The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [93]
I had said, or done, something that had destroyed the tenuous link of understanding that had begun to build between us. I could not think what it might have been. Unless . . .
‘The Englishman,’ I repeated. ‘There is such a man, is there not? You know of him. Perhaps you know him. Do you walk in fear of this man? For if you do, Emerson and I will hide you in our shadows. Is he your lover? Love is a fragile flower, Sitt Ayesha. Men trample it underfoot when the cold breath of danger withers its petals.’
‘All men, sitt? Yours?’ She spat the words.
‘Really,’ I began, ‘you mistake my –’
‘Mistake! You invent foolish tales about a murdering English lord – it is an entertaining story, Sitt Hakim, but that is not why you came. You came to ask me whether Emerson Effendi is faithless. Who can read your heart better than I?’
‘A great many people, I should think,’ I said coolly. ‘Look at me, Ayesha. If you can read my heart – or my countenance, which is a more accessible guide – you will see that never for an instant would I doubt Emerson. We are as one, and ever will be.’
‘But I knew him once,’ she purred. ‘I knew the strength of those great arms of his, the touch of his lips, his caresses. Does he still . . .’
I hope and believe I did not, by look or movement, betray the sensations that gripped me – sensations that are no more worthy of repetition than the phrases Ayesha proceeded to employ, accompanying her words with graphic gestures of her slim brown hands and undulating body. Yet her desire to wound me proved her undoing; and (as the moralists so rightly remark) her spite fell back upon her own sleek head. In her excitement she gradually slithered forwards till her face almost touched mine, and the light of the oil lamp illumined her features for the first time. Neither the translucent veil nor the thick layer of cosmetics she had applied could conceal the ragged wound that had slashed one smooth cheek to the bone, leaving a purple cicatrice.
Too late, she realized what she had done. She broke off with a gasp, and withdrew into the shadows.
For a moment I was unable to speak. Anger, disgust, and – yes – pity choked me. Conquering these emotions with my usual efficiency, I cleared my throat.
‘You will excuse me if I decline to emulate your candour, madam. What passes between my husband and myself is a private matter. I can assure you, however, that I have nothing whatever to complain of on that score – or any other – and that Emerson shares my sentiments.’
One of her hands shot out and seized me by the wrist, her long, polished nails digging painfully into the flesh. ‘Does nothing move you, you cold fish of an Englishwoman? What can I do to wound you? You are ice, you are stone! What magical powers do you have, to win such a man and hold him?’
‘I cannot imagine,’ I admitted. ‘However, there are many qualities other than physical beauty that draw people of the opposite sex to one another and cement the bonds of matrimonial affection. One day you may be fortunate enough to discover that. I sincerely hope you do. Which brings me back to the subject of the English lord –’
‘What English lord? There is no such man.’ She flung my hand away. ‘Leave me, Sitt Hakim. I cannot defeat you. I cannot even fight you on equal grounds, you possess weapons beyond my comprehension. Leave me.’
‘Very well.’ I rose to my feet – without her grace, perhaps, but without stumbling or straining. ‘I did not expect you would be willing to confide in me on my first visit.’
‘First –’
‘Please bear in mind that I stand ready to assist you in any way possible. The life you lead cannot be good for you. You should consider retiring to the country. There is nothing more soothing to a wounded spirit than solitude and the contemplation of nature –’
Ayesha rolled over and buried her face in the cushions. Taking this as a sign that the conversation was at an end, I went to the door. ‘Remember