Smolder: Chapter 2

         Kemal observed the interaction between father and daughter with blatant curiousity. They were on odd pair, that was certain. He had never met such an outspoken young woman, and certainly never a father who let her get away with it. And there had surely never been a man in England or France that would have purposely left his daughter alone for any amount of time with a young man, let alone an Egyptian. And if the man thought that the supervision of his daughter was merely a petty social code, the man was a fool. Had Kemal been different man, he could have whisked her away to a terrible fate in an instant.

         By the way she was eyeing him, that was exactly what she suspected he had in mind. He wished to tease her a bit, to jostle her off of her high horse. It was something he might have done had he been a normal young man of twenty-five years, had he not shouldered such heavy burdens.

         He noticed she was watching him in earnest now, so he met her gaze, daring her not to flinch away while he examined the emotions in her eyes.

         Her soul was in her eyes. The warm brown color hid nothing from him, allowing him access to what seemed to be every secret of her heart. There was a sharp alertness, an intelligence, but beneath it was a deep weariness, and a quiet pain that she tried desperately to conceal. Her useless father was prattling on about his favorite aspects of Levantine architecture, oblivious to the pain in his daughter's eyes. Oblivious to the prolonged eye contact his daughter was exchanging with a lonely Egyptian youth. A lonely Egyptian youth who wanted nothing more in that moment than to gather her small, soft body to him, to feel her relax against his chest, to demonstrate the shelter his bigger, harder body could offer her.

         How glorious it would feel, her slender arms tight about his ribs, her soft, warm cheek resting against his heart, the strands of her silky hair pressed to his lips. Heaven. How long had it been, since he had felt the touch of a woman? How long since he had felt a friendly touch at all?

         His hands twitched with the sudden longing to reach out for her, but he quickly, angrily stamped out the urge. It would hardly do, to go about with romantic thoughts about his employer's young daughter. That was trouble he could not afford. Trouble he would not recover from.

         She seemed to have some idea of what he was thinking, for her cheeks had turned a dainty pink, but rather than offended or disgusted, she seemed intrigued. Or at least, something like it. He couldn't place the emotion exactly, but there was curiosity, and fear, but not without a touch of stubborness and - surely he was imagining it - interest.

         You've been alone too long, my friend, he chided himself. The odds of this girl showing interest in you are unbearably slim. And yet, she stared at him. As if she couldn't stop staring. For that matter, he was having trouble breaking their gaze also. But he did so as soon as he realized what he was doing, focusing his attention elsewhere, frustrated with himself.

         He was weakened by his loneliness, and he was all too aware of it. It was at these times, when he was faced with that weakness, that he could remember the sound of Barakha's laughter, or the way Noor's little eyes lit up when she smiled. The weight of his father's hand on his shoulder. The scent of his mother's skin when she held him close. It was too much to bear, and he turned his back on the Danvers so as to blink away the damned moisture that had gathered in his eyes.

         He was grateful for the opportune arrival of their transportation. Two men led four little donkeys on ropes over to them, the animals' necks stretched long in protest to the brisk pace. Kemal spoke a few instructions at the men, who began to aid him in packing the beasts with the Danvers' belongings.

         Miss Danver looked only slightly less unsure about riding the donkeys than she had the camels. "If you will allow it, Papa, I think I should prefer to go on foot. I cannot imagine how I will manage to stay on with my dignity intact," she told her father.

         Kemal smiled privately to himself. The mental image of her straddling one of the fat little donkeys, despite the practicality and simplicity of her frock, was hysterically funny. She caught his grin and attempted to scowl at him, but her own smirk kept tugging the corners of her mouth up.

         "Whatever suits you best, my dear, though the streets will be crowded."

         She gave Kemal a mischieviously meaningul look that took him by surprise. "I'll be all right. Mr. al-Malik shall act as a buffer."

         The image of himself shielding her from the hustle and bustle of Old Cairo made him swell with boyish machismo, though he thought himself foolish for it. He really ought to be more annoyed that she had so boldly decided she was in charge of what he would and would not do.

         "Very well," responded Mr. Danver, clearly not paying attention any longer. His inattention was not lost on Miss Danver - she glared at the back of her father's head for a moment as the man practically gamboled around the donkeys like a high-strung puppy, blind to his daughter's discontent. She seemed to take it in stride, tucking a piece of hair that had fallen from her coif behind her ear. But the slackness of her mouth added a sadness to her otherwise peaceful face.

         Kemal shrugged off his compassion. He had his own heartache to deal with. And if he could not rescue his sisters, then he would eat, sleep, and breathe vengeance until the destroyer of his family was writhing with the pain of prolonged, inevitable death. He had no time for the troubles of silly English girls. For she would doubtfully trouble herself with him.

         Once the donkeys were fully laden with luggage, Mr. Danver heaved himself onto his steed and called, "Forward ho!"

         The donkey keeper's son led the little troupe towards the city, leaving Kemal responsible for the care of Miss Danver. He fell into step beside her, not sure what he might say, but oddly unwilling to steer himself away from her company. She pretended he was not there at first, the line of her jaw held straight and level, her soft eyes staring forward, her lips pressed slightly inward. It was strange, the way her brave face made her look so very young.

         "Odd, miss, that you and your father did not bring any servants of your own," he said without preface, hoping she wouldn't think him too abrupt.

         She was silent for several paces, her expression unchanging as she chose her answer. "My father is an architect, sir. We are not wealthy."

         The answer was a dodge, and it did not satisfy him. A quick glance over her form negated her statement. In comparison to him, as well as most Eyptians, she was fabulously wealthy. It was true that her navy gown was simple, yet it was made of a fine, lustrous material; perhaps lawn or woven silk. The white leather of her gloves was soft and lightweight, no doubt made of kidskin. She wore no jewelry but for a comb tucked into her hair, adorned with too many pearls and diamonds to be appropriate for day wear, particularly in a place where diamonds and pearls would not escape the hungry eyes of thieves.

         She noticed the direction of his gaze and frowned. "The comb was my mother's," she told him defensively, as if he had spoken his judgement aloud. "It is true we not destitute, Mr. al-Malik, but money for gold and diamonds all went into the care of my mother. This journey alone was funded largely by a wealthy client. I fear my father may overestimate our ability to compensate you."

         The little meddler was trying to scare him off! Was her concern truly for her family's funds, or was it he himself she wished to be rid of? Either way, he would not be chased away so easily. So long as Mr. Danver could furnish him with food and shelter, Kemal would remain, no matter how it irked the girl. So he waved off her warning. "Your mother. May I ask what happened to her?"

         Another long silence. He first thought she was fighting back tears, but when he looked, her face was still and serene, not a trace of moisture in her gentle brown eyes. "A tumor of the brain," she answered after several moments. "She was ill for five years before she died."

         Grief resonated in her voice, pressing achingly against the surface of his own pain, fingers biting into a sore muscle. He knew her heartbreak, and it made his own swell in sympathy. Yet it also aligned them somehow, adding a soothing turn to the ache.

         "Hmmm," he responded, wanting to offer her something, some comfort, or at the very least a condolence. But just as much he wanted to crush the delicate connection that had been made, to sneer at the triviality of her pain in comparison to his own. He couldn't deny, however, that the draw to share his grief, to share someone else's grief, was powerful. As he had been told before, misery did indeed love company.

         This battle inside himself kept him silent, and she assumed that he meant her to continue.

         "The expense of a live-in nurse and the number of doctors brought in to puzzle over her condition was enough, but my mother's deterioration damaged my father's ability to work. She was his inspiration, you see. The quality of his work plummeted each day she continued to worsen, and fewer and fewer people hired him. It was the financial support of his loyal friends and clients that kept us afloat. I - "

         She glanced up at him as if noticing him for the first time, her eyes wide and sweet with their frame of long lashes. "I beg your pardon, sir, I have been too forthcoming."

         "I expect your father does not discuss her passing with you often. It is understandable that you would want to discuss it."

         She give a quiet, bitter chuckle. "My father did not discuss her with me even when she was alive. Only recently has he been able to look upon me without flinching."

         "You resemble her," Kemal guessed.

         "I never used to think so."

         Now he noticed a glassy layer of tears coating her eyes, though she somehow held them at bay without wiping or blinking them back. Oh, to have the freedom to touch her! To peel the glove from her hand and clasp her fingers within his own, to bring them to his lips...

         Why was he so sympathetic to this lovely, wretched creature? He had learned his lesson when it came to white women. She had done nothing to prove herself trustworthy, and likely never would. He could not spare the emotional energy it would require, might he come to care for her. And how despicable he would feel, if he became distracted with caring for her while his own sisters were in the care of evil men? The thought sent a shudder over him, and he mentally detached himself from Miss Danver. She needed someone, but it would not be him. She would have to look for comfort elsewhere.

         He turned his attention back to more tangible things. The creak and slide of the luggage swaying in time with the hoofbeats of the donkeys. The sultry heat of the sun, relentless against the back of his neck. The odor of dust and pack animals that hung in the air, mingling with the fresh earthiness of the river. Old Cairo lay just before them, the streets as narrow and crowded as he remembered, the diversity of the people striking him as always while he watched them weave chaotically among one another.

         "You are sure you do not wish to ride?" Kemal pressed her, now realizing that, while moving through the crammed streets of Old Cairo, she would be infinitely easier to keep track of on the back of a donkey.

         She eyed the animals warily. "No, thank you," she responded, polite but firm.

         "Very well," he assented. "Remove your comb and put it out of sight, for the first thief that spots it will pluck it right from your head."

         She did as he asked, gingerly pulling the ornament from her hair and tucking neatly into to bodice of her gown. He worried briefly about how the points might irritate the delicate skin of her breast, but banished the thought at once. He musn't care where she stowed her silly treasures. He musn't let his mind dwell on the bite of metal into her tender skin. It was no concern of his what went on beneath her gown. Why was he still thinking about it at all? He really must do his best to find a girl to bed, and quickly. It would not do to be plagued with longing around such an unattainable woman.

         "Stay close behind me," he instructed, all business on the outside.  "Keep hold of my belt until the road is wider and the crowd thins enough to allow you to walk beside me."

         She frowned. "I am not a child. I can keep up without having to hold on to you."

         "I have no doubt you could keep up with us, Miss Danver. What I worry about is the men that will grab you from behind and steal you away, before anyone has a chance to glance backwards."

         She gave him a contemptuous look. "Mr. al-Malik, I am not the helpless damsel you picture me to be. I would not be stolen away so easily."

         His eyes were hard as he returned her look. "Either you do as I ask, Miss Danver, or I will plant you astride a donkey and not hear another word about it. Surely this is not a point worth disputing. What I ask of you is a very simple thing."

         Her face went pink with anger, but she relented. "Very well."

         Kemal glanced over at her father for a moment, who was sitting gaily atop his mount, chattering with the donkey keeper's son, though surely he knew the boy couldn't understand a word. The man did not once glance back to confirm his daughter's well-being. It should be him doing this, not me, thought Kemal. How could the man be so obtuse, so careless, as to leave the safety of his daughter in the hands of a foreign stranger? Did the man not realize she was all he had left in the world? How lucky he was not to be utterly alone? Kemal quietly hated Mr. Danver for a moment, for increasing what was already an unbearable tragedy to his daughter. The girl needed love and protection from her father, not careless indifference.

         He reminded himself once more that Wynn Danver was not his problem as they moved forward into the city. He felt the warm pressure of her small hands as they wedged between the belt and his body, her casual grip tightening after she had been jostled once or twice by the dense crowd.

         She was not his problem. And yet he wished desperately for a moment that he had required her to secure her arms around his waist.