Mistress by Midnight by Maggie Robinson Page B

from hours under the scorching sun, it had not been so very difficult to assimilate. He had even grown a most ferocious mustache and beard worthy of any self-respecting bey. His appearance, and the Arabic in which he was now nearly fluent, had been useful. Any way he could avoid getting his throat slit was worth pursuing. He was one Frank who did not feel his time on earth was quite up. He planned to return to England and meet his son. If he could not see him, it would be a pity. He remembered one of the last days of his darkness, but would not bore Laurette with the story.
    He lay in his tent, his man Aram alternately soaking cloths in strong tea and honey to combat the infection. Bankes had suffered the same affliction before Con had joined him in his journey, and had made a complete recovery, taking notes and sketching the magnificent ruins in meticulous detail. Con was hopeful he would do the same. He was expected to be a guide of sorts in the Holy Land at the end of Bankes’ expedition, having landed there early in his own exile. There had been too many idle Englishmen in southern Europe when he first ran away, and then the forces of war had made life distinctly uncomfortable. Con had left behind his own idleness and served England in a very unofficial capacity. For a boy who had difficulty declining Latin verbs, he suddenly discovered he had a facility for spoken languages and the ability to blend in to indigenous populations. He was not a blond, blue-eyed Englishman afraid to get dirty or be devious.
    But he found he had a distaste for death. His trek east had been meant to find some meaning in his life, some peace, but
he could not say that he had been successful except under the influence of a bubbling hookah.
    He knew some might wonder about his manhood. His association with William would raise some knowing eyebrows in Britain, although William was being most discreet in lands where his bisexuality would condemn him to death. But Con had touched no woman—or man—since that last day with Laurette, despite frequent opportunities. His celibacy had not prevented him from being an observer, however, and he was privy now to all manner of ways humans intoxicated themselves with desire.
    He heard a rustling and the thud of boots on the hard-packed mud. Con pulled off the linen strips over his eyes and sat up.
    “Don’t disturb yourself. It is only I.”
    Con heard William’s drawling voice and smiled. “Have you come to feed me roasted locusts again?”
    “Lord, no! Although I’ve had worse. Some think they taste like shrimp. I’ll not forget the first time I saw them swarm, like a storm of black snow. I wish you had come with us today. I stood on the roof of the most magnificent temple. Climbed all the way to the top.”
    “Buried in sand, was it? Did Finati give you a leg up, or did you hop?”
    William snorted. “Sharp as ever. Wish we’d had time to do a bit of digging, but it’s time to move on. We’ll make for the boat tomorrow. Will you be up to it?”
    “I suppose I’ll have to be. Just lash me to the camel.”
    “We’ll stay at the convent in Cairo until you’re well again.”
    “If I ever am.” Con disliked the complaint in his voice, but his hours of solitude in camp while the party explored had given him too much time to feel sorry for himself.
    “It could be worse—you could be covered with buboes. Although they might be an improvement over the beard. You are quite horrifying, you know.”
    Con laughed. “It is just that you are so pretty.” He ran a
hand through his beard, wondering if Laurette would even recognize him. Whether he would recognize himself in the mirror, should his sight be restored.
    Laurette still looked stricken. But he could see her, praise Allah, Jesus and Venus. “What happened?”
    Con flipped on his back and held her hand. He watched their reflection above in the mirror on the ceiling. They looked as if they were the original sinners, Adam and Eve, fresh from a