Lady Emily's Exotic Journey (17 page)

“You are mine,” he whispered to her. “Mine. We belong together. I will never let you go.”

“Yes,” she whispered back, her arms wrapped around his neck. “Together, wherever you wish to go—Samarkand, the Gate of Jade, wherever.”

He smiled against her cheek. “No, not to Samarkand. We…”

She sighed and pushed away. “But first we have to get ashore. I hope you know how to steer this thing, because I was not managing very well.”

His practical Emily had reasserted herself. Much as he regretted having to loosen his hold on her, he had to admit that she had a point. Unfortunately, although her hope was sensible, the truth was that he had no idea how to guide the kelek to shore. But before he could admit his ignorance, the sound of gunfire interrupted.

Their kelek, which had been turning erratically, was now trailing well behind the others, but those others were under attack. Dozens of small boats were pouring into the narrow passage, swarming around the rafts, and in between the gunshots came cries and shouts, cries that were too often cut off abruptly. Lucien cursed and threw Emily into the river before any stray bullets headed in their direction.

She came up sputtering. “Oh, that's
col
d
! What…?” A bullet splashed in the water near them. “The noise—gunfire? We're being shot at?” She sounded quite outraged. “For goodness' sake, not again!”

He would laugh at her annoyance if this were not so dangerous. “Yes, again. But unfortunately, this is not Kurds playing their games with us.” He looked around quickly. They were not too far from the shore. “Over there. We need to get out of sight and into those reeds. Can you swim?” Another bullet whizzed past them. This was not amusing. “Keep down!”

She nodded and disappeared beneath the surface.

“Emily!” What the devil was she doing? He hadn't meant that far down. Was she drowning? Before he could dive after her, she resurfaced. “What the devil are you doing?”

She tossed her head to shake off the water. “I can swim, but not wrapped in yards of fabric. I had to get rid of my petticoats. They would drown me.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. She had terrified him, but what she had done, it was not just sensible but necessary. He should have thought of it himself, but he just wanted to get her down, off the raft, so she would not be a target. There was nothing rational for him to say, so he waved her toward the shore.

The water was freezing, and she had not been swimming since she was a child, swimming in the shallow coves of Dorset near Penworth Castle. The shore had not looked terribly far away from the raft, but the current was far stronger than she had expected. That had been stupid of her. It was the current, after all, that was carrying the rafts downstream. Of course it was strong.

She concentrated on swimming. Lucien was beside her, guiding her, helping her. Finally they were within reach of the shore. She kicked down and felt solid earth—well, semi-solid mud—under her. She gave a strangled laugh of relief and started to stand, only to have Lucien pull her down.

“Keep yourself down,” he said in a low voice. “We do not wish to be seen.”

He ushered her through the marshy edge of the shore, always keeping low, beneath the waving tops of the reeds. She dragged herself along the path he made through the tangle. The reeds seemed malevolent, the way they kept snatching at her. She had to pull herself free with every step, if you could call it a step when she was on her knees more often than on her feet. Even when she was on her feet, she had to keep bent over.

At least the water here wasn't as cold here as it had been deeper in the river. That didn't mean it was warm. She kept shivering, which did not help her balance.

It may not have been only the cold that made her shiver. Lucien had a grim look on his face. She had never seen him look that way. More than the gunshots exploding behind them, his expression convinced her that there was danger.

They finally reached solid ground, of a sort. There was a bank, only a foot or two high, but there was grass growing on it, not reeds. It was scrabbly and scratchy, not like soft English grass, but it was dry. She collapsed on it with a sigh of relief and rolled over, letting the sun warm her.

Lucien gave her a quick smile, probably meant to be reassuring, and then turned back to peer through the reeds. The gunfire had slowed a bit, but there were shouts and shrieks, along with splashes. She crawled up beside him and tried to see what was happening. There seemed to be a great many people in the water. Many of them were not swimming, just floating. Face down.

She shivered. “This is not Kurds trying to frighten people as a joke, is it?”

He shook his head without turning to her. “No, not Kurds.”

“What, then?”

He pushed her head down abruptly. “Do not look.”

But she had already seen. “They are shooting the people in the water,” she said in a small voice.

“I am very much afraid it is pirates. And they are not very pleasant people.”

She sat up. “Pirates? That's ridiculous.”

He pushed her down again. “Do not let yourself be seen! Yes, pirates.”

“That's ridiculous. There are no pirates in this day and age. Besides, this is a river, not an ocean.” She was frightened. Even with Lucien beside her, she was frightened, and she did not like it. If only things would make sense, but this was not making sense.

At least her idiotic remark won a lopsided grin from him. “You will be more happy if I call them brigands on boats? That is what pirates are, no?”

“But why would pirates want to steal crates of ancient carvings? It's not as if they are valuable except to scholars.”

“Ah well, it is the stories, you see.” He stretched out beside her, keeping an arm over her. It was probably just to keep her from popping up and being seen, but it felt comforting. He gently brushed a lock of her hair off her face. That felt even more comforting. His voice was as gentle as his hand when he spoke. “I told you that many of the workmen thought that there were evil spirits haunting the carvings?”

She nodded.

“That was one of the stories being told in the bazaar. The other was that all those carvings and clay tablets were only a ruse. Hidden in those crates was a fortune in gold and jewels, the treasure of the ancients. That is obviously the story that the pirates believed.”

“How ridiculous.”

He shrugged. “They would call it ridiculous to make a fuss over a little bit of clay with marks like hen scratchings on them, things of no use to anyone.”

The gunfire had subsided to nothing more than an occasional shot and had been replaced by thuds and cracks and loud splashes. Motioning her to keep down, Lucien peered through the reeds again. “It seems they have discovered their mistake. They are taking out their frustrations on the crates.”

“On the crates?”

“That noise they are making—they are breaking open the crates and then, I fear, when they find no gold or jewels, they are throwing the contents into the river.”

That halted her. “Oh dear. All those lovely carvings. M. Carnac will be so upset.”

“Yes, he will. But I am out of sympathy with the Carnacs just now, and me, I prefer that the pirates take out their anger on the carvings and not on us. It is best that we keep out of sight here, no?”

A sudden burst of gunfire, with a few bullets reaching the reeds, had them both ducking their heads. A few shore birds flew up in noisy panic, drawing additional gunfire. When Lucien raised himself up to look, he muttered in disgust. “Idiots. They discover they have been foolish, so they fire their guns at anything. We had best keep still a while longer.”

Emily was perfectly willing to do that. She huddled beside him, grateful for his encircling arms and taking comfort from his nearness. As the crashes and splashes grew fainter and the gunshots became more and more sporadic, the tension in her body eased.

Eventually, the noise faded away completely. When she felt Lucien lift himself up to look, she raised her head. “Are they gone?”

He turned and smiled down at her, the first real smile she had seen from him today. “Yes. They are gone. We are safe.” Then his smile faded, and something new appeared in his eyes.

“What is the matter?”

“Your, your clothes. What happened to your clothes?” His voice sounded oddly hoarse.

She looked down and a flood of embarrassment washed over her. She was wearing nothing below the waist but a single stocking and her drawers, and they were so wetly plastered against her that they might as well be nonexistent. “I told you I couldn't swim in my petticoats.” That came out sounding resentful rather than sensible, but she couldn't help it. She tried to lift the fabric of her drawers loose from her hip, but that only pulled it tighter elsewhere.

“Emily. My brave Emily.” His voice was a soft caress. He trailed a finger down the side of her face. “The blood has all been washed away.”

“Oh.” She looked up at him, wasn't certain what to say. She tried, “That's good, isn't it?”

“Very good.” His smile seemed to wrap around her, and then his arm did, turning her gently to lie half beside him, half beneath him. She could feel the coarse grass of the river bank tickling her legs. Lucien's face was above her. The heat in his eyes kindled a flame in her.

“Emily?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.” She knew what he was asking. Did he truly not know her answer?

His kiss was demanding, voracious. She welcomed it and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him down to make demands of her own. This time there would be no slamming doors to interrupt them. This time she would not turn coward and flee.

What remained of her bodice and shift soon disappeared as his fingers nimbly dispensed with buttons and ties. His hands, his clever hands, slipped over her, caressing her and introducing her to sensations she had never even suspected.

Her hands were busy too, slipping under what remained of his shirt, exploring the hard muscles of his chest beneath the soft curls of hair.

Then her drawers were gone too, and his hand slipped between her thighs to caress her there, moving higher and higher. He was touching her there, and she gasped in shocked surprise and then only in surprise and then in astonished pleasure. She had not known she could feel such sensations. Her body arched up to meet his hand, and she heard herself crying out. And all throughout, Lucien kept murmuring, “Yes, yes, my love,
ah chérie, comme ça
.”

He kissed her again, swallowing her final cry. But when he began to undo his trousers, he suddenly stopped.

She reached to help him, but he grasped her wrist to hold her hand still. His voice was strained, as if he was in pain. “Emily, we will marry, no? That is understood, is it not?”

“Yes, of course.” Did he fear she might say no? Did he think she would say no to anything he asked?

His trousers were gone, and he settled himself between her thighs. In a fleeting moment of rational thought she considered how odd it was that such an unfamiliar position should feel so natural, so right. Then he pushed into her, and she cried out again, this time in pain.

It hurt. It really hurt.

She looked up at him in astonishment.

He looked as if he too were in pain. “I am sorry, chérie.
Je
regrette. Mais ça sera mieux.
It will be better.”

Even as he spoke, the pain eased a bit, as if her body were getting used to him.

He began to move in her, pulling back and then pushing in. The pain did ease, and it was no longer actually unpleasant. He began to move faster and faster. “Not long,” he gasped, and then cried, as if now he was in pain.

He held himself over her, propped up on his elbows with his head bowed, breathing heavily, as if after a race. When his breathing eased, he rolled to the side, one arm over his eyes, the other pulling her close to his side. It had sounded as if he were in great pain before, but now he was smiling.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He huffed a laugh. “Chérie, it would not be possible to be better.” He turned to kiss her lightly. “But you, I am sorry there was pain for you. It happens so, the first time, for many women. But no more. I promise you that there will be no more pain the next time or any other time. Only pleasure.”

She wanted to believe him. He would not lie to her, she was sure of that. But how could he know? Oh well, the early part had been wonderful. There would always be that. And right now, lying here on his shoulder, tucked under his arm, this was lovely too. So warm and peaceful.

The next thing she knew, Lucien was shaking her to wake her up.

Her head rested on his chest as she dozed. He tilted his head just a bit so that her dark honey hair brushed across his nose. It was almost dry now though it still smelled of the river. Never would he have believed that he would consider that a delightful smell, but mingled with the scent of Emily, it was the most marvelous of perfumes.

He had never felt such peace, such joy, all mixed together. He had known pleasure before, many sorts of pleasure, but he did not think he had ever felt this total contentment before. His arm tightened around her, holding her safe against him.
She
had
been
so
brave. Was there another woman with such courage? She will always be safe now. I will keep her safe. She is mine. My magnificent Emily.

Unhappily, they could not remain here. They had to return to Mosul, to her family, and, sooner or later, to his. He gave her a little shake to awaken her and called her name.

Still dozing, she made a little sound of pleasure—if she were a cat, he would have called it a purr—and nuzzled his chest. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and then stood up, reaching a hand down to lift her to her feet. “Come, we must depart. Your parents are greatly worried about you, and they cannot be far behind. We must go to meet them. And we must not encounter them with you looking as if you have just been ravished.” He had buttoned his trousers and began replacing what clothes she had.

She tilted her head back and smiled wickedly. “Ravished.” The smile gave way to a confused frown. “Worried about me why? And why was I on that raft in the first place? How did you come to find me? What is going on?”

“You do not know?” That had not occurred to him. She had not said anything. But then, there had not been much time for conversation. Or rather, the time they had was not wasted on conversation.

She shook her head. “Mélisande came to the house very early. There was something she wanted to show me down by the river, something secret.” She wrinkled her nose. “That girl is much given to dramatics, you know. At any rate, I went with her. I was feeling a bit uncertain, you know. You had vanished without saying anything, without any message.” She paused and looked at him uncertainly.

He pulled her to his side. “Forgive me, my love. I was being stupid.”

Her look remained uncertain, and this time she did not melt against him, but she nodded as if she agreed about the stupidity and continued. “There were two men who attacked me—I remember that. I remember struggling with them, but then I thought I saw Irmak and his men come to chase them away. Did they come back?”

“No, it was not those men. Irmak did run them off. I am afraid it was Mélisande. She pushed you, she said, and you hit your head. Or it may be that she hit it for you. But you landed on the kelek, and she hid you behind the crates.”

She stared at him round-eyed. “Mélisande? But why on earth would she do such a thing?”

“I do not know, but I fear it may somehow be my fault.” A wave of guilt swept over him. “I fear I do not pay much attention to her distress when her father says he will not send her to school in Paris. I do not take her seriously.”

Emily waved her hand dismissively. “Of course you didn't. She is always carrying on about one thing or another, seeing herself as the heroine of her tragic tales. But I assure you, I will have a few things to say to that little miss when we get back.”

He was able to smile now. “And me, I will speak to your father as soon as we return. We can be married in Baghdad easily enough, I think. There are officials there, and even priests, if you prefer. And then we can leave.”

She lifted her head to give him a dubious look. “I have no objection to being married soon, but I may need a bit of time to prepare for the journey. I have no idea what I will need in Samarkand. What is it like there?”

“Samarkand?” He was momentarily puzzled, but then smiled. “No, we do not go to Samarkand. We go to France. We can stop in Paris if there are things you need, and then we will go to my home, to Varennes.”

“What?” She had her hands on her hips and was staring at him. “What are you talking about?”

He could not stop smiling. “How adorable you look.” He tucked a tumbled curl behind her ear. “Do not distress yourself. Are you not pleased? I thought you had no great longing for Samarkand.”

“I don't. But I thought that was where you wanted to go.” She stepped back and regarded him doubtfully. “And what is this about Varennes? Is that where your grandfather lives? I thought you did not like living with him.”

“No, no, he is not there. He remains at La Boulaye. We need not have anything to do with him.” He paused, considering, then shrugged. “Well, we need not have much to do with him. Varennes is my own estate, from my mother. You will like it, I hope. It is not enormous, but there is a pretty house, and the vineyards that surround it produce good wine. We can be comfortable there, you will see.”

“Yes, but I don't see. I don't see at all. What about Samarkand and the Gate of Jade? What about all the places you want to see?” She waved her hands about, frowning. “What about all those chains you want to escape, those obligations, those…”

He pulled her to him and silenced her with a kiss.

“I made a discovery,” he said. “With you, there are no chains. You set me free. I love you, and you are everything I have been seeking.”

Her expression softened. “That's lovely. Because I really don't want to be an obligation, you see.”

He kissed her again, and she seemed to enjoy it almost as much as he. This time she softened in his arms at once, molding herself to him. He began a leisurely exploration of her mouth and almost purred himself as she ran her fingers through his hair.

Then her fingers tightened on his hair, and she pulled his head up. “Wait,” she said. “You said you have an estate of your own? What do you mean?”

He winced and reached up to loosen her fingers. “The estate of Varennes is mine from my mother, so you need not worry. We will not be dependent on my grandfather.”

She held him back with a hand on his chest and narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you mean to tell me that you are not an adventurer? You're…you're what? A farmer? A man of property? You're just
ordinary
?” Her voice rose in outrage. “You have been misleading me all this time?”

“An adventurer? Certainly not. Whatever gave you that idea?” He felt affronted. “My family has been established in the ancient nobility of Burgundy for centuries. Whatever made you think that I was an adventurer?”

She laughed at that, and it was not an understanding laugh. She looked quite annoyed. More than annoyed. She looked furious. Why should she be upset that he was a man of family? This made no sense.

Sensibly or not, she continued to glare at him. “What gave me that idea? Oh, perhaps it was the fact that you were wandering about the globe with no particular purpose. Or the fact that you claimed to be estranged from any family you might have and had no ties to anyplace, at least none that you considered important enough to mention. Or perhaps that you spoke only of the many places you wanted to visit. And look at you!” She waved her hand at him.

He glanced down at himself. He did have his trousers on, and the remains of his shirt, but that was all. “You are wearing even less,” he pointed out.

“But I was attacked. And you, half the time you are unshaven, you need a haircut, and you wear those dun-colored clothes all the time.”

“But that is just practical,” he protested. “I never said I was an adventurer.”

“No, but you never said that you weren't. And don't tell me that you weren't aware of what everyone thought.”

His lower lip stuck out in a pout briefly before it retreated to a rueful grin. “It is possible, just possible, mind you, that your misapprehension might be considered reasonable.”

“After all this, it turns out that you are just a perfectly ordinary gentleman. Just like every other man I have ever known.” She folded her arms and turned away from him.

Her annoyance began to irritate him. “But this is ridiculous, is it not? You were willing to marry a rootless adventurer and travel the world with him, but now you turn away from me because I am…what? Someone your parents might approve?”

“Well, yes.”

“Emily, this is ridiculous. And besides, I am not an ordinary gentleman.”

She looked at him uncertainly. “What do you mean, you are not an ordinary gentleman?”

“I am Lucien August Gilbert de Chambertin, and my grandfather is the Comte de la Boulaye. I am his heir, so you will one day be a comtesse. I am sorry if this offends you.”

“Your grandfather is a
coun
t
?” She continued to glare at him, but eventually a corner of her mouth twitched in the beginning of a smile. “I am being ridiculous, aren't I? But I had screwed up my courage, you see. I was ready to run off with you to Samarkand or wherever, and you have quite cut the ground from under me.”

The smile turned into a self-mocking laugh. “You have ruined my opportunity to be a heroine worthy of romance, one who gave up wealth, luxury, her position in the social whirl, all to follow her own true love. And not only must I give up all those dreams of drama, but I suppose you plan to put an end to encounters with kidnappers and pirates and demented children who want to kill me. I will dwindle into a wife in a marriage of dull respectability with a perfectly acceptable gentleman who is even a nobleman. Alas!” With her fist to her forehead, she struck a dramatic pose.

“I see that it will be difficult for you to give up the excitement of pirate attacks and such, but I do promise to try to keep you from being too bored.” He pulled her back into his arms.

“Mmmm.” She nestled against his chest. “You promise I will not be bored?”

“A man can only do his best.”

Some minutes later, he pulled away again. “We must get you into your clothes, or at least what remains of them. Then we try to find my horse. Your parents are following, and I think they will be happier with me if we present ourselves to them as boring and respectable.”

“Ah yes,” she sighed. “Papa does tend to worry.”

“And how do you suppose I felt when you disappeared?” He pulled her against him once more and held her tightly before taking a deep breath. “But I hope we get to the horse before they do. Then at least I will be able to wrap you in a blanket for respectability.”

* * *

The trip to the horse, wherever he had left it, was not the most comfortable of strolls. Emily began to think that she would not mind seeing the end of this particular adventure. They did manage to find a path of beaten dirt along the fields that edged the river, but the sun was high and the path was hot—hot enough to feel as if it were burning the soles of her feet.

When Lucien noticed her limping, he tried to fashion shoes from leaves that he wrapped around her feet, fastening them in place with ties of twisted grass. For a nobleman, he was quite good at improvising solutions and would make a very good adventurer, she told him.

He kept worrying that the walk was too difficult for her, so she had to keep up a brave front. It wasn't as if there was actually any alternative to walking. She tried to take her mind off her sore feet by looking around her, but rows and rows of unfamiliar vegetables did not provide much of an interesting diversion. It seemed miles before they reached the trees where the horse waited, and it may have been.

The horse snorted impatiently and pawed the dirt when they appeared.

“He is not happy with me,” Lucien said sadly.

Emily limped to a hummock and sat down. “I expect he's thirsty, waiting here where he can hear the river but too far away for him to reach it.” She licked her dry lips, thirsty herself.

“Most annoying for him.” Lucien untied the horse and led him to the river, where he did indeed drink deeply while Lucien filled the canteen hanging from the saddle and soaked the remains of his shirt in the water. When they returned, he tied up the horse once more and knelt down beside Emily. Once they had both drunk their fill, he began to gently wash her feet.

“Oh, that feels so wonderfully cold.”

“I hope it does not sting too much. Your poor feet are all cut and bruised. Your maman will doubtless have some ointment for them, but when we return you will spend the next days sitting still with your feet on a cushion.”

“That sounds appealingly luxurious.” It would be even better if he were beside her. From the look in his eyes, he shared that longing, but they both knew that her parents would never permit it.

Lucien was most efficient and competent. It was no wonder she had thought of him as an adventurer, although those qualities would doubtless be useful in running his estate or anything else he chose to do. She had never realized how important competence was—and, now that she thought about it, how unusual it was.

Once he had put on his own boots, he fed her some bread and dried apricots that he had in his saddle bags, and some more water. The simple meal was surprisingly delicious, possibly because she had not eaten since last night's dinner. Next he wrapped her up in a blanket, like a baby in swaddling clothes, and set her before him on the saddle.

He kept one arm wrapped tightly around her as they rode at a gentle walk, and she rested against him. She felt cherished and protected, with no desire to move from the circle of his arm. She would have laughed at herself were she not so happy. Independence and self-reliance were desirable qualities. That could not be denied, and she expected them of herself. But sometimes—now—it was very nice to be taken care of.

As they rode, he told her bits and pieces about his home in France—the gray stone house with the long windows; the little balcony outside his bedroom window when he was a small boy, from which he could reach the branch of an oak tree; the long table in the kitchen where the cook had fed him bread and jam. Out of doors, there had been the rows and rows of grapes, where old Louis taught him how to prune the vines. Around the bend in the road was the village where his friend Henri lived.