Mr Impossible (23 page)

Then he set out
with Ghazi to visit the
kashef
, the pasha’s local representative.

On the way, Ghazi
provided a less garbled account of events. “My men attack the
boat. Someone cuts the mooring ropes and the boat drifts because
everyone is fighting and no one steers. The boat strikes a sandbank.
These men come last, a little after the others.”

“
And run away
from a ghost, ‘tall as a giant and pale as a shroud,’”
his lordship quoted, shaking his head.

“
It is your
English friend, yes,” said Ghazi. “He did not know who my
men were—thieves, perhaps, from one of the villages, he thinks.
He wished to flee. He needed the boat. It was most cleverly done.”

“
I should
think so,” said his lordship. “Archdale is a genius, you
know.”

“
I came the
instant I heard,” Ghazi said. “Duval has followers to the
south. This is where Faruq goes. By now they will hear of the ghost,
and Faruq will know, too, who it is, because he is no fool. I came to
find your friend before Du-val’s men do.”

The thundercloud
lightened a degree. “Very wise,” said his lordship.

Encouraged, Ghazi
went on, “This ghost is seen most often on the east bank, in
places from the rock tombs near Zawyet el Amwat to those of Beni
Hasan.” He gestured toward the east bank of the Nile.

“
A range of
about fifteen miles,” said Lord Noxley. He paused to gaze that
way. “And the cliffs riddled with tombs throughout. Not to
mention that most of the sightings have been imaginary. The Arabs are
so credulous. One of them thinks he sees a ghost, and soon everyone
sees armies of ghosts and ghouls. Doubtless Archdale will have
appeared in several locations simultaneously. Finding him could take
weeks.”

“
It is true
they see him everywhere,” Ghazi said. “But me, I think a
clever man keeps away from the villages and stays close to the tombs.
To find him is not impossible, especially if the
kashef
helps.
He has many spies.”

“
Then all it
wants is baksheesh,” said Lord Noxley, walking again. “I’ll
see to it.” He continued for a moment, thoughtful, then said,
“I’d better leave finding Archdale to you. Faruq still
needs to be caught.”

“
He knows we
follow him, and so he will change his plans,” Ghazi said. “I
think he will not linger in Beni Hasan, to wait for Duval as they
arranged. In his place, I would continue south. A large party of
French is in Den-dera. I think he will go there.”

“
I know what
that party of French is after, curse them,” said his lordship.
“The brutes have got permission to carry away the magnificent
zodiac ceiling from the Temple of Hathor. They shall not have the
papyrus as well. I’ll set out as soon as we’ve dealt with
the
kashef
.”

They walked on in
silence. As they reached the official’s residence, Ghazi said,
“Those two men of mine, the cowards. What is your pleasure
regarding them?”

“
Find
Archdale,” said Lord Noxley. “Leave the cowards to me.”

THE WIND, WHICH had
died down completely the previous night, revived the next morning,
this time in their favor. To Daphne’s relief, it blew strong
and steady, driving the
Isis
swiftly upriver. They made up much of the time lost previously,
reaching Beni Suef in less than three days.

The sights
beckoned, certainly. To the west of the village lay the remains of
ancient Herakleopolis. On the east bank, a road through the desert
led to the Coptic convents of Saints Anthony and Paul. It was
impossible to pass the area without feeling at least a twinge of
longing to explore.

It was no more than
a twinge, though. Finding Miles was more important to her than any
monument. After that they’d have all the time in the world to
explore Egypt, together, as they’d planned, she told herself.

In the meantime,
with a clear head if not conscience, she could pursue the discoveries
she’d made recently. She needn’t worry about
distractions. Mr. Carsington had evidently decided to be “dishonest.”
He pretended, as Daphne had asked, that nothing of an intimate nature
had occurred between them.

He reverted to the
easygoing blockhead she’d first encountered. He stopped asking
uncomfortably penetrating questions. He made no gesture or remark
that in any way resembled an advance.

They had
companionable dinners, during which they talked, much as she might
have done with Miles, about the sights they glimpsed as the
Isis
flew along: the variety of birds, for instance, or the interesting
rock formations, or the Egyptians’ agricultural methods, which
had not changed, apparently, since the time of the pharaohs.

Clearly Mr.
Carsington had no trouble interpreting the meaning of “No, no,
no,” and a door slammed in his face. He had promptly and with
amazing ease put their two embraces from his mind.

Daphne should have
been pleased and relieved.

She was annoyed.

How easy it was for
him, she brooded. To him she was merely one in a long line of
forgettable women. At the next large town where they moored for the
night, he’d probably go looking for dancing girls. It was all
the same to him— except, perhaps, that dancing girls would not
be as boring as she was, droning on about Coptic and cartouches and
crowned falcons.

She knew that to
men like him she was a freak, and a tiresome one at that. There were
times when even she wished she hadn’t been burdened with a
brain, times when she wished Miles had inherited the famous Archdale
intellect. It would have been easier on their parents, especially
their father, who’d spent so many years in turmoil about what
to do with her: treat her like a normal girl and ignore the gift
heaven had bestowed, or educate her as her intellect required, though
it was unnatural?

It would have been
easier on Daphne, definitely, had she been a normal girl. She would
not have had to listen to Virgil’s constant
correcting
.

I am sure you meant
to take into account…

No doubt you have
overlooked..

Naturally, it did
not occur to you…

Doubtless you were
unaware of my wishes…

She could still
hear his voice, so very gentle and patient and… infuriating.

He’d wanted a
normal wife. She wasn’t normal.

And she didn’t
want to be, not really, or she would have changed, as he wished.

She did not,
really, want to be like other women. Her work intrigued and
stimulated her and made her happy.

She knew men didn’t
understand her. They didn’t like her, either, most of them. It
was her well-rounded person, not her well-filled mind, that pleased
them. This was true, certainly—and to her great shock and
disappointment—of Virgil.

She knew Mr.
Carsington’s interest was purely physical. And temporary. She
knew it was right and reasonable for him to cease attempting her
virtue.

She knew it was
illogical and wrong of her to miss the pleasure and heat she’d
felt, the sense that this was as it should be: without rules, without
shame.

It was disgraceful
and stupid of her, but she longed for more. When he stood near—on
the deck of the boat, for instance, while they gazed at the swiftly
passing scenery—she wanted, with something like desperation, to
press her face against his cheek and drink him in. She wanted, with
the same mad urgency, to feel his body crushed to hers.

It was a purely
animal desire, as deep and primitive as hunger or thirst. But those
needs were rational: food and drink were essential to life. Intimacy
with him was not only not essential but not good for her in a hundred
ways.

She knew this. She
knew she should be happy that he treated her like a sister. But she
was wretched.

This morning, as
the boat passed Beni Suef, she was still trying to subdue the wild
creature within. Small wonder she’d made so little progress
with the cartouche in front of her. It was one of those she’d
copied from Ramesses’ gigantic statue.

She gazed at the
goddess with the feather on her head and wondered if all women became
featherbrained in Mr. Carsington’s vicinity, or she alone.

A rap on the door
and a familiar, impossibly deep voice called her out of the latest
bout of self-flagellation.

She very nearly
bade him enter. She was opening her mouth to do so, in fact, when she
recollected the cabin’s narrow dimensions. Given her deranged
state, inviting him into a confined space with her was an exceedingly
stupid idea.

She rose, went to
the door, and opened it.

And suppressed a
sigh.

There he was: tall,
dark, far too handsome for anybody’s good, and only
half-dressed, as usual. Loose white Turkish trousers tucked into
gleaming boots. An Arab-style shirt, called a
kamees
, with
very full sleeves. Over this he wore a wine-colored English
waistcoat, unbuttoned. He hadn’t bothered with a neckcloth. The
shirt had no buttons, merely a slit in the front. This left his neck
and collarbone as well as a deep V of his powerful chest completely
exposed. The Egyptian sun had turned his neck several degrees darker
than the outer edge of the V. She wanted to draw her tongue along
that paler edge of skin. She wanted to bury her face in his neck.

She wanted to bang
her head against the wall.

She wiped the damp
palms of her hands on her skirt and asked if anything was amiss.

“
Far from
it,” he said. “Matters look to become a great deal more
interesting. Reis Rashad tells me we’re entering bandit
territory.”

Of course Mr.
Carsington would find this “interesting.” A chance to
break heads, fire off pistols, and swing swords. A chance to play I
Dare You with death. Daphne could almost comprehend his enthusiasm.
She, too, would like an excuse to do violence.

“
Apparently,
the neighborhood from Beni Suef to Asyut is notorious,” he went
on. “Nearly two hundred miles of marauders. Leena says we must
hire guards from the town at night, which will make the local sheik
responsible for our safety. But we must have someone watch the
guards, because they’re worthless. Even in the daytime, we dare
not turn our backs even for an instant. Otherwise”—he
began to gesture in the theatrical way Leena did—“they
will strip the boat down to a stick, and we will all be hacked to
pieces. They are wicked and evil, and so ugly and dirty they make you
sick.”

He went on,
mimicking the maid’s overwrought style as he repeated her dire
warnings.

The inner tumult
abated, and Daphne felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
She gave up and let it have its way.

“
The prospect
of certain death amuses you?” he said, smiling a little, too.

“
You have
caught her manner perfectly,” she said. “You are aware, I
hope, that Leena tends to exaggerate?”

“
I’ve
noticed,” he said. “But Tom seems to agree in the
essentials. He did a few of his pantomimes: a pickpocket, a thief
creeping onto the boat. He did a good deal of it with one eye shut.
Leena claims that most of the locals are hideously disfigured. A
great many are blind in one eye. She assures us that the interior
matches the unattractive exterior. In short, it appears we shall have
to put those pistols of your brother’s to work.”

Daphne tried to pay
attention to what he was saying, but her mind wouldn’t
cooperate. She wished he would not dress so provocatively. It was
unfair to show so much skin, when she was haunted by memories of the
scent and taste of that skin. She had only to draw a few inches
nearer to inhale the provocative scent of Male. She had only to reach
up and grasp the back of his neck and draw him down—

“
Mrs.
Pembroke?”

She heard laughter
in his voice. Her face caught fire. “I’m sorry,”
she said. “You said…” What had he said?

“
Your mind is
elsewhere, it seems.” His dark gaze went past her to the papers
strewn about the divan. “Ah, of course. Ramesses. The
cartouches. Have you worked out the lady with the feather on her
head?”

“
A goddess,”
she said.

“
And the
feather?”