Desert Rogue

“But it is,” the man insisted in spite of the formidable picture a scowling Jed Kincaid presented. “I will not have you run off without payment for the damage you did to my wares. I am Ali Sharouk. It was against my brass shop that you threw one of the men who had challenged you, ruining an intricately wrought coffee service in the process.”

“Challenged? It was more a bushwhacking they had in mind than an open and honorable challenge,” Jed said with a snort of derision. “As for damage to your coffeepot, get the money for it from one of those bastards who started the fight. I’m certainly not paying for it!”

“But they appear to be poor men. Where would they get the piasters to pay me?” the shopkeeper asked plaintively. “No. It is you I hold responsible, you who heaved my countryman into a pile of my lovely brassware.”

“If they don’t have any money, take it out of their hides,” Jed suggested, turning to walk away once more. “From experience, I can assure you that you might find it real gratifying to do so.”

“I am not excessively violent by nature,” the tall Egyptian asserted, dogging Jed’s footsteps as he dismissed the situation and set out on his way, “yet neither am I a fool. I will have my money from you.”

“Like hell you will,” Jed promised in a dangerous voice. For emphasis, he brought his face within inches of this latest nuisance, a man not much older than his own twenty-eight years, though by all appearances, a hell of a lot more domesticated. “A decent man walks down your street and is attacked and you expect him to pay for the goods you had heaped at your doorway? I don’t think so. In fact, my friend, I know that is not going to be the case. Now, leave me alone before I lose my temper.”

“Your temper does not mean as much to me as recovering the price of the goods that were damaged,” the Egyptian replied with more persistence than Jed would have given him credit for.

“I said to forget it, Ali,” Jed pronounced, lengthening his stride so that the other man was finding it increasingly difficult to keep pace with him.

“I will do no such thing,” the Egyptian replied, reaching out a hand to slow this argumentative American down if not stop him altogether.

“Listen, I suggest you take your hand off my shoulder,” Jed whispered fiercely, “and go back to your shop. That is, unless you have a hankering to wind up like the last men who touched me.”

Ali involuntarily released his grasp but planted himself in Jed’s path and kept up his harangue. Finally Jed Kincaid had had enough. The muscles of his lean jaw clamped tightly, and he shoved Sharouk out of his way with such force that the shopkeeper found himself sitting in the midst of refuse strewn across the dust of the alley.

Without another thought for the man, Jed left him there, ignoring Ali’s shouted promise to track him down and recover what was rightfully his.

But to Jed’s aggravation, the recent events in the medina had befouled his mood, robbing him of the euphoria he had found in the bottle of zabeeb. With an exasperated sigh, he decided to attempt to recapture his good humor with a few more cups of the native liquor before continuing his search for a woman. He had enough control to postpone his gratification awhile longer, and he had no wish to bring anger to his bed that night, wherever it might eventually be.

* * *

The estates of wealthy foreigners were a far cry from the poverty and exotic life of the Arab quarter. Behind the gates of the British and French dwelt beauty, great wealth and an ordered grace, if not the actual comforts of home. At least that was how Victoria Shaw viewed her world.

The sultry heat of the Egyptian sun hung oppressively over the Nile, the air visible in the shimmering distortion of the land across the river. Though Victoria had dressed in as cool a manner as was proper, in a loose-sleeved white chambray blouse edged with piping that matched her blue skirt, and had long ago dispensed with corsets and stays, the twenty-year-old was frightfully uncomfortable. Indeed, ladylike behavior or not, Victoria Shaw was actually perspiring in the early twilight.

Wearily tucking yet another errant curl back into her rapidly dissolving coiffure, the petite blonde sighed and moved further into the ineffectual shade provided by a nearby palm. What wouldn’t she give to be under a true English oak, or even a walnut tree.

Over the years since the family had settled in Egypt, her father’s servants had struggled assiduously to turn the Shaw property fronting the river into a small oasis of refreshing greenery, but, attractive as it was, it could never compare to the cool grassy meadows of Warwickshire that Victoria remembered so fondly from childhood. Even ten years of living on the outskirts of the Egyptian desert hadn’t erased her vivid recollections of running barefoot across the dewy lawns of the Shaw holdings in England.

“Mother,” the young woman said thoughtfully, removing her straw bonnet and using it as a fan in a vain attempt to stir a sympathetic breeze, “do you know, the experience I’m most looking forward to on my honeymoon is feeling cold again, being truly and properly frigid from my head to my toes.”

“Oh, surely not, Victoria,” gulped Mrs. Shaw, horrified that her daughter should entertain such a notion. She had thought Victoria adored Hayden and wanted marriage; whatever had come over her? Before she could express her dismay, however, Victoria laughed gaily and explained herself.

“For heaven’s sake, Mother, don’t look so grim. I don’t mean with Hayden. I expect to be kept quite warm learning the ways of husband and wife,” she admitted, recalling the embrace he’d caught her in the night before. “However, I am anticipating English weather with great delight, even if it will be November when we dock. As warm as I’ve been lately, I cannot think of a single discomfort to be suffered in a real English winter.”

“What about that raw, damp chill that penetrates your bones, no matter how well banked the fire, how warm your gown, or how much tea you drink?” asked Grace from under her parasol, a concession to her fair complexion and the strong Egyptian sun. “That is nothing I would choose to experience again. Your father and I are quite content here in Cairo, but I suppose it will be different for you if Hayden moves up in the diplomatic corps—”

“When, not if, Mother,” corrected Victoria, immediately indignant at the implied criticism of her fiancé. “Hayden Reed is invaluable to the British Consulate and soon they’ll recognize it and give him a more prestigious posting. You wait and see how quickly my future husband advances in his career.”

“Of course, darling. Hayden is a fine young man and your father and I are pleased you are happy with him.” Idly playing with her parasol, Grace chose her next words carefully. “As much as we appreciate Hayden’s sterling qualities, we had hoped you would marry a titled Englishman.”

“Mother, Hayden comes from an impeccable family. His bloodlines are nothing to wince at,” said Victoria with a pout.

“Nonetheless, society is much more pleasant when others must curtsy to you, my dear. Still, eventually your father might be able to arrange a title of some kind, baron or viscount, perhaps. Cameron does have Gladstone’s ear on foreign affairs, you know.”

“Hmm, Lady Victoria Reed. I like the sound of it already,” the bride-to-be said with a smile, sinking down onto one of the small benches near the fountains replicating those found in the Shaw gardens in Warwickshire. “Perhaps we should postpone the wedding until Hayden receives that title.”

“Victoria, you are scheduled to marry in less than three months. It would be highly inconvenient to alter our plans now. Since you were the ones who wanted to be married quickly, you should dispense with such foolish notions,” chided Grace, impatient with the heat and wishing she hadn’t mentioned her husband’s hopes. “Come along, now. We have written barely half the invitations. We must get back to them.”

“I do wish the British community in Egypt was not quite so large or that you and Father didn’t know everyone.”

“As the representative of the bank holding the notes on a major portion of the khedive’s debts, it is your father’s duty to invite almost everyone with whom he is acquainted,” sniffed Mrs. Shaw. “Besides, a good number of invitations are for your friends and people Hayden wishes to impress.”

“Mother, I promise you, if you permit me this half hour until dinner, I will produce beautiful copperplate from the moment we finish eating until my hand falls off—or until you grant this prisoner a pardon.”

“Such flippancy is hardly necessary—”

“All right, until we have finished,” corrected the young woman with a winsome smile. “Just let me enjoy the air. Even if it isn’t cool, looking at the water makes me feel better. See, there’s even a falucca on the river. I don’t recognize it, but someone else is appreciating the charm of the Nile.”

Mother and daughter watched the graceful Egyptian boat gliding downriver, its occupants invisible as it barely skimmed the water, making the motion seem effortless. Used for hundreds of years, the design was timeless, and one rarely knew where the crafts were heading or from where they originated. Only one’s imagination could attempt to solve the mystery.

“Very well, but don’t make me send the servants to collect you for dinner. I expect you at the table when I sit down. With your father in Constantinople, I detest eating alone. I always feel the serving girls are waiting for me to spill something.”

“Thirty minutes, Mother, I promise,” agreed Victoria, inordinately pleased at her precious few moments of privacy, time to dream of Hayden and their upcoming life together.

Her fiancé was so much an English gentleman that it was difficult to remember that he had lived in Egypt nearly twenty of his thirty years, she mused, leaning back and closing her eyes to picture him at his desk at the consulate.

His chin was square, his features finely chiseled, so he appeared aristocratic even though he couldn’t lay claim to nobility. Indeed, Senior Consular Agent to the Vice Consul was the only title Hayden Reed owned, but if Father could really influence the prime minister, life would be sweet, indeed. Marriage and a title, what fabulous treats were in store for her in the months ahead!

First, of course, was the ceremony, then a honeymoon voyage home to England, shopping in London, walking the estate in Warwick in cool, crisp country air. Images of bliss cascaded through Victoria’s mind, the blessed promise of tomorrow making her oblivious to the heat of the evening until unwelcome noises called her back to the river.

The sudden sound of feet landing heavily on the quay and subsequent running awakened Victoria from her daydream. Rising, she was astounded to see two natives hurrying up the landing while a third man secured the falucca she had noticed earlier.

“This is private property,” she announced sternly, waving her hand at the men in dismissal. The audacity of the Egyptians was unusual; everyone in the area knew the Shaw lands were not available for public docking. It could be that the men were from upriver, but she’d send them on their way quickly enough. “There is a landing site about two miles from here.”

Still the men approached, moving even more rapidly toward her. Maybe they didn’t understand English.

“I say, be off with you now or I shall be forced to notify the authorities that you are trespassing,” she cautioned. “My fiancé is connected with the consulate and he won’t deal with this matter lightly, I warn you. Now go.”

Despite her urgent commands, for the first time in all the years Victoria had spent in Egypt, the natives did not scurry to do her bidding. Instead, they kept coming closer and closer. The distance between them was barely a few feet now, and, for a brief instant, Victoria felt panic and wondered if she should cry out for the old man working in the far gardens.

But why should she cause a fuss, argued her common sense, when they hadn’t threatened her? Maybe they were heading for the house to deliver a message for her father. They were somewhat scruffy-looking, but that didn’t mean they were intent on mischief. Perhaps they were only lost. Supremely confident of her position once more, she spoke again in an authoritative tone.

“If you have a message to deliver, one of you may take it to the house. But the others will have to wait with the boat,” she insisted, raising her arm to point to the falucca.

“You come with us,” responded the shorter man, grabbing Victoria and yanking her to his side.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, laughing, wresting herself free and stepping backward, losing her hat in the process. Yet, despite her evasive tactic, Victoria found herself captured by the rock-solid arms of the second man. “I am a British citizen and Hayden Reed’s fiancée. Neither he nor my father will stand for my being treated this way.”

All at once a coarse rag was shoved in her mouth and she began to choke at the unpleasant taste. Trying to breathe in such a way so as to avoid the foul flavor of the cloth, Victoria felt herself being lifted and tossed unceremoniously over the tall Arab’s shoulder. Horrified, she worked feverishly to free herself from his grasp, kicking her small pointed shoes toward the man’s stomach with as much force as she could deliver.

Suddenly she knew success and failure simultaneously as her flailing feet evidently hit a sensitive spot. With an anguished cry, her captor dropped her on the riverbank, just yards from the moored falucca. Quickly she scrambled to her feet, but before she could pull the rag from her mouth and begin screaming for help, the smaller man had pinned her arms behind her back and was busy tying them tightly together.