Authors: Anne Gracie
To Catch a Bride (18 page)
She looked down at the hand he had kissed. She’d never had her hand kissed before, except for him. And now, twice, he’d kissed her hand. It didn’t feel like a responsibility. It made her feel . . . strange, special.
As if she were a . . . a princess, and not . . . what she was. She closed her eyes briefly and wished she was that princess, wished she could be . . . how he made her feel.
But all that was for a dead girl. Not Ayisha.
Still . . . She recalled Laila’s words. She might not be a princess, but a poor girl could eat an orange as well. She could still partake of that sweet orange of life, and she would, she decided. She would suck it dry.
She would make her own happiness.
They reached the corner next to Laila’s house, where Laila and Ali were waiting. Rafe said a crisp good-bye—he was looking a little hot, from the sun, no doubt—and marched up the narrow street.
Ayisha watched him striding away up the lane.
My only desire is for your welfare and happiness.
His long black boots gleamed in the bright sun.
My only desire is for your welfare and happiness.
His long black boots gleamed in the bright sun.
“English clothes are very . . . revealing,” Laila commented, watching him go. “A fine figure of a man, that Englishman.”
Ayisha jumped and realized that she had, indeed, been staring at the smooth flex and pull of his powerful muscles as he walked, and at his firm masculine backside in the tight buff pants.
Her cheeks warmed. She turned to Laila and noticed her cupping one hand in the other. “What’s the matter with your hand? Did you burn it?”
Laila flushed and looked down to where her hand was cradled just under her breasts. She gave Ayisha a rueful look. “No, and I think maybe you have the same problem as me.”
Ayisha looked down and saw she was holding her own hand similarly. She dropped it immediately. “There’s nothing wrong. It was just—” She broke off, flushing.
“I know; these Englishmen,” Laila supplied. She gestured with her chin. “It is a very unsettling custom, this kissing of hands.”
“Yes,” Ayisha agreed fervently.
“And maybe,” Laila added thoughtfully, “it is something to do with their blue eyes. They make women think of rumpled beds and long, hot nights . . .”
She caught Ayisha staring at her and added hastily, “Other women, not respectable ones like you and me . . .”
A
yisha lay on her bed mat in the courtyard, wrapped in a rug, her cat curled against her, kneading her arm, purring like a rusty coffee grinder. The night was cool, a breeze, moist from the river, stirred the air. Far above her the stars glittered cold and bright.
yisha lay on her bed mat in the courtyard, wrapped in a rug, her cat curled against her, kneading her arm, purring like a rusty coffee grinder. The night was cool, a breeze, moist from the river, stirred the air. Far above her the stars glittered cold and bright.
Were they the same stars that looked down on England, she wondered? She couldn’t be sure. But the moon . . . the moon was the same all over the world.
On his pallet under the bench, Ali stirred in his sleep.
When she was in England she’d be able to come out and look at the moon and think of this place, these people.
When she was in England . . . No longer if.
Laila was secure: she would either work for Baxter and live there in the cook’s house with Ali, or she would have a house in Alexandria. Either way she would be safe.
And so would Ali. Already he was beginning each sentence with “Baxter says . . .”
The cost was worth it, even though Ayisha’s future was less secure. No future was secure, she reminded herself. Illness could strike at any moment, accidents happened; all she could do was try.
England was a green land, Papa had told her, and very beautiful. A cold land, where it rained nearly every day, and whole days where you could see only a few yards ahead because of mist. Mist was beautiful, Papa said, but it made him cough. Papa’s lungs were bad. Born in the heat of India, he could not take the cold.
Could she take the cold? She wasn’t sure. She’d never been really cold, not for long. In winter she and Ali slept bundled up in thick rugs, and on clear, cold nights they slept beside the oven.
In England it snowed. Snow was wonderful according to Papa: you built snowmen and rode on sleds and threw snowballs.
But Mama told stories of long snowbound winters in the mountains of Georgia. Snow could freeze your fingers and toes so that they fell right off, Mama said. Ayisha wasn’t sure if that was true or not. You never could tell, with Mama.
Soon, maybe, she would see snow for herself.
Tom butted her hand, a gentle reminder that she’d stopped patting him. She smiled and cuddled him to her. “You won’t like the snow in England, Tom,” she whispered to the cat. “But we will keep each other warm.” With her cat, she would not feel so alone in cold, green England.
No matter what, she was sure there would be no long, hot nights.
O
mar says no,” Ali announced as a servant admitted him to
mar says no,” Ali announced as a servant admitted him to
Baxter’s presence. He’d knocked so hard on the door, he’d woken the entire household.
Ali continued, “He said, ‘No sister of mine will work for a foreigner.’ But really it’s because without Laila he will need to work himself, or starve. He is a lazy slug, that Omar.”
Baxter, yawning, waved him to sit down. “Good God, boy, who told you to come at such a ridiculous hour?”
“You said first thing,” said Ali indignantly. “This is first thing.”
Baxter peered at the early morning sky. The sun was barely up. He shuddered. “From now on first thing means eight o’clock.” He yawned again. “Do you know how to make coffee?” Ali nodded. “Then make me some coffee while I get dressed. I will have a coffee and then I will talk to Omar.”
“No, you must not,” Ali said immediately. He grasped Baxter’s sleeve earnestly. “If you go there, it will be . . . trouble.”
For Laila, was the implication.
“The only way to deal with bullies is to confront them,” Baxter told him.
Ali snorted. “This I learned on the streets. But if I stand up to Omar, it will not be me who suffers. When I am older, it will be different.” He clenched his fists. “And when I am a man I will take Laila away from that place.”
Baxter looked at Laila’s ten-year-old champion and rubbed a hand over his bristly jaw. Did he want to talk to Omar or not? He didn’t take on a fight unnecessarily. And when he did, he liked to win.
He’d taken a shine to Laila right off, but was that reason enough to take her brother on? After one meeting? These things had implications . . . especially in the Orient. Especially when a woman was involved.
“I need a shave and a coffee, in that order,” he told Ali. “Then I will think about it.”
The tension drained out of Ali’s skinny frame. “So you’re not going to talk to Omar?” He looked relieved but sounded disappointed.
Baxter looked at the boy and thought about the woman he’d met only the day before. He’d liked her on the spot. He’d made an instant decision to employ her. His instincts had never let him down. He made a decision. “Did I not ask you to make coffee?”
“But—” Ali began.
Baxter pointed at the kitchen. “Go! And wake Jamil and tell him to come here to me.”
But when Jamil came, it was not to shave Baxter, but to deliver a message to a woman in the poorest part of town . . .
A few hours later, Jamil murmured something in Baxter’s ear, and Baxter sent Ali on an errand to buy some fruit at the market. The moment Ali had run off, Jamil brought a woman through the back entrance, her identity swathed and hidden.
“So, Laila, your brother says no,” Baxter said when she had seated herself. “You now have a choice—if you still wish to come and work for me.”
“A choice?” She dropped her veil. Her liquid dark eyes examined him.
Baxter caught his breath. She was lovely. Her skin was smooth and creamy. Her full, rosy lips were a little puffy at one corner. Not a young woman and, he thought, eyeing that bruised and swollen lip, not one to whom trust would come easily.
But there was a certainty about her steady gaze, as if she’d come to terms with who she was. He liked that in a woman.
“There is a way, but you will have to trust me,” he said.
She gave him a clear look. “I have had few reasons to trust men in my life. But tell me your plan.”
He told her and her eyes narrowed. “Why would you do this? You do not even know me.”
He shrugged. “Simple. I like my comforts, and I like you. And I trust my instincts about people. But it’s up to you. Think about it and let me know your decision.”
T
ake this and go shopping,” Rafe told Ayisha when he called on her next morning. He handed her a purse. “Buy whatever you will need for the journey.” He glanced at her clothing. “It might be easier if you wore those clothes on the journey to Alexandria—we will go by horse and then take a boat down the river. But you will need to board the ship as a woman.”
ake this and go shopping,” Rafe told Ayisha when he called on her next morning. He handed her a purse. “Buy whatever you will need for the journey.” He glanced at her clothing. “It might be easier if you wore those clothes on the journey to Alexandria—we will go by horse and then take a boat down the river. But you will need to board the ship as a woman.”
Her eyes flashed—he’d been pushing her hard, he knew—but all she said was, “Is there anything special I should buy?”
“I don’t know—dresses, stockings, underwear, shoes, shawls, hats—that sort of thing.” What did he know of what women needed? “Don’t pinch pennies, buy whatever you think you might need. Take Laila with you.”
“Laila is busy,” she told him.
“You’d better get going,” Rafe told her. “There is much to do. We leave for Alexandria in a few days.”
She took the purse. For a woman who’d been given carte blanche to purchase whatever she wanted, she looked downright miserable, but he couldn’t help that.
S
hortly afterward Baxter knocked on Omar’s door. He’d looked in on his place of business on the way and called to a thin young man, bent over a pile of documents. “Ben,” he called. “I want you to come with me. Bring paper and pen and ink.”
hortly afterward Baxter knocked on Omar’s door. He’d looked in on his place of business on the way and called to a thin young man, bent over a pile of documents. “Ben,” he called. “I want you to come with me. Bring paper and pen and ink.”
He had to knock twice on Omar’s door. As they waited Baxter sniffed the air. “Smell that? There is a bakery near here. Get us some fresh bread, Ali. We will make a proper breakfast after this.” He tossed him a coin.
Ali looked at the coin doubtfully. “But it is Laila’s bread,” he said. “You do not need to pay.”
“Laila’s bread? Of course. I’d forgotten she’s a baker.”
“It is very good bread,” Ali told him. “It sells very quickly.”
“Then run and buy some for me before it all runs out,” Baxter told him. “I could do with some very good bread.” Ali shrugged and went around the corner.
The door was finally opened by Omar himself. He was around Baxter’s age, a plump man with thick lips, a paunch, and thinning hair. He peered blearily at the visitors and scratched his stomach. “What is it?” His clothing was rumpled, as if he had slept in it.
Baxter introduced himself, stepped inside, and repeated his offer of employment for Laila. He carefully outlined the conditions of employment.
Omar sniggered when he finished. “That’s what you call it, is it? Keeping a woman in the house? I found out all about you. A widower, aren’t you? Think I don’t know what you want my sister for?”
“You are mistaken,” Baxter said coldly. “It is a fair and honorable offer I make; your sister is a respectable woman.”
“She is,” Omar said. “Which is why I say no. Laila’s duty is to her family.”
“Your family being you?” Baxter asked.
“I am head of the family. I decide what my sister does.”
Omar’s gaze slid over Baxter like oil, taking in the rich fabric of his robes, pausing at the gold signet ring on his finger.
Sizing him up, Baxter thought. He waited for the offer he knew would come.
Omar glanced at Ben, standing meek and silent by the door. “Who is that?”
Baxter shrugged. “Just one of my clerks.”
Omar looked conspiratorially around, leaned forward, and murmured, “For a price, I might reconsider.” His breath stank.
“Let me get this clear,” Baxter said. “For the right price, you will allow me to debauch your sister?”
Omar shrugged. “If the price is right.”
At that moment, Laila came in from the rear of the house. Her eyes flew to Baxter, then to Omar, and then back to Baxter.
“What is going on here?” she asked. As if she didn’t know.
“Outside, woman, this is men’s business,” Omar snapped.
She left with quiet dignity.
“Can you read?” Baxter asked Omar.
“Of course,” Omar said with a certain bravado.
Baxter pulled out a notepad and pencil, sat down cross-legged at the low table in the middle of the room, and swiftly filled the page with fluent Arabic. When he’d finished, he handed the page to his assistant, Ben. “Tidy that up. Two copies,” he said. “And hand me the pouch.”
Ben sat, pulled a leather pouch, ink, and paper from a satchel he’d been carrying, handed the pouch to Baxter, and began to copy rapidly.
As Ben’s pen flew, Baxter began to count out money. He did it slowly, deliberately, watching Omar out of the corner of his eye.
Omar, who’d watched Ben’s swift, neat writing with a bemused air, was instantly distracted. His eyes bulged as the pile grew. He sat, his mouth wet, watching avidly. His hands twitched.
Baxter finished counting and set the pile in the center of the table. “Is that sufficient?”
Omar nodded eagerly. He reached for it, but Baxter’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist, so hard Omar winced.
“Not yet,” Baxter said in a hard voice. “You must first sign the agreement that you will give your sister to me in exchange for this sum of money.”
Omar snatched the pen and scribbled his name on it, barely glancing at the paper.
His hand crept toward the money.
“Sign the other copy,” Baxter ordered.
Omar signed. Baxter countersigned each document and handed it to Ben, who also signed, then sealed each document with red sealing wax.
He handed one copy to Baxter and the other to Omar. “Take it.”
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