Passionate (21 page)

Lily looked across the table at Isabelle. She hoped her cousin’s opinion of James would improve now as Lord Reginald’s influence waned. James was certainly not to be blamed if Isabelle insisted on considering him a scoundrel.

“Look, there they are now.” Uncle Edward stood and waved an arm.

“Do sit down, dear. I am positive they have spotted us,” Aunt Mary said. “Isabelle, would you be so kind as to fix them each a plate?”

James chose the chair beside Lily, which, for such a simple thing, gave her more pleasure than it ought. She tried not to smile too broadly, but she was suddenly filled with delight. Tunisia truly was a splendid place.

“Tea?” Aunt Mary poured out a cup. “The French know nothing about brewing a proper pot. It is fortunate we have our own supply.”

“You brought tea, mother? In your luggage?” Richard shook his head. “I can only imagine what else you have in that mountain of crates we unloaded. The best silver? A harpsichord?”

“Don’t be foolish.” She handed him a cup of tea. “I would never risk the best silver on an outing such as this. I brought the travel silver, of course, and a few other items to maintain a minimum of civilized comfort. If you disdain such comforts we can always have Mr. Huntington procure you a native gourd. You can drink your tea from that.”

“Richard can sleep in the dust if he likes,” Isabelle said. “I’ll take mother’s cots and pillows, thank you very much.”

Lily nodded. “And the tea service and the portable writing desk.”

James winked at Richard. “Just the minimum to maintain civilized comfort.”

Richard leaned his elbows on the table. “Civilized indeed—we’ll hardly know we’re not in Sussex. James was telling me how he had to eat lizard in the East Indies.”

Isabelle wrinkled her nose. “Did you really, Mr. Huntington? How disgusting.”

“It tasted rather like partridge, actually. And since it was pressed upon me by a local warlord and his armed henchmen, I thought it unwise to refuse.”

“Not much different from a London dinner party,” Lily said, “where you must either pretend to enjoy what is served, or if it is unspeakably awful, feign a dizzy spell and retire to the drawing room.”

“Just like you did last October when Count Karlov served his infamous jellied boar’s head,” Richard said. “How was it prepared? The lizard, I mean, not the boar.”

Aunt Mary placed the teapot firmly in the center of the table. “I think we have had enough of this topic. James, how did the baggage fare?”

“Yes, yes,” Uncle Edward said. “Is everything in order? What about the botanical equipment?”

“Everything arrived intact. Our supplies are being loaded into one of the hotel’s storerooms as we speak. Richard was a great help, and has agreed to take on the responsibility of overseeing the baggage when we set out.”

Richard nodded as he refilled his plate.

“When will we set out?” asked Isabelle, setting up straight in her chair.

James frowned. “That depends on how soon we can obtain travel permission from the Bey. Having a letter with his official seal will allow us to travel unimpeded. Without it, we would have to negotiate passage with every local official and tribe.”

“How long will it take to get such a letter?” Aunt Mary asked.

“Difficult to say. If it’s too long, we’ll have to go without it and pay whatever bribes are necessary. We want to be out during the flowering season. Isn’t that right?”

Sir Edward nodded. “It’s imperative. Our time is limited if we are to locate the valley and your grandfather’s flower.”

“Before we depart I should like to go to the native marketplace,” Aunt Mary said. “What do they call it?”

“The
souq
,” James said. “In the old city.”

“And we must see the truly
old
city,” Uncle Edward said.

“We will never have a better chance to explore the ruins of ancient Carthage.”

James leaned back in his chair. “I’m certain we can arrange that. I’ve already been solicited by half a dozen would-be guides. One even offered to sell me tiles from the ancient mosaics. He claimed to have gone up to the ruins at night and pried them loose himself.”

“Pried the tiles loose from the mosaics?” Lily asked. “How criminal! Did you report him? He has to be stopped. Those mosaics are treasures of antiquity, not souvenirs for tourists to cart home.”

James just smiled, a reaction she found infuriating. Didn’t he realize what a serious problem this kind of vandalism was? Why one might just as well condone cutting up the paintings of the great masters into postage stamp size souvenirs. Selling the tip of the
Mona Lisa
’s ear, or a bit of shell from Botticelli’s
Birth of Venus
.

“Something must be done.” She thrust forward in her chair.

“They need to post a guard. The mosaics must be in tatters if the locals are selling pieces to tourists.”

James was still smiling. “Lily, he was lying.”

“Lying? How can you possibly know that?”

“The mosaics are in the Bey’s palace.”

“But I thought…”

“They were moved so that people like my friend in the street couldn’t get to them.”

Lily picked up her napkin. “They aren’t in Carthage any longer then?”

“No. They are well protected in the palace.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip. They could easily go to Carthage, but it was unlikely she, as a woman, would get an invitation to the palace. “I wish…” She stopped in mid sentence. She should be relieved that the mosaics were protected from thieves even if it meant that she would not have an opportunity to view them.

Aunt Mary set down her teacup. “We should see to the unpacking.”

“Certainly, my dear.” Uncle Edward rose and pulled out his wife’s chair.

James did likewise for Lily, then offered his hand. She took it, her fingers sliding beneath his. He gave her that particular smile, the one that lit his eyes with warmth and carved a line in his left cheek. They walked together, allowing the rest of the family to go ahead.

“Lily—you started to say something at the table. That you wished for something. What was it?”

She shrugged. “It’s not important. I was only going to say that I wished I could view the mosaics. I’d imagined we would see them when we visited the ruins. I was disappointed, that’s all. I’m glad they are protected.”

“It is disappointing. I’ve heard they were marvelous examples of ancient Roman art.”

She smiled at him. “No matter. There is so much to see and experience here. Really, I have nothing to complain about.”

“Nevertheless.” He paused. They had come to the top of the stairs. He bowed and lifted her hand to his mouth and she felt a thrill of longing at the brush of his lips. There was that smile again and something else—something playful and mischievous dancing in his eyes.

James walked the morning streets of the
medina
, making his way through the narrow lanes of the old city. The dwellings here stood tall and close, forming walls that overshadowed the street. Their tiled windowsills and brightly painted doors spoke of a secret life inside.

He had come early to hire mounts and pack animals for the expedition. In India, the best time to walk the city had always been in the early morning when the air was still cool. Old habits died hard. Besides, he smiled to himself, he had plans for the afternoon.

An arch piercing the wall yielded a glimpse into a sheltered courtyard where children played games with balls and counters. They stopped their game, whispering and giggling as he passed. Further down, two old men wearing robes and white beards studied him silently from where they squatted in the early sun, drinking coffee from tiny cups. A tantalizing whiff of cumin and mint drifted from an open doorway.

It was temping to linger here, but there was no time to waste—not if the arrangements he had made over the last three days were to amount to anything.

He continued to the
caravanserai
, located just outside the city walls. Here he would find the mounts and pack animals they needed for the expedition, and men to handle them. James searched for the best animals, and when he found them sought out their owner, a fat, round-faced old merchant who seemed to enjoy the ritual of negotiation as much as he did striking a profitable deal.

“Camels also, yes sir? You must have camels. Their strength and endurance is superior to horses and mules and my nephew and his sons are the finest drivers in all Tunis.” The merchant waved for more tea—the mandatory minty blend, served in hammered metal cups—then resettled his bulk more comfortably on the piled rugs.

James shook his head. “We are heading west, not into the southern desert, but I will remember your nephew and his camels should I need them in the future.”

His host nodded. “But even if you travel west, you still lack a guide, yes?”

“Perhaps. If he is familiar with the area along the
Wadi
Medjerda.”

The merchant’s smile creased his eyes behind his wide cheeks. “A moment.” He turned his head and bellowed into the tent behind him, “Khalil! Come here!

“You are in most fortunate luck, sir. My own son by my second wife has spent much time in that very place!” He paused. “Of course, so knowledgeable a guide commands a high fee.”

A man ducked under the hangings, his nose a prominent beak, his face weathered by the sun and wind. James was glad to see he was lean and agile, lacking his father’s impressive girth. The man listened as his father spoke in Arabic, then turned to James and bowed. “My name is Khalil,” he said in French. “My father says you are heading west. I know the Medjerda valley well.”

“And the mountains above it?”

“Not so well.” His answer was quick and honest. “But I have hunted there on occasion and know the tribes that hold sway.”

“The Berbers. Perhaps I will hire you.” James thought of his grandfather’s tragic adventures in those mountains. Had the Englishman employed a guide, or had he struck off optimistically in search of rare blooms with just his companion Mercer and a few bearers?

Khalil smiled slowly. “Be warned. My father will try and empty your purse for my services.”

The merchant grunted and glared at his son. “To leave your family, your ailing child? No. It will not do.”

“My ‘ailing child’ is already begging to go out and play with the other children.” Khalil glanced at his father.

“Very well.” The merchant waved a large, fleshy hand.

“Bargain for your own fee, if you wish to remain a pauper. I only am trying to see to your welfare.”

And to his own coffers, James thought as he and Khalil quickly settled on a price. “We will be leaving soon—two days, perhaps. I’ll send word.”

“All will be ready, sir.”

At the entrance of the tent James turned. “Have you seen a dark-haired Englishman about in the last several days?”

Khalil shook his head. “No, I have not.”

The old merchant looked at the wall of the tent, but then he had said almost nothing since his son had insisted on negotiating his own fee.

Inside the city walls once again, James pulled out his pocket watch, the burnished weight of it comfortable in his hand. It had belonged to his father. The bargaining had taken longer than he’d intended—he would have to hurry if he was to make it back in time.

He looked at the roads branching through the city from the gate. If he took that one along the city wall, then cut back through the marketplace, he could make up time. The huge dome and towers of the central mosque would provide a consistent landmark.

The street he had chosen followed the wall then branched and branched again, each time becoming narrower as it entered an area of dilapidated houses and shops. Paint peeled from around doorways and he had to negotiate his way around piles of debris in the street. Men sitting on the ground outside shops and rundown coffee houses ceased their conversation as he passed, their gazes hard and unsmiling. Hostility hung in the air. James quickened his pace trying to catch a glimpse of the central mosque between buildings.

The street branched again, neither lane looking more promising than the other. He stopped and looked back the way he had come. There was no one there, no one following him—it must be his surroundings that made him feel so edgy. He reached instinctively for his pocket watch, then stopped himself. This was not the kind of neighborhood where it was advisable to display wealth of any kind, and besides, he didn’t need his watch to tell him that too much time was passing.

He selected one of the two equally unlikely paths and started down it when from afar he heard the tower-flung cry of the
muezzin
calling the faithful to prayer. The mosque! It came from the left. Following the sound, James turned down a narrow track between two buildings—a path which grew wider and more traveled as it approached the market. He breathed deeply. It was a relief to emerge into the busy
souq
.

He stepped nimbly around a spice merchant’s wares—vibrant powders heaped in metal bowls, curls of cinnamon bark, kernels of fenugreek and gnarled knobs of turmeric root adding their pungent smells to the air. Women wrapped head to toe hurried past, clenching their headscarves between their teeth to leave their hands free for bundles. He halted as a young boy ran past, chasing an escaped chicken.

But there it was again, that premonition that someone was watching him. He turned slowly, but nothing seemed out of place in the busy market, except—had that man in the dun-colored robes turned away too quickly?

James forced himself to slow—meandering, stopping to look over a display of brass trinkets, a rack of scarves. Yes, there could be no question. The man was following him. Bloody hell. He didn’t have time for this. James turned and looked him directly in the eye—the game was up. The man in the dun-colored robes started forward, reaching into his robes as he came in a motion that screamed danger. Another man that James had mistaken for a beggar followed.

Unarmed, James turned and ran, hot anger flaring inside him as the market crowd parted before him. Not today. He would not be stopped today.

He wove a path through the booths, darted down the street of the cloth sellers, then turned into the area where the leatherworkers displayed their wares.