Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [135]
“No, thank you,” I replied. “I prefer to maintain as much formality between us as the unusual circumstances permit.”
“But, hang it,” he cried, half laughing and half angry, “how can I begin my wooing with soft phrases and tender words if I must refer to you as Mrs. Emerson?”
“I feel sure a little difficulty of that nature will only be a challenge to you.”
He held out his hand. With a shrug I gave him the belt.
“Thank you, Mrs. Emerson,” he said gravely. “And now I must ask that you assume those garments I have had laid out for you.”
“How dare you, sir!”
“As a simple matter of self-defense, Mrs. Emerson. Heaven knows what other hard or prickly objects you have concealed about your person. There is room for a set of carving knives in those trousers.” Correctly interpreting my mutinous expression, he added, “Aside from removing the arsenal you carried on your belt, and your boots, neither I nor my assistants searched you. It was a mark of the peculiar respect I feel for you, but if you force me . . .”
“Again your arguments are persuasive, sir. I trust you will show me the additional courtesy of leaving me alone while I carry out your command?”
“Certainly. Rap on the door when you are ready. But don’t try my patience too long.” Then he said, in a language I recognized as French, though it was slurred and oddly accented, “Let down your tresses, oh my beloved, that their perfumed splendor may be the only barrier between your ecstasy and mine.”
I believe I succeeded in concealing my surprise at this extremely personal comment, for I thought it better to pretend I had not understood. Yet a strange sensation ran through me—a tingling warmth, if there can be such a thing. The extraordinary powers of the man were not limited to those of the mind; his body was that of an athlete, and his voice—that remarkable, flexible, and sonorous instrument—could change as suddenly and as completely as could his appearance.
He left me then, and I did not delay in following his orders. Do not believe, dear Reader, that I would have acquiesced so meekly had I not had an ulterior motive. Little did the villain know he had played into my hands! It was a pity that I could only attain my ends by such a doubtful stratagem, but by ordering me to remove my garments he had given me an excuse to dispose of certain of those garments in a manner he could not expect. He had said he would not return until I summoned him, but not knowing whether he would keep to his word, I had to work quickly.
Removing my trousers, I unwound the flannel belt I always wear when in Egypt and tore off a strip. How often had my dear Emerson teased me about this article of clothing! It was an invaluable protection against catarrh, as was proved by the fact that I had never suffered from that complaint. (In fact, Emerson had never suffered from it, either, though he absolutely refused to wear a flannel belt. However, Emerson is a law unto himself.) The belt had proved useful on a number of occasions; now it might be my salvation. Fortunately I had purchased a new supply before leaving England, and the bright pink color had not been faded by repeated washings.
It was with some reluctance that I removed from around my neck the chain from which hung my lapis scarab bearing the cartouche of Thutmose the Third. It had been Emerson’s bridal gift; to part with it now, when it was my only memento of him, was hard indeed. But my hands were firm as I knotted the chain onto the end of the flannel strip. How fitting it would be if the gift of marital affection should save me from a fate that is (supposed to be) worse than death.
Returning to the window with my bit of flannel, I extracted one of my hairpins. Though a good three inches in length, these devices were useless as weapons because of their flexibility. However, this very quality was what I counted on now. Selecting the largest of the apertures in the shutter, I pushed the flannel and its scarab appendage into the hole as far as I could reach with my finger.