The Other Guy's Bride (21 page)

“More’s the pity,” he murmured.

He had taken advantage. And given any encouragement, he would again. But she hadn’t heard. She was already asleep.

Colonel Lord Hilliard Pomfrey stood in the garrison’s lookout tower with his field glasses pressed to his eye. “I believe that there are
two
Arabs atop that camel, Jones.”

The fresh-faced lieutenant beside him made some adjustments to the field scope mounted on the floor and peered into the lens at figures a mile out and closing slowly. “Indeed, you are correct, sir. One of the men is carrying the other before him. Perhaps he is injured and they are seeking medical aid?” he suggested.

“An Arab seeking medical attention from the King’s Army? Not bloody likely. No, they’d seek help from their own people.”

“Unless they were travelers set upon by bandits?”

“Hm,” Pomfrey mused. “Perhaps. Though we are far enough from any of the main caravan routes that it would be surprising.”

Fort Gordon had been built on the remains of an ancient Roman fortress at the westernmost edge of what Pomfrey thought could only be an ironically named “New Valley,” an immensely long geographic ridge separating the northern sand dunes from the southern dunes. The site was significant only in that it was one of the few oases of any size that occurred before entering a virtual no-man’s-land of rock and sand and wind, and because it guarded a border no one was likely to try to cross. But, by God, if they did, they’d have His Majesty’s army to deal with.

Simply put, Colonel Lord Hilliard Pomfrey had the privilege of commanding England’s most remote continually manned outpost. He took pride in that fact. Few men were up to the challenge of facing down such extreme isolation; he was one of them. Like himself, his men were handpicked by him for this duty. And while he was rightfully proud of that strength of character that enabled him to endure, he was not too proud to admit it would be nice to share his isolation with a helpmate to support him in a domestic capacity.

He withdrew the binoculars from his eyes, frowning. Even allowing for a leisurely pace, Mildred and her escorts should have arrived a week ago. Were something untoward to have happened, surely Neely would have sent a man ahead. Besides, that is precisely why he had pressed Owens into service; the man was a ruffian and a scoundrel, but his knowledge of the desert and its peoples was unparalleled by any man he knew, at least any white man. He was confident Owens would keep her safe.

“Should I have the men open the gates?” Jones asked.

“No. We’ll wait and see what they have to say for themselves,” Pomfrey said. “Pick two of your best riflemen and have them keep them in their sights until we discover what it is they want.”

“Yes, sir,” Jones said, snapping off a smart salute before leaving Pomfrey alone in the tower, his thoughts returning to Mildred and her unexplained delay.

Perhaps he should have sent a better grade of men to serve as her escort. He had a full complement of brave, seasoned soldiers to choose from, but he’d sent an old campaigner one year from being discharged and a bunch of fresh recruits.

At the time it had seemed the obvious decision. Neely was there just to provide escort. He didn’t expect Neely and his men to engage in a battle. It was Owens’s express job to keep them out of any dangerous situations. But even if there had been hostilities, surely Neely, a career veteran, and his boys were up to the task. And he
knew
Owens was. The man had an absolute knack for surviving the unsurvivable.

Pomfrey had been leading a squadron on a reconnaissance mission deep in the desert along the Sudanese border when they’d spotted Owens. He’d been limping along, leading an all-but-dead horse out of the Libyan desert, with what Pomfrey would later discover were two bullet holes in him, a couple broken bones, a severe case of dehydration, and mild starvation.

Ever cognizant of his duty as a Christian, he’d order his men to a halt so he could rescue the poor boy. Owens just stood there swaying as Pomfrey had swung from his camel, barking an order for his men to fashion a litter. They jumped to comply as he’d asked the boy his name. While awaiting a reply, he’d taken the opportunity to shoot the poor horse in the head.

What happened next still amazed him. Owens had started as the horse collapsed, and before Pomfrey realized what was happening, Owens’s right fist had lashed out and caught him full in the face, knocking him to the ground.

“You bastard!” the young man had shouted. “You bloody bastard! I owed that horse my life.”

A couple of his soldiers roughly seized the boy, causing him to gasp in agony. Pomfrey took the higher road.

“Treat him gently, lads,” he’d said. “The sun and the wind must have driven him mad.”

The boy threw himself forward, but his soldiers kept a fast hold of him. Pomfrey climbed to his feet, gingerly working his jaw.

“I owed that horse a debt!” the boy sobbed. “He carried me faithfully, and this is how he’s repaid!”

Pomfrey had looked sadly his men. “See? What sane man could think himself indebted to a soulless animal?”

The boy’s last bit of energy had by then been expended. He’d staggered on his feet, unable to hold up his own weight. “Let me go,” he panted.

“You say you owed that animal a debt. What of the debt you owe me, young sir? Have I not saved your life? And yet you repay my conscious act of charity by striking me. Is that honorable? Is that
noble
?”

His words had the desired effect on the battered young man. He stopped fighting. He squinted as though having trouble focusing. “I’ll repay you,” he’d rasped. “I vow, I will repay you. I wouldn’t be beholden to you for any reason.”

And he’d fallen unconscious.

It was that episode which had convinced Pomfrey that he could trust Owens, who was, in his own primitive, heathenish way, an honorable man. If Owens felt so strongly about his obligation to a horse, he must feel ten times that to the man who’d saved his life. No, he had no qualms about sending Owens to protect Mildred. He just hoped he hadn’t overestimated Owens’s abilities.

He dragged his attention back to the two Arabs approaching the garrison. He wished they would just go away, but it looked as if they wouldn’t.

“Open the gates!” the rider bellowed.

Good heavens. He was
English
.

“Sir?” his young lieutenant called up to him.

“This is Mildred Whimpelhall, blast you to hell!” the man on the camel shouted. “Now
open the bloody gates!
”

Mildred?
“Open the gates! Open the gates at once!” Pomfrey called out, hurrying down the stairs. He arrived at the gates just as it swung open and Jim Owens rode in.

“Mildred? Good heavens, Owens, what happened?”

Owens carried her in front of him, bundled in filthy Egyptian rags, her face all but hidden by a swathing veil, only one long knotted rope of reddish hair falling over Owens’s arm. What he could see of her face was just as filthy as her clothing, encrusted with dust and sweat. Her eyes were closed, and he could not tell if she was breathing.

“Is she all right?”

Owens nodded. He looked just as wretched as the woman he held, his skin burnt beneath the coating of dust and salt whitening his lips. “She’s fainted. She needs water and food. And rest.”

His eyes fixed on the unmoving bundle, Pomfrey gestured to two of the nearest soldiers. “Get her down from there, and for God’s sake get her out of those rags,” he ordered.

They hastened forward and lifted their hands to take her from Owens, who with an odd appearance of reluctance shifted her gently to their waiting arms.

“Careful,” Owens barked. “Be careful. She has had a hard time of it.”

Those enlisted men’s wives “living on the strength” had arrived along with one of his junior officer’s wives. They divided their fascinated stares equally between Mildred and James Owens.

“If you would be so kind as to see to Miss Whimpelhall, Mrs. Bly?” Pomfrey asked. “A bath and some new clothing?”

“Water first and then food,” Owens counterordered. “Then you can worry about making her pretty.”

Pomfrey flushed. “That goes without saying.”

Owens slid from the camel’s back as they took Mildred away. The man was near done for, Pomfrey realized. His legs could barely hold him, but when one of the soldiers put out a steadying hand, he shook him off.

Pomfrey offered him a thin smile. “As soon as you’ve eaten and cleaned up, you can report to my office and tell me where the rest of my men are,” he said. He nodded to his young lieutenant, who, though standing at attention, was slack-jawed with wonder. “Jones here will see you to the men’s barracks.”

“Of course,” Jones said. “If you’d follow me, Mr. Owens?”

Owens nodded tiredly and began following the eager young subordinate, but Pomfrey felt he owed the man something more. The trip had obviously tested Owens in unforeseen and unpleasant ways, and yet he’d arrived with Mildred. His faith in Owens had not been misplaced after all.

“Owens,” he called out.

Owens stopped, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion, and looked around.

Pomfrey smiled. “Well, you always said you’d repay your debt to me. I guess you’ve done so at that,” he said amicably. “I should say that makes us even.”

An odd, wry smile curled Owens’s cracked and bleeding lips. “Would you?”

“Why, yes,” Pomfrey said. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Not even a little bit, Colonel. In fact, not at all,” he replied, and with that enigmatic statement, he turned and limped away.

An hour later Pomfrey was still pondering what Owens had meant when Owens appeared in the doorway to his office. He’d washed, shaved, and changed into the regiment’s khaki drill clothing, his own being beyond salvaging. Nonetheless, he still looked awful. Dark circles underscored his eyes, and his cheeks looked hollowed out, his cheekbones jutting under peeling and raw skin.

“Ah, Owens. That’s all right, Hobbins,” he said to his assistant who had leapt up to dutifully guard the sanctity of his commander’s office. “Come in, Owens. Have a seat.”

He motioned for Owens to take the chair across the desk from him and waited while Owens was seated. “Would you like some tea?” he offered, picking up the pot Hobbins had recently brought in and pouring himself a cup.

Owens ignored the offer. “How is she?”

“She?” Pomfrey echoed.

“Mi—Miss Whimpelhall.”

“Oh,” Pomfrey nodded. “Fine, I should imagine, or I should have heard otherwise. Thank you for asking.”

“You mean you haven’t seen her yet?”

“Of course not,” Pomfrey said in sincere surprise. “I can guarantee you, she would not thank me to visit her in her current state. She would be mortified. I shall see her in due course, when she is feeling more the thing. Perhaps tomorrow.”

Owens’s light-colored eyes glittered oddly.

“Now tell me about Neely and the rest of my men.”

“They deserted us,” Owens said flatly.

“
What?
”

“Neely got it into his head that we were being followed by some sort Mahdist raiders. He wanted to turn back halfway into the journey. I refused.”

“Neely left Miss Whimpelhall with you and absconded?” Pomfrey asked incredulously.

“I don’t know the particulars. He coshed me. When I came to, he and his men were gone and Miss Whimpelhall was still with me.”

“Well, for God’s sake man, what did she say?”

“She wouldn’t say much.” Something softened in his eyes for a second, and a half smile flickered briefly over his austere face.

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “She wouldn’t say that either.”

“But that’s preposterous.” Pomfrey drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk.

“That’s Mi—Miss Whimpelhall.”

Pomfrey stiffened, taking exception to Owens’s familiarity. How dare Owens presume to instruct him on what his fiancée was like?

Owens was gazing steadily at a place in the center of the desk through half-closed eyes, either indolent or absorbed.

“Were you?” Pomfrey asked.

Owens pressed his lower lip in and bit it, as though keeping back a snarl. He looked up. “Were we what?”

“Being followed by raiders?”

“No. We were being shadowed by Tuaregs.”

“Tuaregs?”

“Yup. They closed in on us about a week back. Caught us unawares.”

“Good Lord,” Pomfrey breathed, furious. “Then Neely was right and you needlessly endangered my fiancée!”

Dull red swept up Owens’s neck into his lean face. “No,” he said softly. “They were traveling parallel to us. They would never have dared approach us had Neely stayed. They had nothing but a couple of antique rifles, and there were only four of them.”

As much as Pomfrey wanted to believe Neely wouldn’t act in so craven a fashion, he didn’t doubt Owens, not when he could so easily confirm his story with Mildred.

He sat back. “What happened?”

“I sold Miss Whimpelhall to them for that horse you saw, snuck into their camp four days later, and got her back. We’ve been making our way here ever since.”

Pomfrey felt his blood grow cold. “
You what?
”

“There wasn’t another way to ensure her safety. If I hadn’t sold her, they would have killed me, and that would have been the end to it.” Owens met his shocked gaze with a flinty one.