Historical Romance: April Books 1 - 4. Marguerite Kaye

wash his face with his paws, and Tahira’s mind reverted to that fateful moment this morning, when she had spotted Christopher in the milling crowd. She sat up with a sigh. ‘What am I going to do? Do you think he could possibly have recognised me?’

      The sand cat yawned, and returned to his ablutions. ‘You’re right, of course he did not,’ Tahira continued, hugging her knees, ‘I’m just being silly. Besides, what difference do you think it would make if he did? Are you thinking that Christopher would exploit the situation? But all he’s interested in is the turquoise mine, and I’ve already shared the extent of my paltry knowledge with him.’

      Sayeed tucked his paws neatly underneath him and stared at her with unblinking yellow eyes. ‘You cannot be imagining blackmail, surely? Christopher is not about to stride into the royal palace to inform my father that I have been breaking free from the confines of the harem, is he?’ Tahira shuddered. In fact, she knew Christopher was more than bold and self-assured enough to demand an audience with her father. But blackmail? She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, Sayeed, he is not that sort of man. You may take my word for that. It is true, his clothes are threadbare, but he has not the demeanour of a poor man, merely a man who does not care for worldly goods. You are quite mistaken on that score.’

      But Sayeed was evidently bored with the topic, and had gone to sleep. Tahira, however, could not rest. She was not the only one with secrets. Christopher was an enigma. This quest of his, to rid himself of a family heirloom, to sever all connections with his past, was a paradox. A noble deed which he insisted was ignoble. She knew how painful it was to lose a mother, yet Christopher had devoted six months of his life in an attempt to lose his dead mother’s legacy. Such dark emotions possessed him when he looked at the amulet, when he spoke of the past. Hatred? Surely not for his mother. And there was pain too. She longed to know the full story behind the heirloom, though she doubted very much she would be brave enough to ask, and she was pretty certain Christopher would never reveal it. His pain was buried too deeply.

      His honour though, he wore like another skin. In the fables which Tahira read to her sisters, the man who protested too much and too often was the man who had the blackest heart. But Christopher’s promise to protect her innocence, though made several times more than necessary, sprang from deep within himself. I do not refer to myself! She should have known better than to think, let alone suggest, that he did. Christopher was no seducer, but he had known one, and whatever the circumstances, they had affected him deeply. Why?

      So many questions likely to remain unanswered, for even if she did dare ask, she did not dare risk being questioned herself in return. Her curiosity must be balanced by caution if she were not to endanger their night-time rendezvous. She so desperately wanted to help Christopher resolve the puzzle of the amulet. And, yes, she rather desperately wanted to spend more time with him too.

      Outside, it was dark. She began to change out of her harem clothes, and into her night-time garb. The familiar rustle alerted Sayeed, who yawned and stretched in anticipation of a very different kind of night-time’s occupation. By the time his mistress was ready, he was pacing at the door leading to her courtyard, eager to be out hunting.

      Tahira locked the door of her private divan and crept out into the courtyard, the cat at her heels. Somewhere in the desert beyond the towering walls, a hawk screeched. Sayeed growled in response, and Tahira laughed softly, her blood fizzing with excitement as she stealthily made for the entrance of the tunnel.

       Chapter Four

      ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’

      Christopher brought his camel to a halt and dismounted. Following suit, Tahira gazed around her, intrigued. ‘You live here?’

      ‘For the moment. It is no palace but it serves my modest needs adequately.’ He took her camel’s reins and led it over to a small patch of scrub along with his own, where he tethered the beasts.

      What he referred to as his humble abode was in fact the abandoned remains of a desert traveller’s well. The small cluster of buildings were built of adobe, from a distance blending so well with the surrounding sands so as to be almost invisible which, it occurred to Tahira, would have been precisely why Christopher chose it. In which case she was especially privileged to have been invited into his secret bolthole.

      The main house stood more or less intact, with a large wooden door still in place, the windows small slits to keep out the heat of the day. Behind it and to one side stood several crumbling outbuildings, a low perimeter wall marking the remains of a cultivated plot. On the other side stood the well house, with its peaked roof and huge double doors keeping the workings of the precious well safe from the vagaries of the desert and any thirsty wildlife searching for water.

      ‘I have purloined the home of the well-master and his family for my own,’ Christopher said. ‘These ruins around it would have provided basic accommodation for passing travellers and their camels, I think.’

      ‘Does the well still work?’

      ‘Come and see for yourself.’

      He heaved open the double doors and lit the lantern which was standing in readiness by a full tinderbox. The mechanism for drawing up water was relatively simple, consisting of a large leather bucket attached to a thick rope, which was wound around the horizontal strut strung between two forked supports. The winding mechanism was also wooden and looked like a ship’s wheel. Christopher loosened the rope. It seemed to plummet a very long way down very quickly. Tahira did not hear a splash, though she could see, from the way his shoulders strained as he turned the wheel and wound in the rope, that the bucket was not coming up empty. He dipped a tin cup into the bucket and handed it to her. The water tasted sweet and was icy cold. ‘I’ve never drunk from a well before,’ she said. ‘I had no idea it was so delicious.’

      Christopher took the cup from her and refilled it. ‘What a sheltered life you have led.’

      He slanted her a smile, his brows slightly raised, an invitation to confide. Tahira was not so foolish as to do so, but she was tempted, and felt oddly disloyal having to shrug instead. ‘Why do you think this place was abandoned, when the well is clearly not dry?’

      ‘It’s quite far off the main route to the city. Perhaps they found another well in a more convenient location. Lucky for me. I’m very comfortable here.’

      ‘But how on earth did you find it? You would hardly know it’s here.’

      Christopher laughed. ‘It seems I have a nose for water buried underground, as well as minerals and ores. They say I have the Midas touch.’

      ‘That sounds like a talent that could make a man very rich indeed.’

      ‘If one were so inclined.’

      ‘But you are not?’

      ‘I am not inclined to become a speculator and all that entails. The exhaustive political manoeuvring involved when dealing with avaricious land-owners like the Egyptian pashas. The need to be ruthless and cut-throat in business and financial matters. The need to protect your interests when so many covet what you have. None of that appeals to me.’ Christopher grimaced. ‘It would also be inordinately time-consuming. Time I can spend on my excavations is more precious to me than money. So I am content to sell my services to the highest bidder to fund my digs and in return to levy another, non-financial charge.’

      ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘Like most of the ruling families in Arabia, in Egypt the pashas care very little for preserving their heritage, unless it has an intrinsic value. But they do care a great deal for accumulating new wealth, and that’s where I come in. Rather than a share of profits from the gold, diamond, copper, whatever find my survey indicates, I earn myself the right to excavate in their kingdoms, and the promise that they will preserve what I find.’

      ‘That is positively genius,’ Tahira said, quite awed by this.

      He laughed. ‘Ingenious, perhaps.’

      ‘Have