Page 14

“M Y DEAR L ORD ! I T IS E GYPT !”

Kat stood on deck, her happiness at their arrival so complete that she smiled at Hunter with pure joy. There was nothing of any other emotion.

He smiled back, enjoying her enthusiasm. Camille, too, was thrilled. She looked at Kat, wide-eyed, exuberant. “I’m here, we’re here!”

“Let’s hope you’re both so pleased when we’re sweltering in the desert and the sand is whipping into your eyes,” Brian said laconically.

“Oh! I shall love the sand and every minute of it!” Camille returned.

They all stood about talking, pointing, excited, as they came nearer and nearer the shore.

Kat noted, however, that David seemed thoughtful and silent. His mood seemed quite strange to her. But it was no act, for he had kept a distance from the others, just watching.

At last they were alighting on Egyptian soil, and soon they were all excitedly, buying little pieces of fabric, fruit, bangles, various little pieces of art, fake and real, from the vendors who thronged the area where the ships came in. There were people everywhere.

“Wait until you see Cairo,” Hunter said, smiling, his hand on her shoulder.

“Well, I must wait, I suppose. We have another train ride.”

“Indeed, we do.”

And on the train to Cairo, there was more excited talk, everyone expressing amazement that they had finally reached their destination. The train brought them to the station where again, there were vendors everywhere, but carriages awaited them, and soon, they arrived at Shepheard’s Hotel.

Nothing could have prepared Kat for their arrival. Many others besides their group had arrived on the train, too, though she knew that Lord Avery, Brian and Camille, and Hunter would draw the most speculation, the greatest flurry of whispers.

Staff came running out to assist them as they arrived, a general manager bowed over and over again to the group, welcoming Hunter, Brian and Lord Avery back, welcoming the others for the first time. Their boxes, trunks and multitude of crates were gathered from the cart that had followed their coaches, and they had to move past the hundred or so curious onlookers who dined on the patio so that they might settle into their rooms.

Before they could pass completely, though, someone called Hunter’s name.

“Why, Sir Hunter MacDonald! You’ve made it.”

Hunter stopped. Kat’s arm had been looped through his, and she naturally stopped, as well. “Arthur!” Hunter exclaimed. He turned to Kat. “Come, dear, meet a friend. We’ll be right along!” Hunter called to the others.

“I’ll see to your paperwork,” Brian called back.

Curious, Kat accompanied Hunter. The table they approached was in the shade, and the fellow at it was wearing a white casual suit and hat. He was middle-aged, a trifle stout, and wore a mustache. There was something familiar about him.

He rose. “Why, Hunter! Who is this?” the man asked.

“Arthur, my wife, Katherine. Kat, Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle.”

She gasped and was instantly horrified at her lack of propriety. She quickly closed her mouth and stared at Hunter. “Seriously. I told you, we are old friends. I have written a few books myself,” he said.

She looked from him to the man who had invented her favorite character and written so many excellent stories. “Forgive me!” she said softly. “I simply cannot tell you what an honor it is to meet you!”

He smiled, a pleasant fellow, and indicated that they take seats. “My dear, I’m flattered. And thrilled. Just don’t tell me that you are lamenting the death of Holmes, or I think I shall scream.”

She shook her head. “I have no intention of telling you anything. You are the writer.”

“I like this girl!” he told Hunter.

“I’m rather fond of her, as well,” Hunter murmured dryly.

Kat didn’t care. She was sitting at a table in Cairo with Arthur Conan Doyle.

“I’d heard you were down here,” Hunter said. “And your wife?”

Doyle sighed softly. “The weather is better here. You’ll see the dear girl soon enough. How long are you in the hotel?”

“Lord Avery is staying on here the whole time. We’ll keep our rooms throughout, but I’d like to set up at the dig site by tomorrow.”

“Then you must join us for dinner tonight,” Doyle said.

“Oh, yes!” Kat exclaimed.

Hunter smiled. “I believe my wife has spoken. Since that is to be the case, let’s please do get into the rooms now, Kat. We’ll have to spend some time preparing for the move tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Kat said.

Arthur Conan Doyle stood as they departed, arranging to meet at eight. There was a restaurant where the view of the pyramids at night was incredible, and they would go there.

She was walking on air as they made their way into the lobby, where their keys were waiting. The pleasant man behind the desk stopped them when they would have continued on.

“Sir Hunter, there is a telegram for a Miss Adair.”

“That is me!” Kat said, awed. “I mean, it was me,” she said quickly.

“We’re newlyweds,” Hunter explained.

The man nodded, smiling, and passed over the telegram. She looked at Hunter, her eyes wide. “I’ve never received a telegram before!”

“You should read it,” he suggested.

Her fingers shaking, she opened the envelop. “It’s from my father! He misses me but wants me to know that he and Eliza are doing very well… Oh! And they’re on their own,” she said, flushing with pleasure. “Apparently, Lady Daws went to France to transact some business.” She sighed with relief.

“You apparently don’t care much for her.”

Kat couldn’t help but smile. All of the threats that Lady Daws had heaped on her meant nothing now. Thanks to Hunter.

“She assured me that—” Kat hesitated “—as soon as I was home from this journey, she’d see that I was sent to a strict school on the continent!”

“Well, she has no power over you now,” Hunter said.

“No, but…I am terrified that she will marry my father!”

Hunter was silent. They were both aware that could still happen. He didn’t try to tell her otherwise. “I don’t believe she would have done so before,” Kat murmured. “Not when he was poor. But his world has changed so since you introduced him to Lord Avery.”

“There is always a price to pay,” Hunter said softly.

“Well, at least, for the time being, she is in France. And Papa is working on commissions—he has too much work, actually. Of course, he can’t finish the portrait of Lady Margaret for Lord Avery until we return. Oh, Hunter! He must be doing very well. We never could have afforded to send a telegraph before!”

“He deserves the recognition,” Hunter said. “But, now, if you wish to accompany the Doyles to dinner, I have much to do.”

Their rooms were just a half flight up from the lobby level and down a hallway. Their luggage had been delivered and neatly aligned. Emma had been there briefly, for some things were already unpacked.

Inside the room, Kat turned to him again. “Arthur Conan Doyle!”

“Would that I were he!” Hunter murmured. “I have never seen such excitement from you.”

“Oh, but you don’t understand. Sometimes I would be with my father when he was working, and I would lose myself in the stories. I think he is brilliant!”

“He is a fine man.”

Hunter reached out and touched her face, wiping something from it. “Soot of some kind,” he told her. “Well, we’ll be in sand to our ears by tomorrow.”

“It has been a long trip, leaving the ship…the hours on the train. A bath would be lovely.”

“Take a look in the bedroom, dear. This is Shepheard’s, after all.”

There was a lovely bathtub. Kat filled it, anxious to wash away the grime of travel. She should have felt tired, but she did not. In fact, she had never felt so alive as she had in the past few days.

As she lay in the tub, she couldn’t help but wonder if the timing right then was convenient, and if her husband might be interested…

But then she heard commotion from the outer room and knew that he was busy. She could only pick up bits and pieces of what was being said, but apparently, Brian was with him, and they were arranging for camels and horses for the next day. She stepped from the tub. Tomorrow, she would turn into the best assistant and secretary.

Wrapped in a huge snow-white towel, she walked to the window. A sense of wonder filled her again.

There, on the horizon, were the three great pyramids. She was really in Egypt.

And she would be happy to pay the price of being here. Tomorrow.

Tonight, she was dining with Arthur Conan Doyle.

There was a soft tap at the door to the hallway. Curious, Kat walked to it. “Yes?”

“It is Francoise, from housekeeping, my lady.”

She opened the door. The girl who stood beyond was beautiful. She had the exotic look of an Egyptian, with her black hair and dark eyes. Her dress was English, a simple blue-gray gown adorned with an apron. She carried a handful of white towels.

“Please, come in,” Kat said.

The girl entered, heading into the bathroom. When she came out, Kat was by the window again.

“Good evening,” she said, ready to exit. “And if you need anything…”

She was behaving, certainly, as she had been taught. Not to annoy the guests, simply to serve them.

“Actually,” Kat said, “I would like some help.” She pointed out the window. “Which is which, please. I’m on expedition, but I’m really frightfully ignorant of so very much. Would you be so kind?”

The girl moved to the window to join her. She was shy, it seemed, but seeing that Kat was serious, she pointed. “There…as you can see, the largest, that is the Great Pyramid of Khufu, or Cheops. There, and there, the pyramids of Khafre and Menkaure. Khufu ruled about twenty-five hundred years ago, at the pinnacle of power during the time of Egypt’s Old Kingdom. Some believe that the Sphinx was part of his complex, but—” she shrugged “—the scholars remain in debate about that.”

Kat stared at her. The girl seemed especially articulate and well educated.

“You should be a guide,” she said softly.

“I’m a woman,” she murmured. “The hotel is good work. Thank you, Lady MacDonald.” She bowed, ready to leave again.

“Wait, I’m so sorry, but…are you Egyptian?”

“My father was French,” she said simply, “but I am Egyptian, yes.”

“My father would love to paint you!” Kat said, smiling, shaking her head. “You truly have one of the most beautiful faces I have ever seen.”

The girl blushed, then obviously uncomfortable with the compliment, gestured out the window. “The pyramid is something that came about because of the platform, or mastaba, that covered tombs before. The Step Pyramid of King Djoser at Saqqara shows how the steps were achieved, mastaba over mastaba. Of course, the Pyramid of Cheops is the crowning glory of such building. And yet, they say, our desert is riddled with treasures yet to be found. And so…that is why you’re here.”

“Yes, I am on expedition,” Kat said.

The girl offered her a smile then. “You and your husband are with the Earl of Carlyle. Your husband has come many times before, and there is always speculation about what he will find. You will not be so far away. When the desert sands threaten to swallow you, the hotel will be within reach. I pray that you like my country.”

“I already love your country,” Kat assured her, and let the girl go at last.

Later, when she had finished dressing and still awaited Hunter, she found herself standing at the window again.

Looking below, she saw two figures in the shadows between walls of the building. They seemed to be meeting furtively. One looked anxiously around.

It was Francoise, Kat realized.

She tried to make out the other figure. It was that of a man. The two came very close, whispering. The man was obviously angry.

Kat gasped when she saw him strike the girl.

She couldn’t possibly have been heard, but it seemed that the two looked up. She stepped back from the window.

When she looked down again, they were both gone.

She wanted to find a way to talk to the girl again. Her heart bled for the young woman who appeared to be so cruelly abused.

F ROM THEIR TABLE , they could see the pyramids rising from the sand, and Arthur Conan Doyle was quick to point out to Kat that tourists were climbing them.

“I cannot wait to do so!” Kat breathed.

“Well, we shall have to wait a bit; there’s a lot to be done,” Hunter said. He saw Kat’s face fall.

Louisa, Arthur’s wife, laughed softly. “Hunter! You have seen the pyramids too many times. You surely remember how magnificent they were at first sight, how overwhelming in size and shape and simple existence!”

The woman looked well enough, Hunter thought, but she was dying. He knew that Arthur had taken her to more than one doctor. The diagnosis was always the same. Tuberculosis. But Arthur was not one to accept any such diagnosis without fighting back. He and Louisa, and the children, at times—daughter Mary, son Kingsley—had moved about, seeking the best climates, and she had already outlived the doctors’ predictions. She was a wonderful, sweet-natured woman, and she and Arthur suited each other very well. Arthur had once told Hunter that he had been fortunate in his family life, and even fortunate to have suffered the illness himself, for it had taught him he did not need to maintain both a medical career and a writing career. He was bitter now, however, because the public was actually hounding him to bring Sherlock Holmes back to life.

That, when he was facing a real life tragedy.

But tonight, Louisa looked well. And Kat’s pleasure in everything about her was so contagious that everyone felt merry.

In fact, he had almost forgotten that he needed to be worried.

“Tell me, are you as great a detective as your creation?” Kat said teasingly to Arthur.

Hunter winced slightly, knowing how Arthur felt now about his famous character. Holmes was driving him mad.

But to his surprise, Arthur had an answer for Kat.

“My dear, all the credit goes to an old professor, Dr. Joseph Bell. He was amazing. A patient would walk in, and he would know by the fellow’s clothing and shoes what he did for a living and where he had been. He could look at a man’s hands and know immediately a great deal about him. Thus, he could diagnose his patients more readily. He was a brilliant fellow. I, in turn, am often tempted to write Watson when I am to sign my name! At any rate, like Dr. Bell, I have learned to look at the world and those around me in a different way.” He glanced at Hunter. “Have you been experiencing some mysterious happenings of late?”

“Yes, I would say so,” Hunter replied.

“Do tell!” Louisa encouraged.

“Shall I start at the beginning?” he asked, glancing at Kat.

She looked back at him uncertainly.

“We’re not at all really sure if we’ve had mysterious happenings,” he said, “or a series of truly remarkable coincidences.”

“Very curious, Hunter. We’ve had a few around here, too. You tell me yours, then I shall share what I fear is rather common knowledge.”

Hunter glanced at Kat again, then began speaking. “You see, I met my wife because a young fellow—a son of Lord Turnberry—tumbled into the Thames. Kat, who was on her father’s vessel, dove in to save him. I dove in, as well. Later, the young fellow confided to Kat that he believed he’d been pushed. Then after that, let’s see… A map has disappeared, Kat was possibly given something to make her deathly ill the night of our engagement party, a huge stone fell from the Colosseum where Kat and David happened to be, and last but surely not least, their was a cobra in Kat’s room in Rome.”

“Goodness!” Louisa exclaimed. “I see your dilemma. Accident…or coincidence?”

“At first,” Hunter said, “I didn’t believe that there could be a reason for anyone to harm David Turnberry. I can’t even begin to think of a reason anyone would want to harm my wife.”

Arthur was looking at him, frowning gravely. “I believe you do have quite a mystery on your hands. Who was with the lad on the boat the day he was sailing? Anyone with you now?”

“His friends, school chums,” Hunter said. “Robert Stewart, Allan Beckensdale and Alfred, Lord Daws. His stepmother, by the way, happens to be a friend of Kat’s father.”

“Mmm,” Arthur murmured.

“It’s ridiculous to think that any of those men, college companions, would be dangerous to one another!” Kat said.

“My dear,” Arthur said. “You claim to be my ardent reader. What you must do, always, is eliminate the impossible. What is left, no matter how improbable, is true.”

Kat looked at Hunter. “I’m afraid we’re still at a loss.”

“Then you need more clues. And you will have to find them. And, most important, you must be observant of all things at all times.” He looked at Hunter. “Keep me posted, eh?”

“Naturally. Of course, some of what I’ve told you is well known, but…”

“We shall keep your confidence, of course,” Arthur assured him.

“So! What gossip and mystery goes on here this season?” Hunter asked.

“Well, sadly, some of the usual. But it seems that many treasures have gone missing from digs in the general area of the Giza Plateau. There are rumors that the digs are cursed. A few workers have actually disappeared, and a few have returned to Cairo, anxious to beg, borrow or steal, rather than go back out on the sands. One poor fellow, seemingly half mad, claimed that chanting rises from the sand.” He smiled ruefully at Kat. “It was during the Old Kingdom era, the time of Khufu, that the kings started to emphasize their godliness, or their associations with the gods. Afterward, pharaohs were also claimed to be the sons of the great sun god, Re. At his death, a pharaoh became one with Osiris, the father of Horus, and the great god of the underworld. Priests became powerful by seeing to it that common people were duly awed by the godlike men who ruled them. So, it’s easy to see how today’s people might believe that somehow, there are those about still chanting, still worshipping their mighty ruler-gods.”

“It’s just desert winds,” Louisa said softly, then squeezed her husband’s hand. He cast her a bittersweet smile.

Louisa cleared her throat and winked at Kat. “Mesmerists are all the rage in London now, aren’t they?”

Arthur stiffened. “All hoaxes—yet quite fascinating.”

“He has taken an interest,” Louisa said with a good-humored sigh. She looked at her husband again. Please, don’t miss me too much. Don’t seek me when I am gone! she might have said aloud.

“Well,” Hunter murmured, “you are both welcome at the site at any time.”

“And if I can do anything…” Kat began, looking at Louisa.

“You are here and it’s a lovely dinner,” Louisa said. “A beautiful night. So, dear Lady Katherine, how do you find the hotel?”

“Fascinating!” Kat said, then she grew troubled. “I talked with one of the hotel maids this afternoon. She was quite fascinating, as well. A beautiful woman, Egyptian, but she said that her father was French. She was so well spoken.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve seen the girl,” Arthur said.

“Yes,” his wife agreed. “And she is quite lovely. Impossible to miss.”

Kat hesitated. Hunter was looking at her curiously.

“I saw her later, too, when I happened to look out my window. She was down in a shadowy area between the buildings talking with a man. He struck her. I…I wish there was something that I could do.”

There was silence for a second. “Sadly, my dear, there are men in England who think nothing of striking their wives. There is little you can do here.”

She flushed, because Hunter was still looking at her. “It’s just…wrong,” she murmured. She looked up and met his eyes. “It is wrong for anyone to strike another person.”

A touch of amusement lit the deep blue of his eyes. “Indeed. But then again, we can be cruel in many ways, such is the nature of the human beast,” he said.

She thought that it might be the closest they would ever come to apologizing to each other.

And still, the thought of the girl troubled her. But it was true. There was little she could do.

I T WAS LATE WHEN THEY finally returned to the hotel. Still, Hunter had a few notes to go over, and as he was anxious to get to the site, they could not be forgotten. He was at the desk in the parlor when Kat came out. She was in a robe, her hair freshly brushed and burning radiantly down her back.

He arched a brow at her.

He was startled when she moved before him, hesitated, then took the pencil from him, sat on his lap and threaded her fingers through his hair.

He was so startled, in fact, that he nearly dropped her.

She pressed her lips to his. Teased and played, running the tip of her tongue over his mouth in seductive circles. His desire came like a bolt of lightning.

“What is this for?” he whispered.

“I am so grateful!” she said. “You…Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle…”

He might have been mad, but he felt stricken to the core. Angered. He stood, setting her on her feet.

“Madam, I do not want your gratitude!”

“I…I…” she stuttered, then stared at him with fury. “Trust me! You shall never receive it again!”

She left him, hair flying behind her as she strode to the dividing door.

It slammed in her wake. Loudly.

He stared back at the paper. Then he rose, walking to the door, opening it, closing it. She was on the bed, as far to the one side as it was humanly possible to be without sliding onto the floor.

He doused the light and disrobed in the dark. He crawled in beside her and reached for her. She was as stiff as a two-by-four, but nonetheless he climbed on top of her. “Never come to me,” he said, unable to read her face in the dark, “for anything other than the reason that you want me. Ah, but I am not the man you love and desire, you would say? Still…come to me because you want me, not because you want to thank me or you want something from me, do you understand?”

“Is that all?” she queried.

“No.”

He leaned down, seeking her lips. She tried to twist from his hold.

“Sir, I am not interested, and this is not convenient.”

“You do not forget or forgive, do you, my love?”

“It’s extremely rude for you to come to me now!”

“No, it’s not. I’m here because I do want you,” he said very softly.

She let out a soft breath. And when he wrapped her in his arms again, she braced against him at first, then relaxed.

When he made love to her, she began to make love in return. Her fingers, so delicate, over his back. Her lips, utter nirvana on his flesh.

And each moment, a little bolder…

Later, he lay by her side, holding her against him. In silence.

Good Lord, how he loved his wife!