Bliss River Page 7

  But would he take her?

  Well, the practicalities first, just in case anyone even saw her going into the Fawzi house. Not that it was heavily guarded. But Charles Elliott was securely contained, and it would take some doing to even get him out, let alone have to explain her presence there.

  Don't think about that. First things first.

  Just get everything together you can think of... time is running out... it's nearly the witching hour when every­one gathers to drink, dine, and debauch ..,

  She felt stupid. She knew nothing about subsisting any­where but in the Nandina Club. Her ignorance of other ways of life was chilling, but she had no time to even think about that. She still had to barter with Charles Elliott.

  The best time would be when they were all occupied at the Club.

  "I'll be a little late," she told Olivia, feigning a certain enthusiasm she knew Olivia wanted to hear. "I want to soak in a tub and really get ready for this evening."

  "That's the spirit," Olivia said approvingly. "Throw yourself into it, my girl. Enjoy it. Feel your sex, your power. We'll expect you at five, then, to have dinner and promenade."

  "I wouldn't miss it," Georgie murmured, while she mentally ticked off everything she needed to do in the en­suing hours. First, Elliott, Then the rest. And the sooner they got out the better.

  Dear heaven, make him willing... And the horses. She'd have to get them in place. Where? And how much could they carry in their race to freedom?

  She waited until the gong sounded that signified the Club was open for dinner, and then she made her way to the Fawzi house, a considerable walk in the opposite di­rection.

  Still. Thank heaven for that. There would be no guards either, since it was assumed everyone would be at the Club in preparation for the night's dissipations. So Elliott could well be bound or chained. All she knew was that they had no fear he might escape.

  The shed they'd made over was at the back of the Fawzi house. A hundred feet beyond that, in a grove of palm trees, was the newly laid-out cemetery and Lydia's freshly dug grave.

  Georgie averted her eyes and pushed her way into the shed. Lantern light glowed; they hadn't left him in the dark. What they had done was build a wooden cage on one side of the building. Then they'd laid him on a wooden platform and tied his splayed arms and legs to the base.

  Nevertheless, it was dim and dank, and Charles Elliott was twisting and turning in a rage until he sensed her pres­ence.

  "You! You! Get out!"

  Georgie stared at his rope-burned wrists. The emotion he hadn't shown throughout the episode was evident there. He was like a wild animal, writhing, tortured, out of control.

  His fury was utterly daunting.

  "Listen to me," she finally managed.

  "Listen to you? Listen to you! By all the prophets ... listen to you ..."

  He was laughing, a raw scraping sound that grated all along her nerve endings.

  Now what? She'd never thought he wouldn't listen to her. She never would have predicted that he wouldn't hear her out, especially when his life was at stake.

  "You're a fool, Mr. Elliott," she said sharply, cutting into his mirth.

  "And we know what you are," he shot back. "This is a fitting punishment for someone who denied you. You're here to gloat."

  Her fists balled in frustration. This was not going the way she'd envisioned. "You arrogant beast, I'm here to save you."

  That stopped him. His body stilled, his head turned to­ward her, and his flat black gaze sharpened. "You?" As if it were totally inconceivable. And then suspicion wiped away that intentness in his eyes. "Why?"

  Now. How to broach it—"So you'll take me with you."

  He ruminated on that for a moment. "Where?"

  The coup de foudre. "To England."

  He stilled. England. Where he had planned to flee after having done the deed. She wanted to go to England? By the fates, this was too good, too fortuitous. A trap? "For what? So you can fuck every manjack from London to Leeds?"

  The telling heat washed over her. She couldn't let him provoke her. This was too important; this was her life. "My father. You'll take me to my father."

  Dear bloody hell. This promiscuous piece of mutton had a father in England? And she wanted to save him?

  She caught the faint look of interest in his expression and pressed her advantage. "Even if you could escape, you couldn't get out of the Valley without help. I'll get you out; you get me to England. That's the bargain."

  "What bargain? I could abandon you in Sefra once we were free of the Valley." And he would, for that matter.

  Why had she thought he would leap at, and honor, her proposition? Why was he even arguing? She girded her­self. "Without my help, you won't leave the Valley at all."

  She let him chew on that for a moment, then added, "Without my help, you'll be buried in the Valley. There's no way you can get out that Moreton won't have guards in place to prevent you. And since you'd be an escaped prisoner, they'll have orders to kill on sight. Valley justice, Mr. Elliott. Since they're going to kill you anyway."

  "I'm beginning to see," he murmured. Yes. Let her help, let her get him out, and fust take over and flee, What man ever kept his promises to a whore anyway? "But you— why you?"

  "Let us just say, it is time for me to leave the Valley, and if you need further inducement, there are other things I can offer you for the duration of the journey that I need not elaborate and that you may have cause to need. And then, perhaps, at the end," she crossed her fingers, "my fa­ther will be so grateful for my return, he will reward you as well."

  So there it was—agree to her terms, she would deliver him from hell, and then she would be a millstone around his neck for thousands of miles while offering her body up in sacrifice for his enduring it; and in turn, that might yield a thousand pounds in gold, her slave market, her mahr, her bride price in England.

  Something to keep him going, as it were.

  Clever. Naive. But he wasn't above using her. Not in the least.

  Bloody, bloody damn—how the hell had he gotten him­self into this?

  "There's not much time." Her voice was low-pitched, flat, without urgency. "When?" "Tonight."

  BLISS RIVER 79

  He closed his eyes. Good, excellent even. He made his decision and took control. Time was of the essence now. "Two horses, in the cemetery whenever, however you can get them there. In my bungalow, my gear, in a roll in the closet. In the chimney, high above the damper—you'll need a stick to prize it out—a pouch with my papers."

  "They'll have searched there," she cautioned. They would have taken apart the whole bungalow, to find what, she didn't know. Everything was self-evident and they had convicted him on that alone.

  "Not that far up the flue. I trusted no one in this hell­hole."

  "But we'll need so much more ..."

  "We will travel as light as possible. You'll need a robe, boots, some food if you can gather it without arousing suspicion. Water. There should be some guerbas—water skins—with my gear. Make sure whatever you do, you fill those skins. Leave everything else if you have to." And she might have to. It might be too much for her, too much for the ponies. But that would come later,

  For now, she offered the one thing he needed and wanted: hope.

  "And the rest," he added, pinning her with his burning gaze, committed now, "we'll leave in the hands of fate ..."

  She got out of dinner, no easy task when she had pledged her body to the community, because Moreton and her mother couldn't be everywhere in the Club. She would tell them, if they asked, that she had dined on the verandah with friends.

  That bought her the time she needed to get to Charles's bungalow.

  No guards there, fortuitously. But then, no one was con­testing the fate of Charles Elliott; they were all in it to­gether, and he was safely locked away.

  Into the bungalow by the back door. Georgie lit a candle she'd had the forethought to bring.

  In the closet. The
re was one in the parlor, one in the bedroom downstairs, one in the bedroom upstairs. Up­stairs first, escorted by long shadows in the narrow stair­case, jumping at every noise.

  In the closet—not much else here but a bed and dresser, Or else Charles Elliott lived like a monk. Nothing in the closet.

  Downstairs then, her footsteps resonating on the bare treads. Light waning outside. Lights twinkling from the Nandina Club, echoes of laughter drifting across the boulevard reminding her that time was tight.

  A perfunctory search of the kitchen and the parlor, and then into the downstairs bedroom closet. There, on the floor, the roll. And next to it, the two water skins. He was precise, if nothing else.

  Up onto her shoulder and onto the settee in the parlor. Not too heavy, the roll, and no time to investigate its mys­teries. She piled the water skins next to it.

  Now the fireplace. A poker would do to dislodge the pouch ...

  All that scraping against the brick. Too much noise? She couldn't feel anything at the tip of implement. Push harder then.

  Wait—there!

  Damn! Was that a footstep on the gallery? A light?

  She sprawled on the floor, slanting her gaze at windows. She'd worn black, but still—if someone were deliberately searching, or sent to guard the house—but why would they? They'd trussed Charles Elliott up like a turkey; he couldn't possibly escape.

  She still didn't have the pouch. The footsteps came omi­nously closer. The door opened. A shadow peered within.

  Hold your breath. Oh, heaven—the roll...

  "What's this?" A light flashed, the shadow paced into the room. "Looked like a body on the couch. Wouldn't put it past the bastard. It looks like he'd planned to ab­scond the minute he did the dirty."

  A voice outside responded. "Not our problem."

  "We should take a look at this stuff..."

  Oh, good lord—if they come in ... if they. .. They won't; they can't...

  "Hell no, man. We've got ten minutes before prome­nade. You really want to spend good time with this shit?"

  Hesitation, duty warring with desire.

  "Well, we can tell Moreton we checked. Who'd touch the stuff anyway?"

  "Right. As opposed to who's going to touch our stuff. Come on."

  The door closed, the voices trailed into the distance, the light diminished, disappeared.

  Breathe...

  Crawl to the fireplace. Take the poker. Don't think about what just happened. Just... Just poke the damned flue...

  They could have caught you ...

  All right—so what?

  Explaining to Moreton is what—

  She'd have thought of something. She was facile that way—

  She shoved the poker, felt resistance at the point, and knelt down on the hearth to lean into it with all her strength.

  What strength? Her bones felt like water; her heart was pounding so hard, she thought she'd have an attack.

  One last thrust. Plop ... An oilskin-covered oblong packet fell onto the brick. And no time to examine it and discover his secrets.

  Okay. Tuck it into her dress, grope for the roll and the damned water skins, get them on her shoulders. Jesus, what was in the damned roll? And wobble off into the sunset.

  Wobble into her mother's arms more likely. They would effect this escape by the skin of their knuck­les, at the rate she was attending to things.

  But there were things to be attended to first. Things she had to take the time for. She wasn't stupid, and she knew the fallacy of her plan: he'd said it himself. He could aban­don her at Sefra. He could overpower her here, for that matter, and leave her for dead.

  So she knew she had to preserve some power. And that lay within the possessions he was so avid for her to bring. At the very least, there might be a tent and some supplies she might never have thought of. At best, some money, which, if he abandoned her, would still give her some leverage to get away.

  And so, in the shadow of his bungalow, her heart pounding wildly, feeling as if eyes were watching on all sides, she groped to discover his secrets, the blind seeking the blind.

  In the roll, a small tent, poles, pots and utensils for cooking, a change of clothes. Things mundane and neces­sary. She couldn't believe that was all. There was no light. The darkness and the press of minutes ticking by faster than sound made her edgy, determined.

  She'd pick his things apart seam by seam if she had to. A man didn't walk into the Valley with no money, no protec­tion. And someone like Charles Elliott, bent on murder. He had to have other components of a plan in place, if the knife had been dull, if Moreton hadn't wanted the ponies, if they found him out... Elliott looked like a man who left nothing to chance.

  Wait now ... wait. She was running her hands over the canvas cover and felt a lump. Not inside the roll, outside.

  Outside? Clever. Oh so clever. In the wide straps in the underneath part of the roll where it lay across the pony's back ... in the seam on the underside ... She was amazed at how much more acute her touch was in the dark, and how much more terror she felt.

  Concentrate. You can't leave the valley with just a knife in hand. You've got to disarm him too—

  Definitely an opening there. She took a deep breath and inserted her fingers. Definitely a small gun tucked deep in­side. About as big as her hand.

  Power. He wouldn't abandon her now.

  Loaded? She slipped it into a pocket.

  Now... to get that thing back into a semblance of the way he had rolled it.. .

  Well, she could buckle it together at least. The rest he'd find out when they were on their way.

  And now the pouch. Slick. A buckle here, too. She ripped it open and felt inside. Paper. Maybe money; she hoped it was money. She lifted out a handful of sheaves and folded them into her pocket.

  And he had thought there was honor among thieves.

  Nothing was that simple. Everything had a price, and now she had the wherewithal to pay it. He had just thought she would never think of it.

  Well, he'd pay dearly now for underestimating her and rejecting her. They were on an even footing now, and she had a fighting chance, whatever his plans might be.

  And then, she was later than she wanted to be for the promenade. Late for everything, suspiciously late, and scared to death that her mother would demand to know where she'd been.

  It took more effort than she'd imagined to get those things and some food and the water to her hiding place. More time to put herself to rights, more time inventing heart-pounding excuses for not being where she'd prom­ised Olivia she would be this evening.

  And in the end, she had the best luck—she was far too late to be chosen as someone's bed partner for the night.

  Chapter Seven

  She had everything piled up near the pony pen. How she had managed that, she would never know. It was her hauling each piece one by one under the cover of darkness; it was that everyone was occupied in their self-indulgent excesses, and that Moreton and Olivia assumed she was, too.

  And it was the fact that Moreton trusted no one would come the aid of Charles Elliott, which didn't mitigate his checking earlier on to make sure the prisoner was down for the night.

  Thank heaven, she hadn't set him free sooner.

  The water skins were the worst. The skins were expo­nentially heavier filled, and Georgie wasn't sure the skit­tish, delicate ponies could carry that much weight. In addition to Charles Elliott's bedroll, and the sack of food she'd managed to appropriate: dates, oranges, bread, cheese, nuts, tea. She wondered how Elliott had been clever enough to make her do all the work.

  She'd stolen a pair of Moreton's boots as well, and sheets and twine, and a large knife with enough heft that she could hack through wood and rope.

  The first part was done.

  And now she waited outside the shed. It was suffocat­ingly hot, with a thickness and moistness in the air that portended rain. Moreton had come and gone a long time before, but still she waited as the night grew thicker, longer, and
suffused with sounds: the humming of the taubib, the flapping wings of the night birds, the stamping of the ponies, a faint keening noise in the distance.

  The night had a silence all its own, full of mystery, heat, and allure, covering her like a cloak, making her feel se­cure.

  Dear heaven, was she really going to do this?

  Slowly, slowly, the time slipped away. Time meant noth­ing in the Valley, except insofar as nighttime meant the onset of pleasure. Nighttime was a lover in and of itself.

  She was so aware of it; she'd counted on it.

  The time was almost right. She stood poised, watching, waiting. Everything was in place, everyone was in partner, no one was sniffing around.

  She took a deep breath, felt for the knife, waited for that one sweet moment of surety—and slipped into the shed.

  So after all his careful planning, he'd put his life in the hands of a capricious flat-back. Insane. And gave her ac­cess to his kit and his money besides. God, heat stroke. It had to be. Something dire, because if he were in his right mind, he wouldn't have been so desperate.

  In all probability he could have gotten away.

  For all he knew, she was gone. The hours since she'd ar­rived to bargain with him had been pure torture, endless, broken only by the appearance of Moreton who had not been above coming to gloat.

  "You did me a favor, actually," Moreton told him. "I could have sworn I killed you, but now—well, the fates had something else in store."

  "I will kill you," Charles spat. Never cower, even when you're tied hand and foot and the enemy could run a stiletto up your ass. "Nine lives and all that. You can't be sure I'll die tomorrow. You were so certain before, and look what happened."

  "Oh, I'll make sure of it, my friend. Just as I'm certain you survived to see this day because you were meant to hang for the murder of your mother, and save me the trou­ble. In the morning, Charles, we shall each go to our des­tiny."

  God, he wanted to take Moreton down. It was good to think about vengeance. It fired a man's soul; it corrupted him, kept him moving, dodging, feinting, wary, always in fear for his life.