The Book of the Seven Delights by Betina Krahn Page A

being issued around the city. She took a breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and answered that call.

Chapter Eight
    Ferdineaux LaCroix stepped over the debris that was once a door and entered Abigail Merchant's vacant hotel room… careful not to snag the silk of his pristine white suit. The portly Frenchman took his time looking over the toppled washstand and displaced bed, then the flat-faced sergeant who stood by the open window grinding an anxious fist into a meaty palm.
    "So, you let them get away," LaCroix observed with an air of deadly calm, using his silver-headed walking stick to rake the edge of the naked mattress.
    "They had help," the sergeant said with a sullen glance at the bedclothes still tied to the balcony railing.
    "They had horses waiting."
    "He was prepared." LaCroix stepped out onto the balcony, peered down into the shadowed alley, and then turned back to spear the sergeant with a look. "Enterprising, don't you think? For a dead man. "
    "We give chase." The sergeant reddened furiously, casting the numerous scars on his face into pale relief.
    "They go to the British house. And you say to take them alive ." When LaCroix was silent for another moment he grew impatient. "We know where they go, non ?" He put a hand to the pistol he wore at his waist and started for the door. "We overtake them on the road to—"
    " No ." LaCroix brought up his walking stick across the sergeant's path, halting him. "You will let them complete their journey… reach Marrakech. You will let them search for and find whatever it is the American woman seeks. Why deprive them of the pleasure of finding this 'treasure' of hers? Especially when we intend to deprive them of the pleasure of keeping it." He glanced again at the knotted sheets on the railing and began to turn the fat gold ring he wore on his little finger… thinking.
    "Sooner or later they will have to return to Casablanca to seek transport back to London." He straightened, having decided on a course. "All you have to do, Gaston, is keep track of them and bring me word when they've located the treasure. Then you will see that Apollo Smith dies. Permanently, this time. And I will see that the very independent Miss Merchant learns a woman's proper place in the world."

    The shadows of the great walls and the constriction of the enclosed city fell away as they raced through the city gate and into the countryside. Groves of date palms and cultivated green fields produced a disjointed patchwork of landscape in her head. When she managed to raise her head, she spotted tents, stalls, and corrals lining the mostly empty road. It was dawn, and there were few people about; only a few men facing east on prayer rugs.
    As soon as they were past the encampments that surrounded the city Smith abandoned the road and struck off across country.
    They rode for what seemed like forever… until they reached a spot sheltered by a large outcropping of rock and he finally stopped and lowered her to the ground. She staggered, dizzy, and hung on to the horse's blanket to stay upright. Every bone in her body had been shaken loose at the joints, and from shoulders to knees she felt like she'd been tenderized.
    "What the hell were you doing back there?" he demanded, swinging down. She sensed that only the exertion of the ride kept him from roaring full force at her. "Where in blazes did you go?"
    She looked up at him, seeing spots of dark and light as blood drained from her air-starved brain. "I saw the Consulate and thought they could help. Then the Legionnaires came and bashed their way in—they just invaded a foreign mission—a consulate* . How dare they?"
    He reached for her right hand and pulled it up between them. Her wrist hung limply, but there was nothing halfhearted about her grip on the handle of the pistol she had fired at the soldier in the kitchen.
    "Good God." Apollo looked from the gun to her flushed face. "Did you shoot this thing?" She winced at the sight of the gun, and he raised