By Desire Bound Page 15

  She took all that in with one lightning glance, and the lethal dagger just above her head. She didn't even think. She grabbed it, and thrust it into the waistband of her skirt, and then she picked up the suitcases and grasped Con's hand.

  "Darcie . . ." Useless. Helpless. At the mercy of sound. He held onto her hand like a lifeline.

  173

  172

  BY DESIRE BOUND

  Thea Devine

  "Shhh—It was the man . . . and we have to go— now ..."

  She picked the first door in the pantry that looked likely, and thanked the fates when it opened onto a narrow passage that led to the loading dock.

  She took one look behind her to see if anyone were following, and then she kicked into a run and they were off and gone.

  From that point until they reached Istanbul, every­thing was a blur. They took a cab from the South station to the East. They got second-class passage on a train that left in the morning for Belgrade. There, they con­nected with the Venice Express which went through to Istanbul.

  Everywhere, she looked for the man with the burning eyes, certain he followed them, and that they could never escape him.

  "He wants the diamond," Darcie said tiredly, as they huddled against the leather banquette in their sleeping car. She had laid the various foods she'd saved on the table, and she was encouraging him to eat when neither of them had an appetite.

  "He wants me," Con said, "dead or alive."

  That was worse. She refused to consider it. "Eat some­thing."

  "You eat. You need your strength."

  "Hogwash."

  "And what am I good for, Darcie? All I am is a re­pository, a map to the location of a legend and a dream."

  "How long will it take to get there?" she asked, mak­ing a feeble joke.

  "You have to fall down a rabbit hole, and hope that the queen doesn't take off your head."

  "Lavinia," she murmured. "She can't be everywhere."

  "No. Only her men."

  The man with the burning eyes. The thought pursued them as tangibly as their nemesis, as the train steamed eastward.

  Istanbul in the bright white hot light of the after­noon.

  She had never felt such heat. It settled on her like a second skin and seeped into her pores. She felt as if she would melt under the relentless sun and that she would just be absorbed in the streets of the city.

  It was a place where old and new existed side by side, domes and minarets interspersed with modern Euro­pean architecture, and ringed by avenues lined with towering palms and enclosed by a wall that seemed to both contain and intensify its contradictions.

  The Bosphorus glittered on the horizon, merging with the cloudless blue sky, and the sun beat down mer­cilessly on whitewashed houses crammed in narrow al­leyways that led through the city's native bazaars.

  It was here they were headed, after debarking from

  the train.

  "There isn't a vendor in the souk who won't bargain and buy," Con said, "and we'll be able to sell some more jewelry. Although—we should register at the hotel first. The Pera Palace will do. It's a little further from the market, but the price is better."

  And had she not known she was in heat-drenched Istanbul, she would have thought she was in a luxurious European hotel where they would be waited on hand

  174

  175

  Thea Devine

  BY DESIRE BOUND

  and foot and she could have soap and a bath and soft cotton sheets.

  And she could have him.

  They stored the suitcases in the room, and went back out into the sun-baked streets, as visible a target as the sky.

  Con told her what they needed: the shrouding tunic and veil of the submissive woman, and the cloak and headdress of the dominating male. Heavy boots for pro­tection and walking. Henna to dye their skin so they would blend into the crowd.

  Even dressed like this, she didn't think the disguises would work. He was far too dependent, she was nowhere near enough subdued.

  But he knew the language of the souk, and the ways of the moneylenders and the thieves. And he knew how to get around the vendors' obvious distaste of showing their wares to a woman, so by the end of the day, he had accomplished all he wished.

  Shockingly, converting the jewelry to cash had been the easiest of the transactions once he had garbed him­self in desert dress.

  He told them he was a trader of white women, and he was taking her to Baghdad, with a dowry of diamonds for which he now needed cash.

  Pretend. She had to force herself to act submissive, standing as the moneylenders examined her, with her hands tied behind her and her eyes downcast.

  It was enough. "They said you were very beautiful for a Western woman," he told her as they returned to the hotel. "They deeply pitied me for my affliction. They paid me extra in sympathy, the bastards, because Allah would never grant me the blessing of seeing your un­usual blue eyes. They envied the man who would buy you. They offered to top whatever his offer might be."

  She didn't see the humor. She was sapped by then, utterly wretched in the heat, and the Pera Palace looked like heaven in the sweltering afternoon sun.

  They ordered bathwater as they came into the hotel, and dinner, to be brought to the room.

  "All I want to do is take off my clothes and lay naked in a pool of water," Darcie said, throwing herself down on the luxurious bed.

  It was a very westernized room, designed to cater to travellers on the Orient Express. There was a proper bed, a commodious wooden dresser, two chairs and a table for in-room dining, a cool tile bath, luxurious car­peting, shuttered windows instead of the ubiquitous lat­ticework that could be seen everywhere else; the only thing that differentiated it from a hotel in Mayfair was the godawful heat.

  And she supposed, as she watched Con prowl the room still dressed in his aba, she might just as well get undressed; there was no question of modesty, there was just the everlasting heat and her feeling that this jour­ney had not yet begun.

  She divested herself of everything but her camisole and her drawers, and folded the clothes neatly on the bed.

  "This is what we're going to do," Con said, pausing by the shuttered window, and staring out of it as if he could see the streets of the city below. "We're going to disguise you as a man."

  "What?!"

  "I'd wear women's clothes if I thought I could get away with it, but I'm too tall by Eastern standards, whereas you are approximately the right height for a man."

  "And how will we diminish your height?"

  "I'm feeling extremely diminished already, Darcie."

  177

  BY DESIRE BOUND

  176

  Thea Devine

  Ah! She felt the pinch and emotional sting of those words. Now was not the time to argue with him. And she didn't want to. She wanted something else from him altogether.

  "That's a good plan," she agreed.

  "It's reasonable, given the circumstances, and it'll al­low us to disappear in the crowd. We shouldn't stay here more than just tonight. We'll outfit ourselves for the remainder of the trip tomorrow in the market. We have about another two weeks' journey to Lahore. And I think we'll take the train through to Baghdad."

  "But the question is, did he get off the train in Bu­dapest and follow us here?"

  He sat down heavily in one of the chairs by the win­dow. "Possibly. I keep forgetting Lavinia. Maybe she has operatives everywhere from here to the border. We'll just have to proceed as if she does."

  Dinner arrived then, and a queue of servants bearing water carafes on their shoulders, which they poured into the shallow bath, while Darcie huddled under the blankets until they were gone.

  And then she immediately darted into the bathroom and knelt by the tub. "Oh God, that looks good," she sighed, trailing a hand in the warm water and then flick­ing it in Con's face. He smiled, a little.

  "Enjoy it. We won't see a bath for another month."

  "I'm going to e
at first."

  "Feast away; you won't get a decent meal either."

  She came back into the room and sat down at the table. There was wine and a samovar of tea; lamb in kebobs, rice and beans, a roasted chicken, cheese and fruits. She laid everything out for him, and then poured herself some tea, and some wine for him.

  "We can toast the success of the journey," she said. "We're close to the end of the journey, aren't we?"

  He didn't answer. He lifted his goblet. "I'll toast to the journey, Darcie. I couldn't tell you where it's going to end."

  She didn't like that, but she clinked her cup with his goblet and sipped the tea thoughtfully. There would be an end, she thought, the end she wanted, the one that wouldn't have the stamp of her father on it, or someone else's needs or desires. She'd saved him for one reason only, and her life—and his came to that—were worth nothing if they returned to England without The Eye of God.

  The jewel of power. She knew all about that too— about the dreams that made men kill; the legends for which they died. The man with the burning eyes was counting on that; and Lavinia, so far in the background now as to seem negligible, was gambling on it too.

  That didn't mean the threat she posed wasn't there. Lavinia wanted The Eye of God, and she wanted Con dead. And she yearned for the child of Roger's blood, and to have Darcie's head.

  Two treasures for the House of Pengellis, to bejewel her crown. Time and distance meant nothing to her. However long it took, whatever she had to do, Lavinia would wait the course. Lavinia had patience. Seven years, she'd waited like Lot's wife for Con to give up the prize. What was a half year more to accomplish Con's demise?

  But always, when she thought about Lavinia, she felt a sense of urgency, as if the mere conjuring of her name made her a tangible presence to be reckoned with.

  A gull screamed outside the window and she felt a chill course all over her body. She pushed away her plate, her appetite gone, and she saw that Con had hardly eaten either.

  178

  Thea Devine

  179

  BY DESIRE BOUND

  "If we could leave tonight, I would," he said suddenly.

  "But it's dark now ..."

  "Yes."

  "It's dark everywhere," he murmured. "God, I would give my soul for a moment of light."

  "Don't say that."

  "Perpetual darkness, Darcie. It's like being dead."

  "Not if we bring back the diamond."

  "You have no idea what lies ahead."

  "I've climbed mountains, Con. I've gone without food. I've shivered in snowstorms. I've been thought buried for good. You were absolutely right. There's no difference."

  She watched him wrestle with his anger, his frustra­tion, his need.

  "You should have left me at the bordello."

  "I was meant to find you."

  "Oh Jesus, Darcie."

  "Explain why it was me then. Explain all of this."

  "I listened to a lunatic."

  "I saved you. I brought you back. And now we're both going to be wealthy as kings. What's wrong with that?"

  "That simple."

  "Absolutely." She knew; she remembered. There was nothing like the feeling of hitting the strike, finding the vein and bleeding the wealth into your pockets as fast as it would flow.

  Nothing like it.

  "All about the diamond."

  "I never lied about that," she murmured. That was skirting it, she thought. That was paring it down to the extreme. She wondered if he'd have been as willing to come with her initially if he hadn't known about the child.

  This was meant to be. With every gambler's instinct,

  she believed it. She was as bad as Lavinia, she thought. However long it took, whatever she had to do ... she was going to get him through.

  "No. You never did."

  "You want it, too."

  "It will change nothing for me."

  "It will get you back your life, Con."

  "And what life was that, Darcie? The one where I spent seven years in a dungeon? Or the years I spent searching for The Eye of God? Whose life will be resur­rected? Mine? Or yours? I think we know the answer."

  "Don't." Oh God, she hated this. She didn't want to hear this.

  "Oh, no, Darcie, why shouldn't you live with this too: you may walk away a wealthy woman. But I'll always be in the dark."

  Always the dark. It was like the symbol of their quest. She lay beside him in the dark, damp from her bath, naked in the sultry heat, listening to the faint street sounds that echoed up through the open window.

  Life in the dark. She heard him in the bath, the soft lapping of the water as he got out of the tub. His hesi­tant step as he made his way back toward the bed.

  In the dark. Always in the dark.

  Feeling for the edge of the bed. Feeling for his life. In the dark.

  How had be survived?

  No help wanted or needed. Forever.

  No. . . !

  She felt his weight depress the mattress, as he setded in beside her.

  Wet. Naked. Delirious notions. Luscious words.

  But the heat was so oppressive, even in the dead of

  180

  Thea Devine

  night, and the sheen of moisture from her bath had already evaporated.

  She didn't want to move.

  She wanted him to move, to want her, to take her, and to remove the sting of his ugly words.

  In the dark.

  Where nothing was seen, and everything could be.

  Arousing, lying naked and hot next to him in the dark. All she had to do was reach out her hand. She could take him, and he would come.

  She lay tense as a bowstring beside him, her muscles as taut as her swelling desire.

  All he had to do was touch her, and she would come.

  In the dark of the night, when all things were possi­ble, he came to her, slipping sleekly and silently between her legs, embedding himself in her forgiveness and her heat.

  It was just the way she wanted it: forceful, hot, fo­cused, and there. She cradled him between her legs, wanting to keep him safe and sheltered inside her for­ever.

  But in the dark, she had to learn, nothing was safe, not even her.

  He took her with the fury of a sandstorm. He swirled all over her, his mouth, his hands insatiable, primal, raw; his penis centering within her, deep, throbbing, elemental as stone.

  And she threw herself against it. She clung to it. She willingly gave herself up to it in a bone-crackling free fall to oblivion.

  And that was all it took: a sultry night, a naked man, and the benediction of the dark to cover her, and ab­solve her of her sins.

  Thirteen

  They slipped away at the break of day, leaving every­thing behind that wasn't necessary.

  They had arisen early, before dawn, to dress, to pack away their belongings, and by the light of a candle, to remove the stones of the remaining jewelry from their settings which now sat in just one of the pouches that Darcie pinned to the camisole she wore under her tunic.

  Everything they were taking with them, they tied un­der their tunics in bundles made from their undercloth­ing and sheets. It amounted to very little: a change of clothes, soap, the remaining cheeses and breads, the dagger.

  She had to carry the dagger. "We will need the dag­ger," Con told her, even as she recoiled from the thought of touching it again. She had consigned it among her underclothes in the dresser, but in the dim secret light of the candle, as they finished packing, she finally took a good look at it.

  It was a good six inches long with a short gold-tipped handle of black obsidian. And it was sharp; sharp as a wound, its tip honed to a fine icy point, as deadly as the man who had carried it.

  Reluctantly, she added it to her bundle and tied it around her waist and then they were ready.

  They were going one more time to the souk, where

  182

  Thea Devine

  183

  BY DESIRE BOUND />
  they would trade the gold settings for the provisions they needed on this part of the trip.

  She made a terrible-looking man, she thought as she caught a fleeting glance of herself in a hallway mirror. Especially when she felt so all-consumingly female. It seemed to her that everyone could tell just by a casual glance at her features, and that the dye she had applied to her skin was not enough to obscure her femininity or her eyes.

  But Con was another matter altogether; in his head­dress and cloak, he looked like a desert brigand, born to the saddle and the sand. At the very least, he blended in with the passersby with much more ease than she. It was the unfamiliar feel of the boots, the trousers, and the headdress, set low on her forehead as a precaution to shield her distinctive eyes. And the dagger, bound into its makeshift sheath. Maybe the dagger made her feel the most uncertain of all.

  Nevertheless, as they made their way through the nar­row streets toward the market, she felt more hopeful than she had in days. It was just a matter of hours now until they were on their way.

  He took care of business quickly. Now that she was outfitted as a man, there were no questions asked. As they'd arranged, she communicated with him by signal, kept her eyes down, her senses keen, and counted the money with the skeptical eye of a moneylender.

  They came away with hundreds of piastre notes, and food and drink, and he'd bought a revolver, a necessary precaution against desert raiders. After, they purchased third-class seats on the train to Basrah, a two-day journey from there.

  From Basrah, they caught the steamer Magid for the three-day trip down the Tigris River to Baghdad. Here, there was some luxury, with hamals to serve breakfast, and a constant river view of endless muddy brown plains,

  mud huts and tent villages at intervals in the distance, and strings of camels and horses plodding along the ho­rizon.

  They passed a military post and countless marshes, and places with Biblical names, and faster, fleeter sail­boats raced the steamer downstream while women and children waved from the shore.

  And he could see none of this, Darcie thought, as she walked Con around the deck on the second morning after breakfast. To live a life not being able to see any of this.