Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [38]
The room we entered was a surprise. There was a divan, there were cushions, and a low brass table with vessels of silver containing dates and sweetmeats; but there was also a modern, workmanlike desk covered with papers.
“The most important papers are there,” the Emir said, indicating a curtained doorway. “But first let us sit and talk like friends. You appear warm. Take off your coat.”
“I am quite comfortable, thank you.” Involuntarily I drew the garment closer around me.
“You will be more comfortable without that heavy garment.” He rolled his eyes and moved slowly toward me. “It does not become you. Why do you dress like a man, Sitt, when you are very much a woman?”
“The papers—”
“Later.”
I had stood my ground and not backed away as he approached. I was suffering from that inconquerable and imbecile sense of superiority which is born and bred in our class, and fool that I was, I could not help thinking of him still as a boy. I was honestly rather surprised when he caught hold of me. He was stronger than his foppish attire had led me to believe; I had conveniently ignored the fact that the Rashids were fighters, and that this “boy” had probably killed his first man before he was fourteen. Instead of struggling, which would have been wasted effort, I looked him straight in the eye and said haughtily, “I am not one of your women. Let me go and we will talk like friends and equals.”
“You are not my equal. No woman is. Come, embrace me. I promise you will enjoy it.”
His lips crawled across my cheek. So much for moral superiority; I had always suspected it wasn’t effective except in fiction. To my surprise and disgust, I heard myself scream. I won’t put that in the book; I hate to admit it even to myself. Not only was it contemptible, it was futile. Who would come to my rescue here?
I am going to write this down just as it happened, but I wouldn’t believe it if I had not been there. The Emir pushed me away, with such force that I staggered back, tripped on the edge of a rug, and fell ungracefully onto the divan with my heels temporarily higher than my head. By the time I got my breath back they were engaged in hand-to-hand combat, the Emir and another man who had appeared from nowhere. The boy was no coward; closing with his opponent, he got both hands around his throat. Instead of trying to break his hold, the other man delivered a series of hard blows with his knee, his elbow, and the edge of his hand. The first two were well below the belt, or in this case, sash; the last caught the Emir on the back of the neck as he doubled up, clutching his stomach. He crashed to the floor and lay still.
The newcomer took a step toward me and then stopped as if he had run into a glass wall. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and well-built, the skirts of his cotton galabeeyah tucked up to display muscular calves. The black beard and the folds of his kaffiyeh concealed all his features except for a prominent hawklike nose.
“Who the devil are you?” he demanded.
I gaped at him, too astonished to answer. His complexion, his costume, and what I could see of his features were those of an Arab, but he had spoken educated English, without the slightest trace of an Eastern accent.
Two quick strides brought him to my side. He took me by the chin and tilted my face toward the light. “The resemblance is not so exact after all,” he remarked. “You must be the damned fool English journalist they’re gossiping about in the bazaars.”
The reassurance of the language, the speech of a man of my own nation and class, restored my courage. I tried to pull away from him, but he only tightened his grip. My chin felt as if it were being squeezed in a vise. “Who the devil are you?” I asked. “Were you sent here to rescue me?”
“You came here of your own free will, didn’t you? What makes you suppose you need rescuing?”
“He tried to make love to