The Other Guy's Bride (5 page)

“You’d say an elephant was dainty in order to win a bet,” Haji protested.

“I’m gonna give you the hair,” Jim admitted. Mildred Whimpelhall’s hair was more than simply ugly; it was astonishingly ugly, a hideous broiled color that existed nowhere in the natural world.

But the rest of her…The rest of her, though dusty, sweaty, rumpled, and travel-stained, was definitely not ugly. And also not demure. While the other female passengers were milling around awaiting masculine companions to escort them, Mildred Whimpelhall had waded into the sea of pressing bodies, her dark skirts swishing, the carpetbag she carried bouncing against her leg, her dispirited-looking hat bobbing atop her incredible hair.

Sweat beaded above her crisply chiseled upper lip and her nose, requiring her to constantly push her darkened spectacles back up with a shove of her forefinger. Dust lay on her shoulders and dragged at the hem of the heavy, navy blue jacket and skirt that seemed to be the uniform of traveling females. Despite it all, she managed to convey a freshness that belied her bedraggled appearance.

She was younger than he’d expected, too. From what little Pomfrey had written in his letter of instruction, Jim had assumed the fiancée would be well past the first blush of youth. This girl’s skin was silky and fine-grained, her bosom high, and her hips…It wasn’t his heart that tightened this time.

“Miss Whimpelhall,” he said, stepping forward. She was taller even than he’d first thought, the top of her head on a level with his eyes. “I am—”

“Mr. Owens,” she said, stopping and looking him over in a most frank manner. “Yes. I have your description. You are exactly as I imagined. I would have known you anywhere.”

She looked at Haji, tensing. The Egyptian made her visibly nervous.

“Welcome to my country, Miss Whimpelhall,” Haji said, trotting out his most unctuous smile. “Haji Elkamal, at your service.”

She didn’t answer straightaway. She just stared at Haji from behind her dark glasses before abruptly thrusting her carpetbag into his chest. “Excellent. You may carry this. There’s a good fellow.”

Haji stumbled backward, grabbing the valise before it fell to the ground.

“Do be careful of that,” she chided him. “There’ll be no tip for you should you drop it.”

Haji, in his European jacket and trousers, his black hair gleaming with pomade, simply gaped at her.

“Mr. Elkamal isn’t a porter,” Jim said, wryly amused. For a few seconds there, he’d felt something unfamiliar, dimly recalled, like thread sewn fast to some organ deep within had been pulled taut…But she was simply another xenophobic English tourist, after all. “He’s an associate of mine.”

“Really?” she asked. Eying Haji, she beckoned Jim forward with a single, calfskin-encased finger. He leaned in and caught the scent of travel on her but also something sweet, soft, and feminine.

“Do you think that wise?” she whispered loudly. “He looks downright villainous to me.” She straightened. “But then I’m told you’re an American cowboy. I expect you’re familiar with his sort.”

He had to give her credit. In less than three minutes, she’d managed to insult him, Haji, and America. She’d out-Pomfreyed Pomfrey. She beamed at him, as unconscious of giving offense as the sun was of shining. That beautiful siren’s mouth was ripe with secret humor.

“Though I must say, your accent doesn’t sound very much like a cowboy’s.” She seemed disappointed.

“Just trying to improve myself, miss,” Jim replied. “If you’ll wait here a minute, I’ll fetch the rest of your luggage and have it sent on to the hotel.”

“That won’t be necessary. My luggage was lost during a storm at sea. That,” she said, pointing at the carpetbag Haji cradled in his arms like a fat baby, “is all I have.”

“Do not worry, honored
sitt
,” Haji said, fumbling with the valise. “There’re a number of places on El-Muski Street where you can buy clothes. European establishments. They’ll have you—”

He trailed off as she held up that single finger again, silencing him.

“I was not worried, my good fellow. You have misunderstood.” She spoke to him in the distinct syllables one used with the mentally challenged. She turned toward Jim. “I only meant that there is no luggage forthcoming, and as such we can proceed to Fort Gordon at first light tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Jim echoed, thinking. The sooner he fulfilled his promise to Pomfrey, the better. But then he looked down at her travel-stained dress, with its heavy material and layers of petticoats. “You can’t cross the desert in those things. You’ll roast.”

She scowled as she followed his gaze. “I suppose you are right. I shall have to buy some new clothes. But I must do so at once. I don’t want to dilly-dally in Cairo when I ought to be making my way to Colonel Lord Pomfrey.”

“If
sitt
will allow me?” Haji had recovered his aplomb and was once again smiling. “Perhaps I can be of assistance?”

She turned her head in his direction, her brows climbing above the upper rims of her dark glasses. “
You?
”

He bowed. “If you please. My cousin is a dressmaker of considerable talent who creates beautiful gowns at a most reasonable price. English-styled gowns. His clothing is much sought after by the European ladies of the city, and his shop is but a few minutes from here.”

“First a tyrannical aunt and now a dressmaking cousin. You’re full of all sorts of surprises today, Haji,” Jim said in Arabic, his tone bland.

Haji smiled sunnily. “You know very well that I have no such cousin,” he replied in the same language. “But I know a man who will sell this terrible woman a made-over cast-off for an exorbitant price of which I will receive ten percent. If she continues to stare down her long nose at me, I shall tell him to make sure it has fleas.”

“What is he saying?” Mildred Whimpelhall demanded.

“That it will be a great honor for his cousin to clothe Colonel Pomfrey’s fiancée,” Jim answered.

She nodded, apparently satisfied. “Very well, you may show me to your cousin’s shop. It had better be clean. No lice or fleas,” she said, drawing Haji’s startled glance. She continued, “And no more speaking that foreign language in my presence. It is rude and unnecessary. Especially given that you speak English.” Haji, who was immensely conceited about his public school British accent, preened. “At least passably enough to make yourself understood.”

Startled, Jim almost broke into laughter.

“Oh, there will be fleas. Many fleas, you female dog,” Haji muttered under his breath.

“What are you saying now?” She turned to Jim. “What is he saying?”

“He’s begging your pardon for being rude,” Jim said.

“Yes,” Haji said. “I am sorry that my vocabulary is inadequate to express my feelings for you. But it is. I simply have no words.”

“
To
you, not
for
you,” Mildred corrected graciously.

Haji’s face registered feigned surprise. “Thank you for the kind instruction. Unfortunately, I am not free to accompany you at this moment,” he said. “Perhaps this afternoon?”

“What is wrong with right now?”

“I am to meet a young lady,” Haji explained.

“Oh? Is it a
harem
girl?” she asked in shocked tones. Jim should have probably pulled her away, but this exchange was the most amusing thing he’d seen in months.

“No.
She
is a Miss Braxton,” Haji replied, his sangfroid finally growing thin.

Mildred’s gloved hand flew to her heart. “Miss Braxton, you say? But Miss Braxton was aboard the same ship as I! A lovely girl. Utterly charming.”

Haji peered at her disbelievingly. “Miss Ginesse Braxton?”

“Yes, yes. Ginesse. A pretty, petite blonde
angel
of a girl. So sweet. Delightful company,” she said. “I am sorry to be the bearer of such sad news, but Miss Braxton was afflicted with a terrible case of seasickness. Indeed, there were times she was so violently ill I feared for her life. She left the ship in Italy with the intention of continuing her journey by overland routes once she’d recuperated.”

“She left the ship early?” Haji asked.

“That is correct.” When Haji continued to stare at her in seeming incomprehension, she sighed in exasperation and said in a very loud voice, “
Missy. Braxton. Not. On. Ship
.”

Haji blinked.

“I believe she left a letter with the captain—” Mildred broke off, gazed at Haji’s still-dazed expression, sighed again, and continued. “
She
.
Leavie
.
Letter
,” she made a scrawling motion in the air, “
with El Captain
.”

“This is terrible,” Haji muttered in Arabic. “I knew that
afreet
’s return would be a plague on me! Magi will kill me if I do not return with the brat. Mark my words, my aunt will find a way to blame me for this.”

“You’re speaking that mumbly-humbly again,” Mildred placidly pointed out.

In a clear sign of his distress, Haji barely noted the insult. “I must go.” Without another word, he dropped the carpetbag to the ground and hurried off into the crowd.

Jim turned to Mildred Whimpelhall. She was biting her lower lip, and oddly enough, it looked as if she was trying to hold back laughter. She caught his eye and cleared her throat. “What appalling behavior. Quite unconscionable.”

“He’s usually better mannered,” Jim said, scooping her bag up. “Let’s see about getting you to your hotel.” He waved her ahead of him, and when she obliged, he fell in step behind her.

Outside the station, he caught the eye of a carriage driver parked on the far side of the street and raised his hand. The man snapped his reins over his horses’ rumps. “We’ll take a—”

“No,” she interrupted him. “No, thank you. I believe I’d rather ride one of those little donkeys.” She pointed to a clutch of tourists being hoisted aboard some long-suffering beasts.

“A donkey?” Jim asked dubiously. The donkey boys of Cairo were ubiquitous, the Egyptian counterpart of London’s hackneyed cabs. For pennies, you could clamber aboard a donkey and be taken wherever you might want to go. It was the tourists’ favorite way of visiting the bazaars. But it was also dusty and malodorous. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather take a carriage?”

“Yes.” She bit her lip, looking uncomfortable. “I…Well, to be frank, the idea of being in closed quarters with you…That is, I’m reluctant to…” She trailed off, blushing profusely.

Jim looked at her, at a loss. He couldn’t think of any reason why she wouldn’t wish to share a carriage with him unless—Good God. She couldn’t seriously think that she was in any danger from him? She was Pomfrey’s bride-to-be. Even if he were the sort of scum who took advantage of closed quarters to impose himself on a woman, there was no one on earth he’d be less likely to do so to than her.

He muttered an Arabic curse, appalled.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Owens?” she asked stiffly.

“Listen, Miss Whimpelhall,” he said. “We’re going to be traveling a long way together through some pretty harsh land. And while we won’t be traveling alone, we will be in close quarters. You are going to have to believe me when I say your reputation and, er, your virtue are as safe with me as if you were my own sister.” His couldn’t help glancing at her hair. “Safer.”

“
Oh!
”

Apparently he shouldn’t have said that. “May I help you into a carriage now?”

“I
prefer
the donkey,” she replied coldly.

“Suit yourself.” He shouted a few words in Arabic, and within seconds three donkey boys had surrounded them, vying for the fare. He picked a likely looking mount, giving directions and a
piaster
to its owner. Then without really giving it much consideration, he turned around and, putting his hands around her waist, hefted her up.

It took less hefting than he’d expected. She didn’t weigh much under all that material, and the impetus threw her above his head, catching her off guard. She pitched forward, flinging out her hands to clutch his shoulders and brace herself awkwardly above him. His hands closed more tightly around her waist.

It had been a long time since he’d touched a woman, and then it had been more a matter of expedience than desire, a brief physical union that had left him feeling empty rather than sated.

That woman had been round and pillowy. Mildred Whimpelhall was not. She was taut and supple. Even through layers of thick gabardine, he could feel where her small waist flared gently into a sweet hip. A ripple of pure desire shot through him, stealing beneath his awareness and quickening his blood.

“Oh. Oh, my.” She sounded breathless. He’d probably offended the hell out of her again. Small wonder, he’d been holding her aloft longer than necessary by half.

He dropped her atop the donkey as if his hands were scalded. He’d planned to accompany her to the hotel, but decided he’d better keep his distance from for now.

Pomfrey’s bride, for God’s sake. “I’ll be at the hotel later tonight. Seven o’clock.”

“I shall expect you,” she said, her chin lifted to a haughty angle. She may have a delectable body, but it looked as if she had a temper to match that violent red hair.

The boy tapped the donkey on its rump, and the animal moved forward, Mildred Whimpelhall perched like an oddly elegant crane on its back. They had only gone a few steps before she turned round to look back at him.

“Just so we understand one another, Mr. Owens,” she said, “I wasn’t worried about my virtue being assailed. I was worried about my nose.”

“Pardon me?” he asked.

“You, Mr. Owens, smell.” And with that parting salvo, Mildred Whimpelhall bounced off into the crowds.