Daughter of the God-King(88)
Her temper having now cooled, she assimilated the Egyptian’s revelation and its implications. In a subdued tone she offered, “I imagine they were murdered by the French—upon orders by my”—she couldn’t quite bring herself to say it and amended—“the prisoner.”
“Or someone acting for him,” Berry agreed, watching her with open sympathy.
Arching an eyebrow, she tried to make light. “Small wonder, then, that the porter didn’t know what to tell me.”
Berry tilted his head. “It was a terrible dilemma for him.”
“What was it you said?”
“I reminded him that you were the daughter of the god-king, and should not be crossed.”
“Yes.” She dropped her gaze to examine her hands in her lap, trying to control her emotions. “Well, it certainly turned the trick.”
Leaning forward, he placed his hands over hers. “Shall we visit their graves together?”
She nodded, grateful for his support. “I should buy markers, I suppose. Although—although perhaps it is for the best that no one knows where they rest.” She wiped away tears with the flats of her fingers.
“I believe,” he suggested gently, “that more brandy is needed.”
Looking up at him with a small smile, she confessed, “I never had spirits until you and your brandy.”
“Well, you shall have them again, I think.”
They came to a stop before a modest establishment whose sign proclaimed “The Osiris Inn,” and he dismounted to hand her down from the cart and escort her inside. The innkeeper, a bald, stout man with an elaborate black mustache, observed their approach from behind the desk and showed no sign of welcome or even of interest; Hattie had the fanciful impression that if the earth had suddenly opened up and swallowed them, his impassivity would continue undisturbed. The man must have some sensibility, however—there was a small golden icon hanging on the wall behind him, the type one saw in an orthodox church. If Hattie thought it a trifle odd that the Osiris Inn boasted such an icon, she made no comment. Berry made an inquiry and the man indicated they were welcome to step into the dining parlor, a thankfully cool room that was empty of any other guests. It was an odd hour, Hattie surmised, and the luncheon crowd had not yet arrived.
As they were seated, drinks were served and Hattie tentatively sipped the concoction, which was the color of raspberries. “Oh—it is good; rather like negus punch.”
“Passion fruit, with vodka,” Berry informed her with a warm smile, touching her hand on the glass. “Do you like it?”
“I do,” she said, although there was a strong, tangy under-taste. “Is wod-ca a form of brandy?”
“The spirits are from a different source—the taste is not as strong.”
She nodded, and drank so as to match him in sophistication—it appeared he was a man who was accustomed to drinking spirits so she had best acquire a taste for them, and truly the drink was rather good. It was such a comfort to put the events of the morning behind her and sit with him—just the two of them, for once—in this quiet and peaceful place. A benevolent feeling of warmth was making its way down her veins as she felt all her concerns dissolve away. “What have you done with Mr. Hafez? Smithson will carry off the palm with the poor minister all unknowing.”
He regarded the linen tablecloth for a moment, deciding whether to tell her. “Mr. Hafez would rather not be found, at present.”
“Does he yet live?”
He was amused. “Yes, he lives.”
“It is not such a strange question,” she pointed out in her own defense. “Given recent events.”
“No—it is only that you are so sangfroid.” He lifted her hand to turn it over and kiss her wrist, his mouth warm on her skin. “You continually surprise me.”
Her pulse leapt at the contact, and she was reminded that he hadn’t kissed her since Cairo and that this lack should be remedied as soon as humanly possible. “Do you remember what we spoke of—that which you said I wasn’t to speak of again?”
“We will not speak of it,” he said firmly, and motioned to the mustachioed gentleman for another round of drinks.
She subsided, castigating herself for raising the issue too soon—he was not yet ready to face facts. She sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to avoid making love to her in some misguided attempt to change her mind; at the moment she was fighting a very strong urge to crawl onto his lap. After she downed another half-glass of the punch, she asked, “If there is another war, will you fight?” She knew she should not be asking him such a thing but found that she was having trouble monitoring her words.