Smolder: Chapter 3

Though at first indignant about having to keep hold of Mr. al-Malik, Wynn ended up being rather grateful he had suggested it. Once they passed through the gate that heralded the entrance to Old Cairo, the streets indeed became narrow, with far too many people trying to cram their way through. It would have been a terrifying experience, were she not so well kept track of by Mr. al-Malik's belt.
         
         Had she not been holding on tightly, she would have easily been side-tracked by the fascinating sights of the city.  The variety of complexions and costumes was fascinating; half-naked slaves, turbaned Arabs, Turks draped in rich silks, and what she assumed were Greeks (by their olive skin), their garments glittering in the sunlight.

         Yet it was the women that truly fascinated her. They moved about in groups, apparently without any male companions. They wore colorful caftans, some with little golden disks dangling from the hems, coming open in the front to reveal the lovely silk garments beneath. Many of these garments exposed an amount of cleavage that made her blush, though others showed a bit more modesty. And while some wore delicate scarves draped around their hips like skirts, many wore a sort of trouser, also made of silk, falling to their calves and leaving their legs free to move about. It was thrilling and terrifying, to picture herself wearing such a daring ensemble.

         So fascinated was she with her surroundings that it took almost no time before Old Cairo was gone and they had entered the wider, calmer streets of the main city.

         "You may walk beside me, now," offered Mr. al-Malik. She blushed to look behind her and realize that she'd had the room to do so for a while now.

         "Forgive me," she said, joining him. "My attention wandered."

         "There's a lot to see," he replied. "Cairo is very different from London."

         "Truly," she agreed. "I have never seen women dress with such audacity."

         "Audacity?" His tone was undecipherable. Did he sound amused or annoyed?

         "I suppose I shouldn't say audacity...it is their - your - culture. It's just, I am not accustomed to seeing so much skin left exposed. It is..." she searched for a word that would not be taken as an insult. He spoke before she could come up with one.

         "I recall more than one ball at which I was blessed with an 'audacious' glimpse of white breasts."
         
         Her face became hot at his bold words, and she could say nothing for a minute. He meant to tease her, she knew, though his tone seemed serious. The man had a lot of nerve.

         "Yes, well, certainly there are those women in the West also who flaunt their skin shamelessly, but -"

         "But you have been protected from the company of such women," he finished for her.
         
         "Naturally," she confirmed. "And I never went to very many balls."

         "Ah, the Hôtel d'Orient!" exclaimed Papa from up ahead. Wynn looked over to see that they approached a large building with many windows, not unlike the inns she knew of in London, though admittedly it was surrounded by far more palm trees. The four little donkeys were led to the entrance of the hotel, which looked welcoming enough. "Wait here with our things and Mr. al-Malik, my dear," he said to her, shaking his money bag. "I will return shortly."

         So, as had been agreed upon, she remained with Mr. al-Malik and the servants of the donkey keeper, while her father trotted off in the direction of the British Embassy.

         And they were, for all intents and purposes, alone.

         There was a tense silence between them as his eyes wandered over to her and she pretended not to notice. His gaze felt penetrating, suddenly feral, and it made her skin tingle with heat. She had to think of something else to say, had to engage him in conversation, to draw their interaction back into a realm she was able to understand.

         "So, Mr. al-Malik. Where did you learn English?" Wynn met his eyes, which blazed back at her.

         "Paris. At least, that was were my official schooling took place," he answered. He looked like he was decided whether or not to add something, then seemed to decide against it, remaining silent.

         "You have an astonishing command of the language, considering you learned it all in a Parisian classroom," she commented skeptically.

         "Of course, I lived in England for several years to immerse myself in the language. I read extensively. I worked very hard to achieve fluency, Miss Danver, let there be no doubts about that," he told her sternly.

         "You must have started your education very young."

         He nodded. "A scholar friend of my father's began giving me lessons in English when I was a boy, and once he realized my capacity for languages, he asked my father if he could take me for schooling in Europe. My father agreed."

         "And yet you claim to be better at French," she said, teasing him carefully.

         He gave a thin smile. "I found the French to be more hospitable than the British, and as a result spent far more time there."
         
         It shouldn't have, but his mild insult made her defensive. "May I inquire as to what you found objectionable about British hospitality?"

         He didn't answer her for several seconds. "Let us just say they were somewhat less than welcoming."

         "That is not an answer, Mr. al-Malik."

         He watched her with cold eyes, and she tried once more to imagine his thoughts, though with little success. Happily, he did not keep her in the dark for long. "I was sent to Brixton for a brief time, soon after arriving."

         Her eyes widened. "You were sent to prison? What in God's name for?" He gave her a look, warning that she was close to infringing upon his patience for her questions, but she would not be so easily chased off. "We, as your employers, have a right to know."

         He sighed, absentmindedly sweeping a black curl out of his eyes. "Very well, Miss Danver. I was jailed for theft."

         She waited for him to explain himself, to justify his actions, to swear his innocence, but he said nothing further.

         "And were you guilty of the charge?" she pressed.

         "I was not," was all he offered in reply.
%u2028          "May I ask what was stolen?" She was becoming frustrated with his reticence.

         He shrugged, his eyes following the movement of the crowd, though she had a feeling he didn't really see them. "A horse, my lady. A horse born in my father's stable, of a mare also born in my father's stable, which traveled with me on the ship from Cairo to Paris, which also traveled with me on the ship from Paris to London. And the moment an English gentleman looked upon my horse with envy, my claim to the beast meant nothing."

         The intensity in his voice betrayed his emotions, though his face maintained its usual solemn expression. "He accused you of stealing it?" she asked.

         A nod. "He presented the police with faked documents. I was a youthful foreigner, and my denials meant little in the courts. I was sentenced to five years, but my mentor heard of what had happened and sailed to London to vouch for me."

         "And were you able to recover your horse?" she asked gently. Despite her misgivings about Mr. al-Malik, her heart couldn't help but wrench at the sag of his shoulders and the downward pull of his lush mouth. It was evident he had cared deeply for the animal.

         "Alas, I was not so lucky," he answered softly

         Wynn frowned. "I am deeply sorry that such injustice was done."

         He gave a bitter laugh. "What are you sorry for? The injustice was not of your design."

         Her brow gathered. It hurt her feelings, to have her apology so casually brushed aside. "I am sorry for the terrible conduct of my countrymen. I would have expected better."

         He gave her a strange look. "And pray, Miss Danver, tell me truthfully: if you had been present at my trial, would you have not deemed me guilty just as quickly as the others?"

         Her eyes narrowed, disliking his assumption. "You, sir, are doing me an injustice just as surely as you were done, assuming I am guilty of a hypothetical crime based on no other evidence than my birthplace. You know little else about me, but you are certain I am equally corrupt as the ignorant people that convicted you of stealing your own horse? I must protest to such slander against my character, sir, for it is unfounded and undeserved."

         His eyes held hers for several moments, surprise and a new sort of curiousity in his face. She wondered idly for a moment, as she waited for his rebuttal, at how such a simple question about his education had grown heated so quickly.

         "Touché, Miss Danver," he acceded finally. "Forgive my ill manners."

         "You are forgiven, sir," she replied, glad for the opportunity to turn to lighter subjects. "I ask only that if I am to fall out of your favor, you allow me to truly earn it."

         "That is only fair."

          "So," she pressed on, wanting to avoid a lull in the conversation. "Your father bred horses, did he?"

         She immediately realized she had said something wrong. The shape of his mouth became grim, his eyes hard, his shoulders perfectly square. She should apologize, tell him to forget the question, but found herself too curious to hear his answer.

         "Casually," he finally responded, making it evident that he wished to say no more.

         "Oh," she said, knowing she ought to choose a new topic. "What sort?"
         
         "Arabians, of course," he replied, speaking to her as if she were feeble-minded. Yet he offered no further details.

         "For racing?" she pressed him. She realize this conversation was following the dangerous form their earlier one had.
         
         "You ask many questions, Miss Danver. It borders upon rudeness."

         "Perhaps I wouldn't have to ask so many, if you weren't so intent to avoid them," she retorted, standing her ground.

         He sighed and ran his fingers distractedly over the stubble that lined his jaw. He had not shaved in several days. "It never occured to you that I might have a reason for avoiding them?"

         "Oh, honestly, you have a reason not to tell me what your father bred horses for?" she asked, incredulous.

         "A reason not to discuss my father at all!" he replied, his voice suddenly intense again.
         
         She grew silent for a moment, contemplating his meaning. "My apologies, Mr. al-Malik. You are right, I am prying. It is a habit of mine, when I am nervous. I talk."

         He sighed again, mastering his emotions. "Perhaps it would be more productive to talk about what is making you nervous, my lady."

         She thought this over. "That will not take so very long," she told him. "I am nervous about you."

         "Oh?" he asked, a subtle humor in his voice. "And why do I make you nervous?"

         She didn't like this line of questioned, and was suddenly able to see his point about it being bad manners to ask so many questions.

         "You are a stranger," she replied simply.

         "So are these other men," he said, indicating the donkey keeper's servants with his hand. "Do they make you nervous also?"

         She glanced over at the other men. To tell the truth, she had hardly cared about them enough to notice them, let alone fear them.

         "No," she admitted. "But I know their purpose, their goal. They wish to be paid. They are simple, predictable. You are not so easy to decipher."

         "How so?" he pressed her.

         "For one thing, you appeared out of nowhere."

         "A fortunate coincidence. Is that all?"

         "You want almost nothing in return for your specialized services. In my experience, men always want something," she continued truthfully, suddenly as curious as he was to find the root of her suspicion.

         "That is easy to defend," he replied. "I have not had a job in months, and so at the moment, food and a bed are more important to me than wealth. Survival is all I want, Miss Danver, not something malevolent like you suspect."

         She made no move to reply or explain her reasoning further. For she had arrived at the real reason for her mistrust.

         "Are those the only reasons that I make you nervous?" he asked. His eyes were confident as they fixed onto hers, as if he knew her every secret. Yet she would not give him the satisfaction of looking away.

         "You are handsome," she said finally, trying to deny her shyness. She was an intelligent person, speaking from an objective standpoint, and she would not let him make her feel like a silly girl.

         "What?" he responded, his eyebrows raised in true surprise.

         "You are handsome, Mr. al-Malik. You have gentle eyes, and a kind voice, and..." she could think of no other attribute that would not cause embarassment to mention, so she moved on. "It either comes naturally, or you are very practiced at lulling tourists into a false sense of security -"

         "You are a very suspicious woman, Miss Danver," he interrupted, his shock sounding entirely honest. "Do all handsome men put you on your guard this way?"

         No, they didn't. She had always had an easy way with handsome gentlemen, taking pride in her immunity to their charms. But those were harmless English gentlemen, and her father had always been very close by in those situations. Besides, she knew what their ulterior motives were.

         "I see your point now, Mr. al-Malik. It isn't proper, to have so many questions raised between strangers."

         He barked a laugh that made her cheeks flush pink with anger. "You are strange indeed, my lady."

         "And you are equally strange to me, sir. So let us agree to disagree, shall we?"

         He nodded, remarkably more cheerful than she had yet seen him. "That suits me just fine, Miss Danver."