Nan Ryan (4 page)

The beautiful blond American he had watched dance at the cabaret.

Temple stood there on the balcony, enjoying the nighttime solitude, the cooling breeze. Locks of her unbound hair lifted and blew around her face. The filmy skirts of her nightgown swirled gently around her long legs and bare feet. The city below was asleep at this late hour. It was wonderfully peaceful, and Temple felt some of her melancholy lifting. It was as if she were all alone in a tranquil world.

Then suddenly she was shaken with the same kind of chill she had experienced earlier at the cabaret. That feeling that she was being watched. Her heartbeat quickening, she whipped her head about.

But the quick, catlike Christian Telford had sunk back into the shadows and disappeared.

Temple saw no one. Nothing. Squinting in the darkness, she peered for a long time at the deserted balcony next to hers.

Finally she shook her head, shrugged, and went back inside.

Temple’s optimism and excitement
returned with the dawn. She’d had only a few hours’ sleep, but she felt fresh and rested and eager to begin the long, exciting journey that would take her to far-off Arabia.

The trip had been carefully planned, each detail dealt with, everything that might possibly go wrong hopefully foreseen. It had taken months to map out the complete itinerary and see to all the necessary arrangements. Ship’s cabins had been booked, hotel suites reserved, suitable clothing tailored, and experienced desert guides hired through trusted family contacts in Algiers.

The painstaking planning had been easy compared to the difficulty convincing her overprotective family that the desert tour would be perfectly safe, that she would be perfectly safe. More than a trifle doubtful, her mother and father and the childless maternal uncle who looked on her as if she were his own daughter had made every attempt to dissuade her.

All three had warned that the journey was fraught with danger and totally unnecessary. It was, all agreed, out of the question for a beautiful young woman to go alone into the uncivilized deserts of Arabia.

The forward-thinking Temple had been ready for that argument.

“Why, I wouldn’t consider going into Arabia alone,” she’d told them. “Cousin Rupert is going along as my protector and chaperon.”

In unison all three had said incredulously, “Cousin Rupert has agreed to go to Arabia?”

The fussy, set-in-his-ways Rupert Longworth was not known as a man with a taste for adventure. And his idea of hardship was to sleep on sheets that were not made of silk. They couldn’t imagine him agreeing to ride into the burning deserts atop a smelly camel.

“Absolutely! He’s looking forward to it!” Temple had exclaimed, omitting the fact that she’d not yet told Cousin Rupert he’d be going with her. She could persuade him, she knew she could. She’d always been able to get her way with Cousin Rupert. She could cajole or bully him into saying yes to just about anything. Hurrying on, she’d said excitedly, “The two of us will be gone for five, perhaps six months.”

“That long?” her mother had said, her delicate brow wrinkling with concern.

“We’ll sail to England, where we’ll spend two weeks in London,” Temple had stated confidently, focusing first on her father, then on her uncle James DuPlessis. “You know how Cousin Rupert loves London. A couple of weeks there, then we’ll cross the channel to Calais, where we’ll board a train to take us across France. Once we reach Toulon, we’ll sail the Mediterranean all the way to Bur Sa’id. We’ll go down through the Suez Canal and across the Red Sea to Al Muway. In Al Muway we’ll meet up with our caravan guides and head out into the deserts!”

“And how long will you be in the desert?” her father had asked, still worried.

“Two months,” she’d replied. “Two months after leaving Al Muway, we should arrive in Baghdad, where I promise to send you a wire so you’ll know we’re safe and sound.”

The skeptical trio had continued their attempts to dissuade her but finally had given up. They’d realized it was futile. Temple was no longer a willful child. She was a headstrong, twenty-five-year-old woman with complete financial independence from a generous family trust. She had no need of monetary aid; therefore to her way of thinking she had no need of permission to do as she pleased.

“Once we’ve rested in Baghdad for a few days, we’ll begin the journey home,” Temple had told them, her emerald eyes dancing with delight. Impulsively taking her father’s arm in hers, she’d given it an affectionate squeeze and said, “I ask you, what could possibly go wrong?”

“What indeed?” her father had muttered.

As Temple and Cousin Rupert reached the docks, the dark, cloudy London morning had given way to rain and a chill wind was blowing. But the nasty weather didn’t dampen Temple’s high spirits.

Looking youthful and lovely in a bright yellow rain cape, its hood raised to cover her blond hair, and carrying a matching parasol raised above her head, Temple laughed happily as she climbed the ship’s slippery gangway.

His mood not nearly as jovial as hers, Rupert Longworth gripped the collars of his suit coat, which were turned up around his scowling face. A black rain cloak was draped around his shoulders. Hatless, he was sharing Temple’s raised parasol and grumbling about having lost his own large, serviceable black umbrella, the third one he’d misplaced since arriving in London.

As soon as they stepped on deck, Rupert suggested they go below and enjoy a hot cup of coffee or perhaps even something a little stronger. Temple declined. She wasn’t bothered by the rain or wind. She preferred to stay topside.

“Suit yourself, child,” said the finicky, silver-haired gentleman, frowning and blinking away the rain.

“Here, take this.” Temple thrust her yellow parasol at him. “I don’t need it.”

“Of course you need it if you’re staying up here.” He eyed the dark clouds overhead. She shook her head and pressed it on him. “Well, all right, but don’t you go catching a cold. Be a shame if you got sick and couldn’t go to Arabia.” He hurried away.

Temple smiled as she turned back to the railing. She knew Cousin Rupert would like nothing better than for her to come down with a cold severe enough to force her to cancel their journey. He had agreed, under duress, to go with her to the desert, but he didn’t really want to go. If he’d had his way, they would both have stayed in London.

Well, he could forget it. She wasn’t about to get sick.

The idling vessel finally threw off its moorings and began to move away from the busy docks. Temple laughed gaily as the falling rain and salty sea spray dampened her cheeks and tendrils of blond hair that had escaped the hood of her rain cape.

Out in the Channel the murky waters were unusually turbulent and choppy. The winds were growing higher, beginning to blow so hard that it seemed they were reaching gale force. The ship’s bow slapped against the high-tossing waves, and the vessel pitched up and down wildly. Frightened passengers scurried inside, but Temple stayed put.

She found the wild ride exhilarating. She felt gloriously alive. Courting danger appealed to her sense of adventure, which was one of the reasons for this planned foray into the desert. It would be incredibly exciting and different from anything she’d ever experienced. And, yes, there was a degree of risk involved. Which made the undertaking all the more thrilling.

She was grateful for her safe, privileged life, of course, glad that she was fortunate enough to have been born into a prominent family whose wealth and power were unmeasured. Certainly she wouldn’t have traded places with anyone on earth.

But there were times when she felt smothered by her orderly, secure, sheltered existence. Every luxury the civilized world had to offer had been hers from the moment she had opened her eyes. She was the only child born of a union that had been advantageous to both partners.

Her distinguished father, the brilliant Walter Wilson Longworth, a man of modest means, had come from a fine old family of scholars, university presidents, and members of presidential cabinets.

Her mother, the beautiful Anna DuPlessis Longworth, had come from a family possessing great wealth. Anna, along with her older brother, Temple’s uncle, James Douglas DuPlessis, were the major heirs to the vast DuPlessis fortune. A fortune amassed through the years from a large, highly profitable munitions business. A family fortune from which she herself had been awarded a generous trust upon reaching twenty-one.

Temple was not foolish enough to wish that she were not wealthy. But there were times when she did wish that her illustrious family name were not quite so well known.

And where she was going, it wasn’t.

Temple was pleased with the thought. Perhaps the one place on earth where the DuPlessis name was unknown was where she was headed. The nomadic bedouin caravans roaming the vast Arabian deserts had surely never heard of a DuPlessis.

For two glorious months she would be like those bedouins: a totally free, nameless, faceless soul roaming about at will atop a camel, camping at the desert wells, and sleeping in a tent.

Such marvelous fun!

“Miss, you’d best get inside.”

Temple looked up into the rain-streaked face of a slickered crewman. Not waiting for her reply, the big, brawny seaman took her arm and guided her across the wet, rolling decks.

Once inside the ship’s warm, lighted shelter, Temple threw off her rain hood and began searching the sea of frightened faces for Cousin Rupert.

She didn’t see him.

A mild tremor of alarm rippled through her as she waded into the crowd and began asking if anyone had seen a middle-aged, silver-haired man wearing a dark rain cloak and carrying a lady’s yellow parasol.

Several people pointed toward the aft exit door.

Temple looked in that direction and momentarily caught sight her cousin staggering toward her. His rain cloak was missing and so was his suit coat. His cravat was askew, his shirt collar open. His silver hair was badly ruffled, and he looked as if he’d been perspiring profusely. His usually alert gray eyes were dulled and filled with misery.

One glance and Temple knew it was a wretched case of mal de mer.

“Oh, Rupert, dear Cousin Rupert,” she exclaimed, hurrying toward him, her heart going out to him.

She was almost to him when Rupert’s eyes widened, his hand flew up to cover his mouth, and, shaking his head violently, he turned and rushed back toward the exit. A few short steps from the door he slipped on the rain-wet floor.

Temple screamed in horror as Rupert’s feet flew out from under him. Arms flailing wildly, helpless to prevent it, he took a bad fall, striking his head on the corner of a table as he went down.

He was flat on his back and unconscious when Temple fell to her knees beside him.

“Ah, no, no. Do not look so troubled,
mademoiselle,”
said the white-coated, bearded physician whose English was limited.

“Are you sure he’s going to be all right, Dr. Ledet?”

A worried Temple faced the doctor in the narrow hallway of a small hospital in Calais. They stood just outside the room where Rupert Longworth lay in a clean white bed, a hovering nurse constantly checking his vital signs.

When the seasick Rupert had fallen and hit his head, he’d been knocked out cold. Terrified her cousin was dead, Temple had screamed for help. Unfortunately there had been no physicians among the passengers. But a crewman had quickly responded to her cries for help, felt for a pulse, lifted Rupert’s eyelids to check his eyes, and assured Temple there was a strong, steady heartbeat.

It was decided, since the ship was almost to France’s shores, that Rupert would be taken to a Calais clinic.

Now, a few short hours after reaching the hospital, Temple listened as the French doctor explained that Cousin Rupert had a slight concussion. It was not life-threatening. He would most assuredly survive, and in time he would be his old self again.

“In time?” Temple’s finely arched eyebrows lifted. “How much time?”

The doctor’s narrow, white-coated shoulders lifted in a shrug. “This depends,” he said, scratching his bearded face. “On how well he responds to total rest and relaxation. If he is very quiet and behaves himself, he should be ready to leave us in … mmmm … a week. Perhaps two.”

“Two weeks! That long?” Temple couldn’t keep the dismay from her tone. Then immediately she felt guilty. She was thinking mainly of herself, disappointed at having to cancel her long-planned trip. She should be ashamed of herself, and she was. Poor Cousin Rupert, lying helpless in a French hospital bed with a concussion.

“When I release him,” the doctor continued, lifting a bony finger to shake it in her face, “he is to do nothing strenuous or stressful for several weeks.”

Temple nodded. “He won’t,” she said, “I promise.”

“Bon. Bon,”
murmured the doctor. “Now, I have other patients. I’ll be back to check on
Monsieur
Longworth in an hour,
oui?”
He clicked his heels together and hurried off down the corridor.

“Oui.”

Exhaling loudly, Temple shook her head and frowned. Then she drew a deep breath, put a smile on her face, and went inside.