Must Have Been The Moonlight (6 page)

The servant entered then, bringing the guard with him. Their places now exchanged, Brianna listened to the Arabic discourse. Excluded by virtue of her ignorance, she glanced briefly at Major Fallon. Her gaze traveled from the tensile strength of his hands as he spoke, the rifle gripped in his hand, before rising to his profile, and found him watching her.

For an instant he held her pinned with his gaze, and she forgot the other men in the tent. “The moon is waning, so the light won’t help you much tonight.” His voice was sure, in control again, having relegated whatever had just passed between them someplace else. “Abdul will be waiting for you when you get to the edge of the camp. The gray horse is yours,” he added. “The Arabian is valuable and probably once belonged to some sheikh before she ended up where she did. You might find that you want to keep the mare.”

The horse was hers by right of conquest. She’d not asked about it before because she was unsure of her emotions on the topic. The Arabian was one of two horses that Major Fallon had been unwilling to leave at the watchtower oasis. There was something undefined about a man who had no qualms in killing another human being, yet, at great risk to himself, could bring an animal and two strangers three days across hostile territory. Knowing it wasn’t over yet brought a shock of tears to her eyes. She was suddenly afraid for him.

He lifted her tagilmust as it fell lose. “I meant what I said about maintaining your disguise and staying with Abdul.”

“The last thing I want is for you to worry, Major.” Then, knowing she might never see him again, Brianna did something she knew she shouldn’t have.
Goodbye
. She stepped forward on the balls of her feet and kissed him.

Without waiting for the drumming in her ears to subside, she pulled away to leave, only to meet the steel of his hand at her nape. Her gaze snapped up to his. He’d gathered the cloth of her turban and tipped her head back, his silky eyes sliding to her mouth. Her lashes drifted shut the moment his mouth touched hers, feather light at first, inquiringly, as if tasting her, testing her response with solicitous efficiency. Altering his lips subtly, he touched his tongue to the full curve of her bottom lip, and the kiss that had been chaste before began to burn with a strange exotic blue flame fanned by her racing heart.

He slipped his tongue between her lips to dance with hers, the cadence between them becoming a beat, a velvet rhythm that only they heard in the dimness of the night.

She had no idea what her body was doing. Sliding her hands to his neck, she rose on her tiptoes, seeking more of the heat that enveloped her. He held the rifle gripped in one hand; his other had drifted down the curve of her back. Heat branded her flesh. She became lost and alive at once, every sense heightened to the body pressed against hers, singularly aware of the contrast between the softer burnoose he wore and the hardened male beneath. Then, as if by mutual assent, the kiss deepened and flared into something more primal.
There was no gentleness in his possession as he deliberately dragged her into a sensual tide so elemental that any sense to protest was swept away by the roaring in her veins and her groan of surrender. Or did that sound come from him?

She basked in the sensual feast, teetering on the brink of a shivery exhalation, a miasmic bog clouding her brain, when reality intruded. Some noise outside the tent reminded them where they were.

She opened her eyes to find him looking down at her. Her lips throbbed. Beneath her fingertips she could feel the slight bump on his head where Alex had hit him with the rifle. She withdrew her arms.

His thumb eased over her bottom lip. “This will make for interesting gossip,” he said, referring to the other men in the tent.

A keen sense of horror fell over her. Although there was no amusement in his eyes, neither was there admiration or devotion. Where she had lost control, it was clear that he had not. This was probably regular fare for him, the ladies throwing themselves into his arms. He’d only answered her challenge, granting what she’d sought. Major Fallon was no innocent, and she’d stumbled before the dance had even begun.

He held out the rifle. “If you ride past Abdul in the darkness, one of my men will let you know.”

She reattached the tagilmust with trembling fingers before she took the rifle. “Will your man whistle, Major?”

“Would you come if he did? Somehow I doubt obedience is in your nature,
amîri
. Or that you’re as easy as you seem.”

Brianna had no problem affecting the walk of a man, especially in her agitated state. Men had surrounded her entire life, men who could have invented the masculine persona for Irish arrogance—none of whom held a candle to the very British but not so very proper Major Michael Fallon.

Michael motioned two men standing near the fire to follow Brianna. Without taking his eyes off the pale figure riding like the wind away from him, he reached beneath his
burnoose and withdrew his tin of peppermints. “Is everything ready?” he asked the guard behind him.

“Yes, effendi,” the man said, then added, “Do not worry. The men will die before they allow anything to happen to Donally Pasha’s family.”

The idea was not comforting. But if he was to have any hope of protecting them, he had to do his job. The caravan leaving from Baharia was over seventy strong. Many were on their annual pilgrimage. Brianna and Lady Alexandra would be with Donally’s returning staff and the physician who would accompany her back.

Out of the corner of his eye Michael caught the movement of the two men dressed in Lady Alexandra’s and Brianna’s clothes. They were talking. He thanked God for thick veils and darkness. The two made the homeliest pair he’d ever seen. But they knew how to use a knife, and that’s why he’d brought them from the outpost.

Michael dropped the tent flap. The faint scent of roses lingered in the tent. A vase of flowers bloomed on the shelves next to the photographs. He held the photograph that Brianna had taken in Giza to the single lamp.

Brianna had not read him as thoroughly as she’d thought. He’d been drawn to Lady Alexandra’s softness and grace. She reminded him of home, of something gentler than he was. But where he was wont to treat the one like a lady, the other made him believe in sin. Some women just knew how to move in their bodies, some innate sense that had little to do with experience and everything to do with lack of inhibition. Brianna Donally was earthy and sensual, a rarity in the western world. He hadn’t expected it from Little-Miss-Spoiled-For-Life-With-One-Kiss.

Smiling to himself, Michael pulled the cork from the wine bottle sitting on the desk. He’d leave the moment Abdul returned with word that the two women were safe. He had business to take care of in El-Musa. And with any luck, he’d be followed all the way there.

T
here was no dawn like the sunrise that rose over the desert. Crisp air still cool from the night swept off the Nile. Michael eyed the mix of mud houses, minarets, and spires that swam in the misty morning light. It seemed that there was something symbolic in the gentle beauty that illuminated the countryside. El-Musa was not an unattractive town, but Sheikh Omar, the governor-mayor of the region, was rotten to his core. He and the governor-mayor were old enemies. Educated in England, the sheikh was related to the khedive, and in usual political proviso, Michael had been warned after past altercations to leave Omar alone. But somewhere here, Michael was sure he would find Donally.

After waiting for his men to secure the perimeter of the house, Michael signaled them to move inside the courtyard. The neo-Byzantine palace belonging to the sheikh stood at the edge of the town, pale pink in the sunrise. Inside, a muddle of English and opulent native furnishings cluttered every room. Michael’s boots made a
tap-tap
sound on the stone floor as he waded through a cluster of irate servants.

Michael motioned to one of his men to remain on the stairway. A rifle braced across his chest like an Egyptian
demigod, he halted the progression of panicked servants on their way to the upper level. Without breaking stride, Michael entered the master’s chambers, a cavernous room embellished by tapestries, colored marble, and gilt furniture. Red silken drapery the color of blood fluttered in the morning breeze.

Cocking the hammer on his revolver, Michael nudged the sleeping sheikh with the dusty toe of his boot. “Rise and shine, my lord.”

Black hair, black-eyed, his beard streaked with gray, the man on the cushions stirred. A naked girl spooned against him opened her eyes and screamed. Sheikh Omar shot straight up.

“Major Fallon!” He slid back against the plush wall of pillows. “Allah save me from crazy Englishmen. Not again.”

“Where is he?”

“If you mean that madman Donally, he was here when I returned last night from the camel mart, mind you, on legitimate business.”

Michael smiled. “I haven’t slept for days, Omar. Do you want to know why I haven’t slept?”

“You do not want to kill me, Major.”

“Oh, but there you are mistaken. Donally may be willing to overlook certain iniquities to do his job, but I am not.”

“He is not above compromise. Have you not noticed? The railroad went through here two years ago. There is no peace for him unless he makes peace with the men upon whose lands he builds upon. My men guard the tracks and the telegraph. Down the river it is someone else.”

“Yet, he thinks that you had something to do with the attacks on a particular caravan some weeks ago. Why would he think that, Omar? Why would he ride alone seven days across the desert to reach you?”

Michael spoke over his shoulder. “I want every man present checked for a tattoo. A scarab on the wrist.” Omar tried to rise, but Michael trapped him with a boot. “Three men ambushed me on my way here. Unfortunately, two didn’t
survive. But the one who did brought me straight to you. He had a tattoo.” Michael checked both Omar’s arms. “A scarab—an insect resembling a cockroach.”

“I swear you’ll pay for this insult, Fallon.”

“Why would Donally think you’re involved?”

“He assumed that I knew about the gold because I’ve occasionally handled stolen goods taken in raids. But that was years ago. Go ask him. He is down the corridor.”

“Then who
did
know about the gold Pritchards was carrying?”

“I don’t know. I swear, I am a man of honor.”

Michael eased off the revolver hammer. “You feed opium to children, Omar. Where is the honor in that?” He turned to the two men standing behind him. “Stay with him until I return.”

“You said that you had a witness…the attack on you—”

“I lied. No one survived.” Michael shoved the gun into his sash. “My men are very proficient at what they do, Omar.”

“Bastard!” Omar spat at Michael’s legs.

“Consider us even for the beating your men gave me in El-Kharga last month. Next time I may just accidentally shoot you.”

“Laugh, Fallon. I swear it will be your last time. You will pay for this outrage.”

The hallway opened to the breeze. Doors were thrown wide to the veranda. It was early morning, and a girl was watering the hanging baskets of bougainvillea. The fragrance stirred the air, mixing with heavy perfume. Ducking beneath the archway at the end of the hall, Michael entered a room. His gaze went to the massive English-style bed. A woman’s slim form clearly visible beneath a sheet moved slightly. Michael stripped the cover from her. She shot up with a startled squeal, her body barely hidden beneath a curtain of jet hair. She was naked, her dusky skin unblemished. Glass beads jangled on her ankles.

Michael dropped the coverlet. She looked all of fourteen. “I was told Donally Pasha was here.” He spoke in Arabic.

Her head shook. “My sheikh would whip me if he knew that the effendi did not sleep here, for all that he knew I existed.” Murmuring, she lifted dark liquid eyes to his. “Please say nothing.”

Bloody Christ, Omar was low-brow refuse, Michael thought. Having the greatest respect for Donally’s self-control, he wondered how the Irishman had not put a bullet into Omar’s head. The sheikhdoms were a medieval frontier answering to no constabulary, or a government that had little ability to enforce its own laws. And Michael had his bloody hands tied. How many young girls had he brought back from the markets to families that ended up selling them into sexual slavery or killing them?

“Where is Donally Pasha now?”

“He comes here last night and threatens to kill my master. It takes many men to pull him away.” The girl shrugged toward the veranda. “I think he is going after slavers in Kharga.”

Michael left through the veranda. His gaze went over the stone courtyard below where a donkey was pulling a cart of manure. He dropped to the courtyard below and crossed the grounds to the stables.

The man bent over the bay mare wore a black tunic fastened at the waist with a broad leather belt that carried a curved dagger. A tarboosh and turban covered his head. His face, tanned by the sun, contrasted with the stark blue of his eyes as he straightened and met Michael’s gaze over the saddle. The first thing Michael noticed, other than the gun pointed at his head, was that Donally’s eyes were the same summer blue as Brianna’s.

A growth of black stubble had rendered Michael uncivilized, but Donally looked feral. “Fallon.” The single harsh word kept Michael’s hands from the revolver in his belt or the knife in his sash.

They regarded each other, marking the passage of time since they’d last seen one another. When had it been? Last year at Captain Pritchards’s wedding? Donally swung into
the saddle of the Arab mare he’d saddled, his hands clenching the reins as he brought the horse around, the pistol still in his hand. “Move out of my way.”

Michael had never heard an accent in Donally’s voice before. That he did so now told him the man was close to the edge and dangerous. “I’ve already sent men to Kharga,” Michael said. “Your wife and sister were not among those who might have been taken. They’re alive, Donally.”

The hammer clicked. “So help me, Fallon. Doon’t bloody tempt me.”

“They’re traveling with Abdul, a platoon of guards, a physician, and your servants, and are on their way to Cairo as we speak.”

Something changed in Donally’s harsh features. “What are you talking about?” The gun in his hand wavered. He pulled it back, appeared etched from stone as he struggled for composure.

“Your wife and sister weren’t in the camp when the attack came. They survived. And what they want most at this moment is to see you.”

Brianna didn’t know how long she’d lain in the sand on her back, staring at the sky like a slug in hibernation. Her long dark braid remained hidden beneath her turban. She had yet to feel her feet and derriere. For eight days the caravan had wound over the molten sand like a slow-moving river—and for every one of those eight days, she had ridden Matilda, the racing camel from hell.

Lying beside her, looking like some green-eyed jinn behind the cloth of her own turban, Alex groaned. “Tomorrow we should reach Cairo.”

“What missies need is liniment and a soft bed.” Abdul chuckled, standing above them. “Of which neither are here.”

“Thank you, Abdul. I shall add your advice to my tome of medical miracles.” Brianna struggled to her elbow. Will you unpack Lady Alexandra’s blankets and bring them to the tent?”

Cooking fires dotted the landscape. Brianna’s stomach growled. That was one more thing she was going to have to do. Help Abdul cook, because she’d taken it upon herself to be useful. She collapsed back onto the sand. The early morning sky was hazy and unpleasant. “Do you think Major Fallon’s plan worked?” she asked. It was a topic they’d both avoided.

“I think the major can take care of himself.” Alex stood and brushed the sand off her hands.

“Christopher can too, my lady.” Brianna’s voice was quiet.

“I know.” Alex’s worried gaze paused on Brianna, then abruptly she turned and stumbled through the sand up the hill. Brianna watched her. She turned away, digging her hand in the sand, her own frustration, which had been boiling all week, brought to the surface. Major Fallon was no unseasoned youth, as Stephan had been.

He’d put his tongue in her mouth and shattered every virginal stereotype she’d ever held about men.

Her whole body hummed.

Brianna rarely dwelled on men. She had no divine drive to be anyone’s wife, no maternal calling pealing bells over her head. Being the youngest in a family of five domineering older brothers had given her the impetus to make her own way. She was her own woman.

Yet never had she been subjected to such a powerful undercurrent of electricity as when he’d kissed her, which attuned her to her body in ways she’d never felt before. She’d experienced that undercurrent the first time in the pool at the oasis. She felt it again when her body leaned into his.

So had he.

And there had been a moment when Major Fallon kissed her when she wanted to taste more than his lips. To run her hands down his body. He’d had a hard body beneath those robes.

With a start, Brianna forced her attention back to the task at hand. Brushing the sand off her lap, she stood and
scanned for Abdul. Her gaze stopped on the corral where her Arab mare had been penned. A man was watching her. Above his tagilmust his black gaze locked briefly on hers before he turned abruptly away.

“We are finished here, Sitt.” Abdul was suddenly beside her. “Do you need help moving your camera?”

“Who is that man standing near my horse? Do you know?”

Abdul glimpsed the topic of her query. “I had to run that one away once from your mare.” He spat in the sand. “He claims that he is a horse trader.”

The young man was gone when Brianna reached the corral of horses. Drawing nearer to where he’d been standing, she tented a hand over her eyes. The wind was gathering force. Her mare whickered restlessly.

“You aren’t so evil, are you, princess?” she murmured, her hands going over the mare’s long gray mane.

A gust of wind blew sand across the dozing caravan, and shielding her eyes, Brianna turned her face away. A hazy red luminescence radiated from the northeast. “What is it?” She was breathless when she joined Abdul and Alex outside the tent. Transfixed, Brianna watched the sky darken.

“They call it the
sheytàn
—Devil Wind.” Abdul’s long white robes were flapping in the wind. “It is the
simoon
.”

It looked like a monstrous fire. “How long before it reaches us?”

“A quarter hour, maybe.”

Riders suddenly appeared like a shimmering mirage running in front of the reddish glow, and Brianna froze. A dozen men on horses and camels were coming toward them at a gallop. One was riding a white racing camel, and her heart picked up pace.

Beside her, Alex took a step. The riders approached.

A small cry emanated from Alex’s throat, and before Brianna could catch her, Alex had gathered her robes in her fist. Half running, half falling, she slid down the dune, toward the
riders. A black horse suddenly separated from the group, and soon the dark-clad rider swung from the saddle and was on his feet, sweeping Alex into his arms.

Christopher
.

Brianna’s feet carried her down the dune before she stopped. Alex’s arms were around Christopher’s neck and her feet off the ground as he wrapped her in his arms, kissing her lips, her hair, her face. Christopher had always been omnipotent in her eyes, invincible, but now seemed only too human as he held his wife.

“Go, Sitt Donally,” Abdul said from behind her. “He is your family, too. Bring him back here.”

But she didn’t run into her brother’s protective arms. She didn’t belong in that intimate circle. She looked past her brother, directly into Major Fallon’s eyes. Sporting a rough beard, he sat atop the white camel, his rifle lying casually across his knees. Brianna saw rather than heard him give a command to his men. They rode past her. The air was growing increasingly hotter. Brianna hadn’t realized how far she was from camp.