By Desire Bound Read online

  No one could, except her. If it existed. If she could believe her eyes.

  She drew the curtain slowly, slowly, her hand shaking, her breath shallow with fear.

  The elderly porter outside the door looked at her quizzically, and mouthed, "Are you all right, ma'am?"

  "Stay close to me," she whispered to Con as she un­locked the door and opened it a fraction of an inch. "I'm fine, thank you," she said to the porter.

  "Could I bring you some tea, ma'am?"

  He was a kindly man, she could see it in his eyes, and she would have loved some tea. But she couldn't trust anything, not even him.

  "That's fine, thank you. I'll see to it myself. Later."

  "As you wish, ma'am."

  She eased the door closed and locked it again. And looked up once again to see the man with the burning eyes, laughing at her gullibility from beyond the window of the double-locked door.

  "We're not going to eat. We're going to spend two days on this train and we're just not going to eat."

  She knew she sounded delirious, but she didn't care. She was shaken beyond anything she cared to admit.

  He, however, was practical. "We paid for the food, we're going to eat it."

  "And how, pray tell, if we can't go to the dining car and we can't trust a porter to deliver it?"

  "Darcie, you can't fall apart now."

  "You didn't see that man."

  "I saw him twice."

  And that was the thing. Had he or had he imagined he could even see at all?

  She decided not to comment on that. "I'll make ar­rangements to get some food," she said finally.

  "And I'll lock the door."

  Con alone and in the dark in their compartment? No, no, no. She couldn't leave him. If the man could transform himself from a porter into a portent of evil, Con would have no defense against him. None. And he'd already tried to kill him twice.

  "That won't work either. We'll have to starve. I will not leave you at the mercy of that fiend."

  "If you want to find a diamond, Darcie, you'd better feed me."

  "I don't think you should even say that out loud."

  He heard the note in her voice and cursed the dark­ness. "God, he's got you terrified."

  "He's stalking us, Con."

  He felt as helpless as a fly. He remembered looking up at the eyes, seeing the evil, and the lustful grin. Ma­levolence rising from the dust and dirt of a thousand years, provoking fate, disturbing the balance.

  Sometimes death was the only solution.

  "Then we have to destroy him," he said, as if he were pronouncing a sentence. "And you'll have to find the way."

  They'd eaten some of the dried food they'd packed for the trip, fruit and beef, washed down with water, a

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  makeshift dinner at best, and now she lay in her berth, staring into the dark, seeing what he saw every moment of every day.

  Nothingness. Dark blank nothingness. . . . I'll be your eyes . . .

  And anything else you ask of me . . .

  How could he live like that, staring endlessly into the dark, depending on someone else's eyes'?

  She turned restively in the narrow bed.

  What if the man with the eyes was at the compartment door now? What if he watched them all night long? What if she couldn't get out tomorrow to get some food? What if, what if, what if?

  She slipped down from the berth and folded up the bed. She wasn't going to get any sleep tonight. Instead, she was going to prowl the room and chew on the what if's until night turned into day.

  She drew back the curtain on the door. A muted light filled the window from the sconces in the passageway. No shadows. No sense of a lurking presence.

  She had no idea of the hour. She unlocked the door and opened it, and stepped out into the passageway. Not a sound but the rhythmic click of wheels on the rails. Not a breath intruding on the silence.

  She inhaled deeply to calm her pounding heart. No one was about. There was nothing to fear. Maybe this was the time—her stomach was growling—she could just make her way to the dining car, and procure some­thing for them to eat.

  She heard Con stir in the bunk behind her. If she slipped out now, she could be back before he was ever aware.

  And then she wouldn't feel utterly terrorized by that man.

  The dining car was between. the third and fourth

  sleeping cars. She carefully locked the compartment door and slipped down the passageway, surrounded by silence and enfolded by the dim light.

  Late as it was, there were still a couple of passengers sitting in the dining car, and one tired waiter waiting patiently at a table at the far end of the car for them to finish.

  He got up wearily as she approached. Five minutes later, he returned with a tray; she took it from him, waving away his polite offer to carry it back to the com­partment for her.

  Another couple of moments, she would be safely there. She pushed her way through the first of the con­necting doors into sleeping car number four.

  He jolted awake suddenly as the train rounded a sharp curve.

  Goddamned dark; can't see a goddamned thing. Shit. Hell. Bloody blast. . .

  He toppled off of the bunk, his arms flailing, shouting her name.

  No answer. He got up off the floor and groped his way around the room. No Darcie.

  He felt his way to the door. Locked.

  Damn and blast.

  The key—taken. Where the hell had she gone?

  He ripped open the locks and eased into the passage­way.

  No help there. No point in him going one foot further.

  He had never felt more useless. He slammed the door furiously behind him.

  And then he heard Darcie scream.

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  Twelve

  He jumped her from behind between the cars, catch­ing her totally unaware. She screamed as his arm wrenched her neck, and everything on the tray went crashing to the floor.

  Careless. Her sole coherent thought before he pulled her backward into the darkness. She heard his animal panting in her ear, and she pulled and twisted, trying to get purchase to resist him, holding the tray in a death grip, her only weapon to defend herself.

  But he was too strong. He dragged her toward the door, toward the steps, wrestling her as she fought him, as she hooked her feet in the doorframe, as she grabbed for the door.

  He was choking her; she couldn't swallow. She could barely summon the energy to fight. He yanked her back­ward, and she relinquished the door and he forced her toward the steps. She heard the ominous clack of the wheels and felt the cold night air.

  She was that close to death. He would kill her to get to Con—

  Nooooo . . . !

  She went limp against him, making him drag her full weight as he jerked her toward the steps.

  Last chance—no room to turn, can't breathe . . . tray—

  Both hands, no strength—

  In the name of The Eye of God . . .

  With both hands, with the last vestige of her feeble strength, she lifted the tray backward over her head and bashed it against him.

  She didn't know what she hit—his arm, his shoulder, his head . . . but immediately his grip loosened; he fell, and she fell on top of him; she scrambled to her knees, and lashed out at him blindly, crashing the tray over his head, and breaking it in two.

  He lay bleeding, his head propped against the second step from the bottom. Moaning. Limp. Vanquished. . . . we must destroy him . . . and you must find the way—

  She didn't think twice. She lifted his legs and pushed, tumbling him legs over shoulders down the steps and off the train.

  She managed to salvage some of the food, as the por­ters came running, and one of them summoned the train manager to report the accident.

  They'd paid for the food, she thought practically, as she gathered the basket of croissant
s and fruit. At least they would eat. Thank God she was still alive and she could eat.

  A porter brought tea to the compartment, where Con was pacing like a caged tiger, and was just setting it on the table when she entered.

  The train manager, she saw, was already there.

  "Now madame . . ." he said, his voice calm and re­spectful, and Con translated.

  She had determined her story as she made her way shakily back to the room, and she was going to stick to it. No one could prove it happened otherwise, and, she thought, she did not need to attribute a motive to the

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  man with the eyes. He could have been any lecher seiz­ing an opportunity to seduce an unchaperoned woman. And anyway, the fewer details the better.

  "There isn't much to say. The man attacked me, and in the course of my defending myself, he slipped and fell from the train."

  The manager made a tcching sound. "Did madame know the man?"

  "I never saw him. He came at me from behind, his arm around my neck. I was coming from the dining car with a tray of food. I hit him with the tray. He fell back­wards and slipped, and before I could do anything, he was gone."

  "I see, madame." The train manager finished his notes and then bowed. "I think that will be all for now. I can see you are overcome."

  She didn't know how she maintained her composure until they left. And then she just collapsed onto one of the benches and buried her head in her hands.

  "Have some tea," Con said, groping for the bench opposite her.

  "Is the door locked?"

  "I locked it."

  "I can't forgive myself for this. I couldn't sleep. I was so hungry . . . and no one was there." She looked up at him, even though he couldn't see her. "But this is the lesson I learned: he's everywhere. That man is ev­erywhere. "

  "He's gone now."

  "I don't know that, Con. He fell off the train, but—I can't tell you he's gone." She felt tears on her cheeks and she wiped them away impatiently. He'd scared her again. He'd targeted her this time. She couldn't even think beyond that.

  She could feel Con's frustration, that he could do

  nothing while she had almost died. But his voice be­trayed nothing of that as he said, "Pour yourself some tea, Darcie. Eat something. I've already thought about what to do."

  She poured the tea and wrapped her cold hands around the cup. "All right, what can we do?"

  "Well, you were right. We're on the most obvious course, and we have to get off of it. We're going to debark at Budapest, and change trains for Belgrade. The line goes straight through to Istanbul. From there, we can disappear, and they'll never find us."

  "You're crazy. A blind man and a Western woman. Everyone will know who we are."

  "So we'll playact," he said reassuringly. "Just like you said. You've been right about everything; you're much better at this than I am."

  But she'd always had to be, she thought. Invariably she and her father had been one step ahead of someone they'd swindled or who had cheated them. She knew all about dodges and disguises. She'd just never had to cope with a sightless accomplice before.

  She felt a spark of inspiration. "I think we have to hide. On the train. Do you know when we get into Bu­dapest?"

  "Early evening, I think. The timetable should be on the ticket folder. And where might we be hiding on the train?"

  "The kitchen. Think, Con. It's perfect." "We'll get fed, at least," he said dryly. She ignored that. "We'll steal in after the midday meal, when they're cleaning up and we won't be too much in the way. We'll leave things just as they are here—locked door, curtained windows—pack every­thing up and maybe stash the suitcases before the lunch hour. That makes sense. Then we won't look as con-

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  spicuous when we go to the dining car for lunch, and we can sneak off from there the moment the train comes into the station."

  She liked that plan. It felt good to be able to define some action and not to be at the mercy of forces she couldn't understand.

  "Doesn't that make sense? We'll be right out in the open. No one can get to us in broad daylight. And by the time anyone tries, we'll be long gone."

  It was as good a plan as any, he thought. He was just along for the ride. Helpless. Hopeless. Hapless. He felt like a doddering old man as she helped him along the passageway for the second sitting of the midday meal.

  She'd reserved a table very close to the kitchen, and she had managed to get their bags into a storage cup­board in the pantry.

  "You need not rush the meal, madame," the waiter told them as he guided Con into his chair. "We will not set another service until dinner since we arrive in Bu­dapest at four o'clock."

  "Perfect," Darcie mouthed as Con translated and then asked the waiter to recite the menu. They decided on cream soup to start, stuffed breast of turkey, a vege­table salad, with cheeses and tea to finish.

  "We can take the cheese," Darcie said practically. "And whatever vegetables will keep. We ate a lot of that dried meat, and you never know when we might need it"

  That, Con thought humorously, should be his line of reasoning. But Darcie had obviously been in that situ­ation as well, in another country, another world away.

  They ate in silence, with Darcie packing away the fresh bread and crackers that accompanied the soup.

  She hated the fact he couldn't see the countryside as the train rolled on toward Budapest. It was one of the pleasures of the dining car, with its narrow tables, soft lighting, and superbly efficient service.

  But at least, they would have one meal, and a mo­ment's peace before the rest of the journey. Sometimes that was all you could expect.

  The turkey was rolled and stuffed with a breaded dressing and walnuts, the most luxurious meal Darcie had had since before Roger died. The more so because she shared it with Con, because she could help him by covertly cutting his meat and arranging food, as he di­rected her, in a way he could manage them comfortably.

  She loved his expression, as intent as a child's, as he dug his fork into the turkey—at three o'clock on the plate, and the dressing—at twelve, and the salad, at nine. A very efficient system which diminished his awk­wardness and gave him some measure of control.

  She picked at the salad, setting aside the lightly steamed and still-crisp julienned carrots to add to the food she had already squirreled away in a spare linen napkin.

  They ordered dessert: fruit tart, and chocolate pots au creme. Darcie loved chocolate, he discovered, listen­ing to her sensual moans as she slowly ate the creme.

  She packed away the cheese, and poured their tea. "Still another hour until Budapest."

  "All right. This train comes into the South station. We'll need to get over the river to the East station in the Elizabeth district. We may have less than a half hour before this train gets on its way again. They'll take on provisions and mail and they'll be gone."

  "All right. In a half hour, we'll get into the kitchen, an you make a pot of tea stretch thirty minutes?"

  "I can if you can."

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  More difficult done than said. There was nothing they could talk about in public, so she made light con­versation about their fellow passengers until the waiter came to clear the table, after which he signalled that they could remain as long as they wished.

  She watched the car clear out. A couple of passengers remained at the far end, reading a paper, or playing cards, or in deep conversation.

  She thought the coast was clear. "I think we can do it now." She rose from the table and came around to take his arm. "This way." She didn't look back as she led him through the closer door and into the kitchen car.

  It was the most clever arrangement. All the stoves and preparation counters lined one side of the car, with a
n icebox at the far end, and two chefs in constant atten­dance.

  They wove their way around the assistant chefs and the boys who were washing up from the midday meal, and they pressed forward into the anteroom of the car which was lined with cupboards and closets full of pro­visions.

  "I think they'll let us stay here until we come to the station," Darcie whispered. "Just press back against the wall, and I'll get the suitcases."

  She was proud of how she'd managed that, so early in the morning, pretending to the boy on duty that she was taking them to a forward car. It worked perfectly; she'd had time to scout the cupboards, which were emp­tier now because the train would be reprovisioned in Budapest, and she had found an undercupboard with the requisite space.

  And now they waited, as the washer-boys noisily rinsed the luncheon dishes, as the chefs shouted back and forth instructions for the preparation of the evening

  meal, as the sound of the clacking wheels slowed im­perceptibly, and the wail of the train whistle announced they had reached the outskirts of the city.

  In the frenzy to get things done before the train came to a halt, no one in the kitchen took notice of them. Or, Darcie thought, no one cared.

  She edged her way to a small side window in the pan­try. Almost there. Just a few minutes more, and they'd be off and gone.

  She turned to Con to tell him—and she saw him out of the corner of her eye: the man with the burning eyes, coming at Con, a knife in his hand from across the kitchen car.

  No. No. No. No!

  "Con . . . !" she screamed as she hurled herself at him. "Get down . . . ! Damn it, get down . . . !"

  She rammed him against the opposite wall just as their nemesis threw the knife. It hit a cabinet door, just above their heads.

  She heard the babble of voices behind her and shouts and scuffling.

  She pulled herself away from Con, and helped him to his feet, just as the train steamed to a jolting stop and everyone lurched off-balance again.

  Where was the man? The chefs and assistants had him pinned to the floor, kicking and cursing, and strug­gling to get free.