Indiscreet (19 page)
"Sabine?"
She twisted to look at him. "Pathros, my lord."
"Jump," he said. "It's not far. I'll be right behind you."
Not far. Perhaps not for someone his size. Sabine swung her legs over the ledge. Her stomach took flight
"Sabine," Foye said, his voice low and urgent
She held her breath and pushed off the window ledge into the air. The drop was far enough to make her legs feel like water. And mercifully short She landed on her feet but not on balance. A lemon tree broke her sideways lurch. Fortunately, the branches did not scratch her badly, but her sleeve was caught in the broken twigs. By the time Foye landed on the ground next to her, she'd freed her clothes from the snags.
A perfectly balanced landing. He hauled himself up and pulled the window closed as best he could. When he faced her again, he handed her his satchel, and she slung it across her shoulders to rest on her left hip. Naturally, Lord Foye would not carry his own things, and she was no longer Sabine Godard, but Pathros, the Marquess of Foye's dragoman.
They crossed the courtyard to walk openly through darkened corridors until they reached the wing in the palace where servants hurried back and forth. They'd not taken but ten steps before Foye grabbed her elbow and hauled her back to him. She lifted her head as he bent down to whisper violently into her ear, "For pity's sake, Sabine, walk as if you have bollocks between your legs."
Her cheeks burned hot How on earth did one do that?
"Let's not be discovered because someone notices that my dragoman walks like a woman."
"I shall do my best," she said.
He kept his grip on her elbow, and she saw a new fear in his eyes. What now? What new deficiency was there? "I presume you can ride?" he asked.
She took a breath, offended. How did he think she'd traveled through Egypt and Anatolia? She hadn't walked, and she certainly hadn't been carried. "Of course I can ride."
"Astride," he said. "You must ride astride, as a man would."
She bowed her head respectfully as a servant passed by. One of Nazim Pasha's men, she thought The servant glanced at Foye as he passed, but that was all. If he noticed her, it was to recognize that she was of no importance.
"A'yan,"
she said. When the servant was past them, she said, "I can ride, my lord."
"A'yan,"
she said. When the servant was past them, she said, "I can ride, my lord."
"Astride?"
"Astride," she said. Because she must There was no alternative.
At last, Foye released her arm. She resisted the urge to rub the spot he'd gripped. Her skin tingled at the contact They continued along the corridor with Sabine following. He walked quickly, with that sense of barely leashed physicality that had so struck her about him from the first He kept walking, she following, taking two steps to every one of his, until they reached the main palace courtyard.
Pack animals, horses, and at least thirty armed men crowed one side of the flagstone courtyard. She recognized some of Nazim Pasha's staff among the men. A high, arched gateway led outside. To freedom. Would they ever ride through that gate, she wondered?
They hadn't been there long before she saw another Englishman supervising two native men carrying one of Godard’s trunks between them. Asif was here, too, tall and somber, working with the others to prepare for Foye's departure.
The noise was considerable. No one bothered her, and yet with every minute that passed, she expected someone to point her out as an imposter. The servants were busy with their own affairs; packing trunks onto one of the braying mules; bringing out another of Godard's trunks; arguing; dealing with recalcitrant pack animals. She could see none of her trunks. Of course not. Everything she had brought with her to Kilis was going to be lost: her clothes, her slippers, stockings, books, her personal notes on their travels, and every sketch of Foye she'd attempted and abandoned since leaving Buyukdere. How odd that she would most regret those sketches of everything she was leaving behind.
Even when she and Foye walked into the thick of it, no one looked askance at her. In the hubbub around her, she was invisible. They saw what they expected to see: the English nobleman Foye with a native boy at his side.
The sky was still dark, but that would not last much longer. Already the stars were fading, and to the east, there was a faint graying glow at the horizon. She did not wish to be here when- the sun was high enough for anyone to get a close look at her, and she believed herself correct in thinking Foye did not feel any differently.
He led her to a side of the courtyard where there were shadows aplenty. There, she saw the other Englishman again, holding the heads of two Arabians, a dark stallion and a lighter-colored mare. Foye's servant, obviously.
The mare was saddled in the native style, with a high-backed saddle and short stirrups. Saddlebags hung off the sides, and there was a rolled-up rug fastened behind the saddle. The sound of the hooves on the cobbles told Sabine the two animals were also shod in the native manner, with a plate that covered the whole underside of the hoof. The stallion's saddle was English. Foye's horse.
Ten Janissaries detached themselves from the main group and joined Foye as he headed in their direction. The Janissaries were already mounted, weapons stuck in the sashes around their waists, long-muzzled muskets slung across their backs. Several wore swords and knives, and three or four carried pikes.
With an unpleasant start, Sabine saw the pasha's white-bearded servant keeping a close eye on Foye. He stood at the edge of the courtyard, near the inner palace, arms crossed over his chest She put her back to the man and ended up facing Foye's servant Had Foye told him what he planned? Did he know who she was? She saw no sign of that The stallion he held tossed its head, and the servant leaned in to whisper to the animal, stroking the animal's nose.
"Are we ready, Barton?" Foye said to his servant
"Aye, milord."
Foye put a hand to the stallion whose head Barton held, preparing to mount His body moved with a grace that made her breath hitch as he mounted effortlessly. Why had she ever thought he was an ungainly man? He wasn't. Not in any respect. The mare Barton also held sidestepped, hooves ringing out on the stone courtyard.
While she waited for someone—Foye, anyone—to tell her what was expected of her, a young man came forward to address Foye in tolerable if heavily accented English. "My lord, am I not to accompany you?" He saw Sabine, in her guise as Pathros, of course, and his eyes widened in what looked very much like injured pride.
Foye leaned down, one hand on the pommel of his saddle. He looked at the young man and said, very pleasantly, "Nabil, you're to accompany Barton. He will be in need of your services."
Nabil scowled. "My lord—"
Sabine understood his displeasure. Being shifted to interpret for a servant was a demotion, a loss of status that must sting. Asif stepped between Foye and Nabil, and facing Nabil with a hand to the other man's chest said, in Arabic, "Do as your master bids or you will be left behind." He straightened his arm, pushing the boy away. "Go. Go!"
She knew she didn't imagine Foye relaxed when Nabil did as he was told. Or that Asif had recognized her. She held her breath, but Asif merely bowed to Foye and calmly reached for the reins of her mare. Barton did not mind in the least
"Pathros," Foye said, declining to call her by the anglicized version of the name, "Peter." He raised his voice and looked back at the Janissaries. "Let us go now."
Asif reached back and brought around the mare. She could ride. Of course she could. But on her own English sidesaddle onto which she was always assisted. Never on an unfamiliar horse with a wholly unfamiliar style of saddle. She hesitated and her chest contracted. She understood the mechanics of how one mounted astride, but she'd never done so on her own. She was going to fail her first test
"Pathros," Foye said, "Nazim Pasha's servant is headed this way. Mount up. Now." He sat his horse, face mostly in shadows that emphasized the sharp angles of his cheekbones. Everything depended upon her. Anything she did that led to their being discovered would result in Foye's death. Nazim Pasha would not willingly let her go, and Foye would not let her be retaken.
Heart in her throat, she walked to the mare, and, thank God, Asif was large enough to block her from view because she was not at all adept at mounting this way. He grabbed her arm as she emulated what Foye had done so effortlessly. She gave an ungainly hop, and her mare skittered sideways. Asifs hand tightened on her arm. Her pulled the mare back and kept her body in a forward tip as he boosted her upward.
She was on. Astride the mare and accepting the reins with heat flashing into her cheeks because the sensation was so utterly, horribly improper and unfamiliar. She discovered, too, that the manner of controlling her horse was a subtly different thing. She understood at once how it must be accomplished, with the use of her thighs and shifts in her weight, the pressure of hands on the reins at a different angle than she was accustomed to, but that insight did not transfer to muscles that had never been so tasked.
Her breath caught in her chest. This couldn't work. She would be recognized by her awkwardness if nothing else. Her eyes met Foye's, and he gave her a curt nod. Sabine's heart lurched. They were all of them, every soul in the courtyard, in danger because of her. If she were missed or recognized, they might all be killed.
Barton had already moved away to the portion of the courtyard where pack mules continued to be laden with her uncle's possessions. Asif rested a hand on her mare's neck and said, in Turkish, "Allah be with you," before he strode away.
The mass of activity and shouting increased. Someone dropped one of the trunks, and the uproar was deafening as everyone in the vicinity began shouting and cursing. In the middle of this chaos, Foye gave the ready sign and their party was off. Sabine froze momentarily and watched Foye's retreating back. The Janissaries started off, riding so quickly that Foye was soon hidden from sight. Barton, Asif, and Nabil would follow later. She inhaled as deeply as she could and urged her mare forward, toward the gate and freedom.
They headed out the arched gateway under the piercing eye of Nazim Pasha's majordomo. Sabine's heart hammered against her ribs as she adjusted to riding astride. She was so distracted by the experience she could think of nothing else until they'd passed through the high, arched gate and onto the road that led to Kilis. The commotion in the palace courtyard receded. Above her head stars shone in a still dark sky. The moon hung low in the horizon. That she could even see the sky seemed a miracle. And one she hoped would continue.
Foye set a brutal pace south, around Kilis to the road to Aleppo all while the sun was still rising. When Kilis was behind them, too, Foye signaled for her to join him.
"Pathros," Foye said, speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the other riders, "before much longer the pasha will discover you're gone, if he hasn't already."
"Understood."
"With luck, Barton will delay them coming after us, but it's inevitable that we shall be pursued." She nodded. Nazim Pasha would not be pleased to learn she'd escaped. "If for some reason we must separate, I want you and as many of these men"—he gestured at the mercenaries riding with them—"as you can take with you to head for Iskenderun. Inform the captain of our Janissaries, if you will. Tell them you have a vital letter that must be delivered to Iskenderun. Clear?"
"Yes, Foye."
He frowned. "Even in English, to you I am my lord or Lord Foye, understood?"
She nodded. There were too many ways she could reveal herself. Too many.
"When you reach Iskenderun, ask for Mr. Hugh Eglender at the British Consulate. He's a personal friend of mine and will assist you in private, if need be. If he's not there, then find him at home,
Bayt Salem,
in the hills above Iskenderun. Tell him everything that's happened. Leave nothing out"
Bayt Salem,
in the hills above Iskenderun. Tell him everything that's happened. Leave nothing out"
"My lord."
Foye leaned toward her, adjusting effortlessly in his saddle. 'Take this." He folded the fingers of her extended hand over a small purse he drew from his pocket "There's enough in there to purchase your passage to England if it comes to that Not just money, but gemstones. Eglender will assist you in that as well."
"My lord." She took the purse and tucked it into her sash. With a bow of her head, she rode to the Druze captain of Foye's hired soldiers. Her first official task as Pathros. She relayed the relevant parts of what Foye had told her. The captain listened attentively, nodding when she'd finished, seeing not a woman disguised as a boy, but Pathros, the infidel dragoman employed by Lord Foye.
How strange it was to be Sabine Godard no longer. What sort of person would Pathros be during this journey? What behavior was most likely to keep the others from looking past the surface? Not craven, she decided. Pathros would be as much like Foye as was possible. Outwardly calm. Dependable. Aloof from her countrymen, an attitude easily explained by their different religions. Brave. Decisive.
What other qualities did Foye possess that she had not yet guessed?
She was quite certain she would learn the answers in the hours and days to come.
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