Читать книгу Under A Desert Moon - Laura Martin, Laura Martin - Страница 8

Chapter One

Emma leaned over the side of the boat and allowed her fingers to trail across the surface of the water. It was cool against her skin, a refreshing sensation in the heat of the afternoon sun.

‘Careful,’ Ahmed said gently. ‘You wouldn’t want the crocodiles to bite those fingers off.’

Emma withdrew her fingers from the water immediately and peered suspiciously into the murky depths. She glanced at Ahmed and wondered if the older man was teasing her. She knew the Nile was overrun with the vicious reptiles, but surely one wouldn’t be bold enough to approach their little group of feluccas.

‘Crocodiles are fearless creatures,’ Ahmed said, as if reading her mind. ‘They’ve been known to attack flotillas if the temptation is right.’

Emma shifted away from the side of the felucca and forced her gaze up from the water.

‘Only a few more minutes,’ Ahmed said, settling back in the shade and closing his eyes. ‘Keep watching the left bank.’

She scanned the sloping bank for any sign of civilisation. They were only an hour away from Cairo, their final destination, but for now Emma was much more interested in what lay around the next bend in the river.

‘The Temple of Horus,’ she whispered, as they rounded the natural curve and the rolling landscape gave way to the sharp lines of a man-made structure. It was magnificent. The sand-coloured columns rose skywards and as they drew closer she could even see statues of the hawk-headed god Horus flanking the entrance to the temple.

‘Have we not got time to stop?’ Emma asked wistfully, already knowing the answer to her question.

They had been sailing down the Nile for ten days, a trip that was only meant to take eight. The owner of this little group of feluccas had been patient at first, indulging her requests that they stop at each ruined monument that sat near the river, but she knew he would not tolerate any further delay.

Ahmed spoke to the owner in rapid Arabic whilst Emma tried to plaster her most gracious smile on her face.

She followed the heated exchange and only let out the breath she had been holding when Ahmed returned, shaking his head.

‘He says no. Regretfully they cannot make any more stops.’

Emma doubted he had been that polite.

‘But it’s the Temple of Horus,’ she argued.

‘You will have plenty of time to visit temples and tombs, sitt,’ Ahmed said, using the Arabic title of respect to address her. ‘This is just the beginning.’

Emma knew he was right, but still she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the majestic temple. This was her dream, her fantasy. Whilst other girls had dreamed of rich husbands and fancy titles, Emma had longed for the exotic. Her father was a celebrated Egyptologist and for many years he’d lived in Cairo. Throughout Emma’s childhood he’d regaled her with tales of the pharaohs, myths about the Egyptian gods and descriptions of the modern-day Egypt. For all her life Emma had wanted to see it all for herself, and now she was here.

Instinctively Emma’s fingers closed around the delicate scroll that was hidden in the folds of her skirt. She would have her adventure soon enough, and the Temple of Horus would pale in comparison to the delights she would discover when she followed the map on the scroll.

A movement in the distance caught her eye and Emma squinted into the late afternoon sun. Something was moving at great speed through the temple. She sat a little straighter and strained her eyes, trying to work out exactly what it was.

A man. She was sure of it. There was a man running through the temple at such a speed it was as though his life depended on it. She looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. Ahmed was doing his best impression of a man asleep and the owner of the felucca was looking ahead, ignoring the spectacular temple to his left.

Emma watched as the figure sprinted out between two statues of Horus and started to slide down the bank towards the river. A second later it became apparent why he was running so fast. Six men, dressed in the traditional long white robes of the Egyptians, exploded out of the temple’s entrance, shouting in Arabic and gesturing angrily. Emma was surprised to see they all had long, curved swords, which they were brandishing in the air in a rather alarming manner.

The first man had reached the bottom of the slope and took a second to glance over his shoulder. His pursuers were just starting the descent. In a matter of seconds they would be upon him. He looked from left to right, seeming to realise he was running out of options. Suddenly he looked up slightly and his eyes met Emma’s over the shimmering surface of the Nile. He paused, grinned and winked at her.

Emma’s eyes widened. She didn’t think she’d ever been winked at before. She knew she should be affronted but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the man. She watched as he tucked whatever he was carrying into his satchel and dived into the fast-flowing waters of the Nile.

Emma held her breath. It seemed as if he was under the water for ages and she scanned the surface for any sign of life. Panic gripped her as she wondered if he’d been swept away by the current, or, worse, eaten by a crocodile. She redoubled her efforts in looking, dreading the thought that she might see a crimson slash of blood stain the blue waters of the Nile.

‘Permission to come aboard?’ a low voice asked close to her ear.

Emma jumped so much she nearly fell overboard.

She looked down, surprised to see the man she had been watching for had surfaced so close to the boat. He must have swum the entire way under the water.

He grinned at her and she found herself smiling back.

With strong arms he hauled himself up over the side of the felucca and collapsed onto the deck.

Mohammed, the owner of the felucca, was by his side in a second and Emma let out a little gasp of surprise as he drew his sword and held it to the man’s throat.

‘Filthy English grave robber,’ he said in heavily accented English. ‘I should throw you back overboard and let the crocodiles have you.’

‘You will not,’ Emma said, surprising herself with the force of her voice.

Mohammed, Ahmed and the Englishman turned to her in surprise.

‘You heard the lady,’ the Englishman said. ‘I have a protector.’

Emma’s eyes narrowed. She thought she’d detected a hint of amusement in his voice.

Mohammed snorted. ‘I should slit you from throat to belly and watch your thieving guts spill out.’

Emma stepped forward, but she felt Ahmed’s hand on her arm, restraining her.

‘It would make rather a mess,’ the Englishman mused. ‘And you’d be the one scrubbing the deck.’

Emma had never seen someone with a sword to their throat before, but she rather thought normally people in fear for their lives didn’t joke quite as much.

For a few long seconds Mohammed and the Englishman stared at each other, then they both broke out into wide grins.

‘It seems you owe me your life, Oakfield,’ Mohammed said as he clapped the dripping Englishman on the back.

‘Shall we call it even?’

‘You know each other?’ Emma asked, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks.

‘Alas, it is true. As much as I am loath to admit it, I have been known to associate with this lowlife,’ Oakfield said.

Emma snorted. ‘I think it is probably Mohammed who is ashamed to associate with you.’

The Englishman laughed. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. He took her hand in his own and raised it to his lips.

‘Sebastian Oakfield at your service, madame.’

As he lifted his head he looked directly into her eyes and Emma felt something tighten in her stomach. His eyes were a vivid green, a colourful splash against his bronzed skin and sandy blond hair. Emma could see he had tiny lines around his eyes; he was obviously a man who liked to smile a lot.

‘Please relinquish the sitt’s hand,’ Ahmed said, stepping closer.

Sebastian turned to Ahmed as if seeing him for the first time but still did not drop Emma’s hand.

‘Please forgive my forwardness,’ he said, not looking in the least bit repentant. ‘But it is not often you get a woman with beauty to rival Nefertiti sailing down the Nile.’

The compliment brought Emma to her senses. She slid her hand from his and took a step back, trying to look unaffected by his honeyed words. She reminded herself she wasn’t a young, inexperienced girl any longer. She was a woman of twenty-five. And although she might not have much worldly experience she knew better than to believe the insincere compliments of a rogue. Maybe once...but no longer.

‘Step away from my guests, scoundrel,’ Mohammed said, swatting Sebastian on the shoulder. ‘They don’t want to be harassed by the likes of you.’

‘Young ladies don’t want to be courted by dashing and adventurous gentlemen?’ Sebastian said, speaking to Mohammed but his eyes wandering to Emma.

‘How do you know this man?’ Ahmed asked Mohammed, trying to push his way between the dripping-wet new arrival and Emma.

Emma took a step forward; she didn’t want to miss this story.

The glint of humour left Mohammed’s eyes and he said seriously, ‘I owe my life to Mr Oakfield—without him I would be nothing more than a carcass in the desert.’

Emma glanced at Mr Oakfield, who seemed a little uncomfortable about this revelation. He seemed to be the sort of man who didn’t take sincere compliments well, preferring to laugh them off.

‘Three years ago, I was attacked by a group of bandits in the desert. They took my money and my clothes and my horse. They left me to try to make my journey on foot—a feat for a man even half my age. Mr Oakfield found me and brought me to safety.’ Mohammed paused, as if there was more to the story. ‘And he helped me to track down the bandits, who are now languishing in Cairo’s most grim prison.’

Mohammed smiled quickly, then turned back to take control of his flotilla. Emma was just about to say something when a shout from the bank of the Nile made everyone turn to look. The six men in white billowing robes had now reached the water’s edge and were gesticulating angrily in their direction. None of them, however, seemed prepared to get wet.

‘What have you done, Mr Oakfield?’ Emma asked, her curiosity finally getting the better of her. He must have done something extremely reckless to be chased by six very angry-looking men with swords.

‘You mean apart from losing my heart to the most enchanting woman north of the Equator?’

‘You’ve just met me, Mr Oakfield. I hope you’re not one of those foolish men who believes in love at first sight.’

‘Foolish, lovesick...’

Emma heard herself snort again. Mr Oakfield didn’t seem to bring out her most ladylike side.

‘Did you knock your head when you dived into the Nile?’

He looked as though he was about to deny it.

‘I sincerely hope you did,’ she murmured.

‘May we start again?’ Sebastian asked.

Emma gave a gracious nod.

‘Sebastian Oakfield, at your service, madame.’

‘And tell me, Mr Oakfield, what made you risk life and limb diving into one of the most dangerous rivers in the world?’

Sebastian grinned at her and Emma found her disapproving facade waver. He was a very good-looking man. With an infectious smile. A disarmingly infectious smile.

‘I’m so glad you asked, Miss...?’

‘Knight. Emma Knight.’

‘Miss Knight,’ he repeated, his voice low, and Emma knew immediately it was the voice he used with his lovers. A shiver ran down her spine despite the warmth of the late afternoon sun. ‘Would you like to see something spectacular?’

Emma allowed him to take her by the hand and lead her over to the scattered cushions she had been sitting on before he’d boarded the felucca. He sat down and gestured for her to sit beside him. Ignoring Ahmed’s tut of disapproval, Emma sank into the cushions. She found she was holding her breath as Sebastian reached into the bag he had over his shoulder and pulled out an object that fitted neatly in the palm of his hand.

‘Here,’ he said, placing the heavy stone object in her hand.

Emma turned it over in her palm and studied it carefully. It was beautiful. It was made of a rock that she didn’t recognise, the stone a dark grey in colour, and it was carved into a figure of a man. The features were still visible on his face and the details of his elaborate headdress were obvious even after all these years.

‘It’s a—’

‘Shabti,’ Emma interrupted.

Sebastian looked at her appraisingly.

‘Late third-century BC, if I’m not mistaken. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say it was from the tomb of a very wealthy man.’

Emma glanced at Sebastian. He was momentarily lost for words. Emma didn’t think it was an occurrence that happened often.

‘How do you know that?’ he asked.

Emma shrugged. ‘I’ve studied a little around the subject.’

That was an understatement. Egyptology had once been a hobby for her, but in the last few years it had become more of an escape. When all else had seemed bleak, Egyptology had been her saviour.

‘How did you come by this piece?’ Emma asked.

Sebastian studied her for a second, as if contemplating whether to tell her the truth.

‘It was just lying around,’ he said with a shrug.

Emma felt acute disappointment. She’d wanted him to be honest with her, no matter how unpalatable the truth. She’d had enough lies from men to last her a lifetime. Here was just another man who lied rather than admit the truth. When they reached Cairo she would put him from her mind, even if she struggled to forget the thrill she experienced when he looked at her and smiled.