It was the brandy. Nothing more.
Someone at the door made her start. She fearedSeton had returned, but it was Madame Auvray’s maid come to help her undress, as she had done these past nights upon the boat.
She and Clodagh had helped one another before, but this was far easier. Maria was deft with the hook, releasing the buttons on the back of Onora’s dress. She shook out the gown, then hung it, before releasing Onora from the short corset she was wearing, the laces coming free quickly, being loose tied.
Alone once more, Onora extinguished the lamp and, in her nightshift, went to the window, pulling the air into her lungs. She did not yet feel entirely herself.
The slim rind of the moon had risen higher, its gleam faint behind the palms along the bank. The breeze stirred their fronds, making them rustle.
The water beneath was entirely dark.
CHAPTER 6
The afternoon of the following day
Onora gazed mindlessly at the passing scenery, too tired to take much notice of what she was seeing. She hadn’t slept well, dreaming she was unable to move, trapped under the weight of some intangible force. Even now, with the terrors of night dispelled by the searing day, she felt disturbed.
During luncheon her appetite had failed her, and she’d been incapable of any meaningful conversation, though no-one hadremarked upon it. Their spirits were too high in anticipation of reaching the dig site.
Most of their party had now retired below, to supervise the packing of trunks and to rest. Seton had spoken much of the residence he’d built, and the celebratory dinner they would enjoy marking their arrival. There was no doubt it would be a late night, though Onora fully intended to excuse herself before anyone could think to offer her brandy again.
Ever closer came the bronzed cliffs, reaching almost to the water’s edge, scattered openings through the crags marking where the dead had once resided. Those were the tombs, ransacked in centuries past, where her father and Seton had first concentrated their research; days which seemed almost as distant as those of the pharaohs.
Onora squinted against the sun. Nothing was visible of the temple itself, so low was it sunk beneath the sands, but she made out the villa’s whitewashed walls and the bright-blooming pinks and reds in its gardens, stretching abundant through the strip of green which flanked the river.
“So that is the desert house.” The seductive cadence of Madame Auvray’s voice carried over Onora’s shoulder. “Not so very much to crow about but, in this barren place, even the merest hint of beauty must be praised.”
However she felt about Seton, and this place with its complex associations, Onora disliked Madame Auvray’s casual disparagement. “Not entirely barren; the annual floodwaters see to that. I’m sure the villa will be very hospitable. Seton wouldn’t have it any other way.”
As to beauty, it has many forms. Spend some time in the desert and you may learn that.
“Ah! I have hit some tender nerve.” Turning to place her back to the rail, Madame Auvray was the picture of elegance. Her costume today was striped cream and tan, with the short-length jacket cross-buttoned. Her prettily ruffled shirt-waister was immaculately white.
“It is touching, this defense of your beloved and his work, in this middle-of-nowhere place.” Madame Auvray continued looking at her, though Onora stared resolutely across the sands. “Now,chérie, don’t tell me you are so sensitive!” The Frenchwoman’s tone turned coaxing. “I beg all forgiveness. Seton is a lucky man, having a bride who jumps readily to fight for him. Though whether he deserves it…” Her sigh was theatrical. “But let us talk of you,ma petite. With your marriage before you, the pink should be in your cheeks, but you look weary. Did you not sleep?”
Against her wishes, Onora felt herself blushing.
“Ah, I see everything!” Madame Auvray smiled—rather smugly, Onora thought. “You are dreaming of your groom, yes? Do not be shy. Your thoughts are wandering to what you know is coming. You leave behind your innocence and?—”
“Please stop!” Onora didn’t care how rude she appeared. “It’s not something I wish to discuss.”
Least of all with you!
“Ah! I forget how very constricted you English are—especially the women, not wanting to discuss things which are within every person’s mind, which compel our actions. If you change your decision, I shall never be far off.” The Frenchwoman drifted away.
Onora gripped the rail, inwardly seething. To think she’d once considered the Frenchwoman a possible confidante! It was obvious she liked to stir up trouble, and the best way to deal with that was to refuse to pour oil on the fire.
It was in this mood that she whirled about at the next approach of footsteps. To her surprise, it was thereisof the boat.
“Salam, Lady, I beg a moment of your time.” He gave a small bow, resting his hands within the open sleeves of his bluegalabeya.
“Wa alaikum salam.” Onora composed herself immediately, giving the customary response of wishing him peace also.
“I come to pay my respects, and to wishyou well. A wedding should be a joyous occasion. Soon it will come, and your life will be bound to that of your husband and master.”
“Shukran, Tariq.” Onora placed her hand over her heart. Thereis’swords were well-meant, and she accepted them with thanks. He’d known her in the days before—when Seton and her father had first come.
Seton’s wife, Agnes, had been alive then, and Onora a child, yet Tariq had honored her—giving his time, letting her practice her faltering Arabic with him, and always insisting she use his first name.
