Nan Ryan (5 page)

Cousin Rupert, fully awake now, looked up as she entered, smiled sheepishly, and said, “Child, I’m so sorry. I’ve spoiled everything, haven’t I?’

“Don’t talk nonsense, Cousin. You haven’t spoiled anything.”

“But the trip … your desert tour.”

“Will have to be canceled for now.” She took hold of his hand, tried to smile, failed.

“No, no,” he said, “we can still go. I shouldn’t be here but a few days, and then we could—”

“Dr. Ledet says you’re not to … to …” Her words trailed away, and a flash of hope appeared in Temple’s green eyes.

“What?” He gave her a puzzled look. “What is it?”

She squeezed his hand. “You’ve always loved spending the summer season in London, haven’t you, Cousin Rupert?”

“You know I have, but I—”

“How would you like to spend
this
summer season in London?”

Rupert’s gray eyes lighted the way hers just had. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? That when I’m released the two of us will go directly back to London and stay the summer?”

“No, I’m saying when you’re released,
you’ll
go back to London and stay the summer.” An infectious smile was spreading over her face as the wheels turned in her nimble brain.

Puzzled, Rupert’s bushy silver eyebrows lifted questioningly. “And where will you be?”

“In Arabia.”

“Alone? God forbid!”

“No, God doesn’t forbid,” she said, merriment flashing from her eyes. “Nor will you. It can be our secret. No one need ever know, and we both get to do what we want. What do you say?” She could tell by the glow in his eyes he was seriously entertaining the idea.

Yet he reasoned, “It won’t work, child. It’s too risky.”

“There is nothing risky about it. You go back to the Savoy and enjoy yourself. I go to the desert and enjoy myself. I’ll meet you in London in the fall and we’ll sail home together.”

A long pause.

Rupert pondering, wondering, weighing the possibilities. “It does sound reasonable,” he said finally, starting to grin impishly. “You’d be careful. Promise me you’d be very careful?”

“Extremely careful, Cousin dear.”

Five Weeks Later

Al Muway, Arabia

Temple DuPlessis Longworth
raised eyebrows when she walked into the inn’s crowded outdoor restaurant on that early June morning. Patrons stopped eating their breakfast to stare, and a buzz of whispered outrage followed her. Ignoring the stir she caused, Temple strode confidently toward the small table on the shaded stone terrace, where Sarhan, her head guide, awaited.

Dressed for the forbidding terrain she was about to enter, she wore snug-fitting riding breeches of durable dark twill, a long-sleeved white shirt, and brown knee-high boots of smooth Italian leather. She carried a pair of brown kid gloves, and in the crook of her bent arm rested a sturdy sun helmet with a white silk head scarf tucked neatly inside.

Temple was well aware of the disapproving foreign eyes following her, but she was not bothered by the scrutiny. She’d often been stared at. She had learned long ago that when one was the DuPlessis heiress, one’s every move was monitored, commented on, talked about.

Temple realized these people were not staring because she was a DuPlessis. They stared and whispered because they didn’t approve of her attire. She understood that. But what they didn’t understand was that she was about to ride into the pitiless desert, and she had no intention of starting out on such a journey wearing long skirts and heavy petticoats.

Sarhan, her guide, rose when she reached the table. A black-bearded giant with a patch over his right eye, he wore a dark
thobe
, the traditional long robe favored by all Arabs. His
guttrah
, or headdress, was held in place by strands of black woolen headrope. His one good eye flickered with momentary censure before he smiled politely, greeted her with respect, and came around to pull out the chair for her.

“The baggage caravan has gone on ahead,” he informed her. “We will meet up with them at the oasis where we’re to spend the first night.”

Nodding, Temple picked up the small white cup placed before her, took a drink of the bitter black coffee, and involuntarily made a face. Then she smiled. The coffee tasted wretched, but what did it matter? She was about to embark on a thrilling escapade filled with all sorts of excitements and dangers. How fortunate she was! What a lucky woman to lead such a glorious life.

As Sarhan talked of the preparations and of what to expect on the first day out, Temple thought of Cousin Rupert back in London. She thanked the fates that he wasn’t with her now. She was glad that when she looked across the table she saw Sarhan’s stern, swarthy countenance, not Cousin Rupert’s ruddy, cherubic face. Cousin Rupert would hate every minute of the grand adventure, and that would spoil the fun for her.

She was happy she was going alone. Eager and unafraid, Temple was delighted with the knowledge that for the next two months no one she knew could reach her, write to her, cable her, or intrude on her pleasure in any form or fashion. This very special trip was hers and hers alone, and she meant to enjoy and savor every precious moment of it.

Impatient to be off, Temple squirmed on her chair as Sarhan lingered over his fourth cup of coffee. When finally he lifted his white napkin and wiped his bearded mouth, Temple said hopefully, “We’re ready to leave now?”

Sarhan carefully placed the napkin on the table, smiled, and said, “Not quite.”

“No? Why not?”

“First we must go shopping,” said the big Arab, pushing back from the table and rising to his feet.

Temple stood up. “Shopping? I don’t want to go shopping. I have everything I need.”

Again he said, “Not quite.”

Annoyed, Temple found herself ushered off the shaded hotel terrace and down into the narrow, crowded street. His huge hand gripping her elbow, the Arab guided her past market stalls where flowers and fruits and vegetables were heaped in colorful masses. Merchants called out to them as they passed, holding up samples of their wares. Sarhan stopped abruptly at a tiny stall where a stooped, badly wrinkled old man sat dozing on a stool. The old man’s eyes opened immediately, and he leapt up from his stool and started making his sales pitch in rapid-fire Arabic.

“What is he saying?” Temple looked up at Sarhan.

“He’s telling you he makes the finest camel sticks to be found in all Arabia.”

“Camel sticks? Do I need one?”

“Most assuredly. Anyone who rides a camel must use a stick to prod the animal and to direct him.” He inclined his turbaned head to the array of sticks lined up behind the old man. “See the beautiful sticks? He makes them from the
abal
root he brings out of the desert. He heats them and bends the ends into intricately designed handles.”

“I see,” Temple mused aloud, studying the various camel sticks displayed in the small booth. Then: “That one,” she said, pointing, and laughed with him when the ancient camel stick maker chuckled and clapped his hands, his watery eyes flashing. “Why is he so happy?” she asked Sarhan.

“Because you have chosen his most expensive one.”

As the sun climbed over the turreted roofs and spires of the tiny coastal city, Temple stood beside Sarhan, laughing. The tall Arab guide held firmly to the reins of a saddled camel, speaking to the big ugly beast.

“Zizz,”
he said, and waited. Nothing happened. More firmly then,
“Zizz.”

Temple jumped back as the camel went down on its knees. Sarhan explained that
zizz
meant get down and
zist
meant get up.

“It’s as simple as that?” she said, stepping up to the kneeling camel.

The Arab grinned. “The command generally needs to be reinforced by a stick laid not too roughly on the camel’s neck.”

Her newly purchased camel stick in hand, Temple mounted the gurgling camel, then obeyed Sarhan’s immediate instructions to “lean back” to assist the animal in heaving from a kneeling position to hind legs extended. Temple let out a yelp of surprised glee when the creature lurched up onto all four legs.

The ground seemed a long way down.

Sarhan mounted his own camel, and immediately they got under way. With Sarhan riding beside her and the others following at a short distance, they left the coastal city behind. In no time at all Temple adjusted to her camel’s easy pace. She rocked in the saddle, noting the way the Arabs rode as effortlessly as if they were sitting on rocking chairs.

Just when she thought she’d mastered it, Sarhan picked up the pace.

Temple attempted to adapt to the heavier, faster gait, but much as she tried to change the sequence of movements, when the camel stepped she rubbed forward in the saddle, then rubbed back again, her spine performing what felt to her like a figure eight. She’d be sore come night, no doubt about it.

Still, the ride was exhilarating, and Temple forgot her discomfort. Her gloved hand gripping the reins and her new camel stick, her long, heavy hair tucked up under her sun helmet, and a small Mauser pistol holstered at her waist, she swayed contentedly atop the big ugly beast she affectionately called Haj. Seduced by the beauty and grandeur of the vast golden deserts stretching before her, Temple was assailed with a wonderful feeling of well-being. The blood seemed to sing through her veins and her heart beat with a firm, steady cadence. When at noon the caravan stopped at a palm-fringed oasis, Temple ate with a hunger and relish that matched that of the men.

Back in the saddle that afternoon, she noted the bedouins rode with legs crossed nonchalantly at the ankles on their camels’ necks. Temple laughed and imitated them. And happily discovered that such a position offered a degree of comfort. Watching her, they nodded and grinned. One lifted his hands and applauded.

She was pleased and surprised by how quickly she seemed to have gained the respect of her knowledgeable guides. She sighed with satisfaction, feeling that her journey promised to be a richly rewarding one.

On the third day out
, the small caravan was resting the animals at a desert well and enjoying a leisurely noontime meal of rice cakes and braised lamb. Full and half sleepy, Temple felt her eyelids growing increasingly heavy. She glanced at Sarhan, bent over the small smoking brazier. He was cooking more lamb for the hungry men.

Temple sighed softly with the simple pleasure of being alive and content. She stretched out on the ground with her arms folded beneath her head, her booted feet crossed at the ankles.

A hint of a desert breeze fanned the palm fronds over her head and cooled her hot cheeks. The chattering of the men in their native tongue was somehow soothing to the ear. Their voices soon softened to a low hum and then fell silent.

All was quiet and peaceful.

Her head turned, and resting on her bent arm, Temple was on the verge of falling asleep. Her drowsy eyes opened and closed slowly like a dozing cat’s.

Then all at once they widened as a great cloud of dust appeared on the eastern horizon.

Temple levered herself up into a sitting position, her eyes now squinting at the rapidly growing cloud of dust in the east. She was afraid it was a
schmaal
, one of those fast-moving Arabian sandstorms she’d read about.

Suddenly, with an explosive roar, a gang of black-robed desert warriors atop swift Arabian horses descended from out of the thick cloud of dust, riding at full gallop. Swords flashed and sand rose. Rifles raised, voices lifted and shouting commands in Arabic, the turbaned tribesmen raced across the desert.

Directly toward camp.

In an flash of understanding it registered on Temple. Her small caravan was being attacked by an outlaw band of thieving Barbary pirates.

Without taking her eyes off the swarming black-robed bandits, Temple reached for her pistol. Only to find it missing. Disbelieving, she looked down. The smooth leather holster lay on the ground where she had left it, but the Mauser was gone.

“What the …?” She leapt to her feet and shouted for Sarhan and the others to fire on the intruders. “What are you waiting for?” she called above the deafening din. “Fire on them! Shoot over their heads! Scare them off!”