiarities aroused an even more ardent response, and he began to wonder how far he would have to go before she remembered where they were and what sort of woman she was supposed to be. Nefret would have broken his arm if he’d handled her so cavalierly.
Nefret. The memory of that night, the only night they had been together, was imprinted in every cell of his body, so much a part of him that he couldn’t touch another woman without thinking of her. His caresses became even more mechanical, but they had a result he had not anticipated; she brought her lips close to his ear and suggested they retire to her room at the Savoy.
He took out his watch. It was later than he’d thought, and annoyance, at himself and at her, provoked him into direct insult. “Damn! I beg your pardon, madam, but I am late for an appointment with another lady. I will let you know when I am free.”
He made his escape, collected his hat and coat from the attendant, and slipped out the side door. Another story to go the rounds of society gossip, he supposed; she wouldn’t be able to keep it to herself, but she would certainly revise it to make him appear even more of a boor. Attempted rape in the Moorish Hall? There were a number of people in Cairo who would believe it.
David was waiting for him in a part of the hotel grounds no guest ever saw, between a reeking heap of refuse and a stack of bricks designed for some repair job that had never been begun. A sickly acacia tree shadowed the area and provided convenient limbs on which to hang objects temporarily. “You’re late,” he whispered. “What happened? I told you—”
“Shut up and hold this.” A rat ran across the top of the bricks.
“Has she left the hotel?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. Watch out for her.”
They made the exchange of clothing as they spoke. Ramses had simplified his cumbersome evening garb as much as possible; his shirt had attached collar and cuffs, and buttons instead of links. Under it he wore the loose shirt and drawers of a peasant. David handed over his robe and knife belt and sandals. Forcing his stockinged feet into Ramses’s shoes, he grumbled, “Couldn’t you buy evening pumps one size larger? I’m getting blisters.”
“You should have mentioned it before. Here, take my coat and hat. I’ll see you later.” He pulled a woolen scarf from his coat pocket and wound it round his face and throat.
“Good luck.”
“And to you. Take care.” They clasped hands briefly but warmly, and Ramses slid away into the darkness.
His demand to be put in touch with the man running operations in Cairo had been rejected. He’d thought it was worth a try, but he hadn’t really