The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [51]
A less conceited man might have realized he was not welcome. I was wearing the same clothes I wear on the dig—boots and trousers and shirt. I defy you to define a less seductive costume! I settled myself in a straight chair instead of sitting on the divan, so he wouldn’t have an excuse to sit next to me. I told him I was busy and asked flat-out what he wanted. He didn’t waste time, I’ll say that for him. Before I knew what was happening, he was leaning over me, so close I could see the separate hairs in his mustache.
The trouble with straight chairs is that they fall over very easily. For every action there is, we are told, an equal reaction; I was afraid that if I let fly with hand or foot, I would end up on my back entangled in the chair legs—an ignominious and, under those circumstances, vulnerable position. I looked him in the eye and said, “Sir! How dare you?”
It sounded so silly I could hardly keep a straight face. However, I had used it effectively on certain earlier occasions. Percy backed off, looking foolish. I slipped out of the chair and stood behind it.
“You claim to be an officer and a gentleman” I said. “If you cannot behave like one you had better go”
“Forgive me” he mumbled. “I couldn’t help myself. You are so lovely, so desirable—”
“So it was my fault that you behaved like a cad?” (Another of those words that seems to be effective, though I’ll be cursed if I know exactly what it means!)
“You don’t understand. I want to marry you.”
I laughed—not a genteel, ladylike giggle, but a hearty guffaw. It was completely spontaneous, but I suppose I couldn’t have done anything more offensive if I had tried. He flushed darkly, and I got myself under control—for the moment.
“No,” I said. “Not under any circumstances. Not if you were the last man on earth. Not if the sole alternative were a slow painful death by torture.”
“You don’t mean it,” Percy said.
I managed to hold on to my temper. I was quite proud of myself, for really, can you imagine a more infuriating statement? I said quietly, “The others will be back before long. If you are still here when the Professor comes—or Ramses—”
“Ah,” said Percy, sneering like a stage villain. “Are you really going to let Aunt Amelia marry you off to cousin Ramses? I thought you had more spunk. He’s not man enough for you, Nefret.”
That was when I lost my temper. You remember our discussion of that interesting episode in Percy’s book? David wasn’t supposed to tell you what Ramses had admitted to him, and you weren’t supposed to tell me; but we tell each other everything, don’t we? You swore me to secrecy, as David had sworn you. Lia, I broke my word! I couldn’t help it. That he should dare sneer at Ramses! I informed Master Percy that he wasn’t fit to blacken Ramses’s boots, and called him a sneak and a liar and a coward—among other things. I wasn’t too coherent, but by the time I ran out of breath the whole story had come out.
I didn’t fully comprehend what I had done until I saw Percy’s face. It had gone all patchy red and white, as sunburned skin does after a bad shock.
“I didn’t know,” he muttered.
“Obviously you didn’t, or you would not have written such rubbish, knowing we could challenge it.”
“It’s true?” He caught himself. “I mean to say—you would take his word instead of mine?”
“Really, Percy, you are too ridiculous!” I didn’t feel like laughing, though; I had begun to realize what a mess I’d made of the business. “Ramses didn’t tell me anything. He didn’t want anyone to know.”
“Then how did you find out? I mean to say, what makes you think—”
“He confirmed it, but only after some of us reasoned it out for ourselves.”
“Some of us,” Percy repeated.
“Not Aunt Amelia and the Professor, at least I don’t believe so. We swore