“Her ladyship,” the lordling corrected. “She took a room at the Hotel Allemand Blaich, near the port.”
Catriona.
His body had reflexively angled west, toward the coastline. His heart was pounding, his muscles readied for a dash down the road. He shook himself. In the distance, the sun was already descending over the sea. It was half a day’s ride to reach the port town of Chekka, and several hours on a sailboat that took people from Chekka to Beirut. He’d have to ride into the night only to miss the last departure of the boat.
“Who is with her now?” he asked the Englishman.
“She’s keeping her own company,” came the hesitant reply.
Displeasure ripped through Elias like a shooting flame. “You traveled with her, alone?”
Lord Peregrin Devereux flinched, and Elias realized he had taken a step toward the young man. Who was, on all accounts, a traveler, and his guest. His jaw clenched with the vain effort to rein in his temper. “You traveled with her, alone,” he repeated, “and you abandoned her in a foreign city?”
Lord Peregrin’s chin rose. “I doubt it will improve your opinion of me, sir, but for what it’s worth, I was forced into this appalling scheme by the lady herself.”
What kind of man are you, Elias thought, to allow yourself to be forced into idiotic, improper acts that endanger a woman’s name and safety? As he stared into Lord Peregrin’s perspiring face, he felt supremely annoyed because he himself had been exactly that kind of man.
“The lady knows her own mind,” he said curtly.
Lord Peregrin’s alert posture relaxed a fraction. “Indeed.”
Elias clapped him on the shoulder and left his hand there. “Lord Peregrin. It would be our honor to have you as our guest. Our house is your house, rest, join us for the evening meal. Have a room for the night.” He cast a last glance at the horizon. “I shall leave for Beirut shortly before dawn.”
“Gladly, sir. I appreciate it.”
Elias gestured one of their guards closer and instructed him to provide the guide and his mules with rest and refreshments. Activity broke out at the entrance to the main house; his family was gathering. The women were absent, probably supervising the preparations for the guest, coffee, sweets, and the sitting room reserved for visitors. He turned back to the English lord. His mouth was smiling but his voice had an edge when he leaned in close. “I shall introduce you to my family as a fellow student from Cambridge days. You happen to be in Beirut for pleasure and came to see me on a whim. You don’t mention the lady. Not a word.”
Lord Peregrin squirmed a little, possibly perturbed at a stranger claiming his personal space and whispering threats into his ear, but when Elias’s fingers tightened slightly on his shoulder, he peered sideways at Elias’s face and nodded. “Very well, I don’t mention the lady.”
When they ascended the stairs, Lord Peregrin fell into step with Elias.
“What was our college?” he asked from the corner of his mouth. “Did we row together? You have a good height for rowing. So do I, but I’m more of a cricket man myself . . .”
The next few hours would feel like years.
* * *
The sea of Zaitounay Bay reflected the sun like a metal sheet, and the glare blinded Catriona through the flimsy screen of her travel veil. For a while, she had shielded her eyes with her hand, but eventually her arm had grown tired. Waves crashed ceaselessly against the wall of the promenade, salt coated her lips. Sensations of home, of Applecross, though notably warmer and brighter; still, she clung to this vague sense of familiarity to keep calm. Peregrin had left the hotel yesterday morning, now it was afternoon and there was still no sign of him. It had been impossible to stay indoors, trapped with vivid mental scenarios of Elias married to someone else, of Elias disliking her, of him scratching her from his memory. The hotel was behind her, a few hundred yards to the left. She might have to return for a drink of water soon, the glass of sweet lemonade she had bought from a street vendor earlier seemed a distant dream. Her posture was beginning to sag, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth; she had been out under the sun for hours.
A man approached the hotel. He drew her attention as if he had called her name. He wore Ottoman clothes: a cropped, intricately embroidered velvet jacket, and the sherwal, baggy trousers that disappeared into knee-high leather boots. A brown, conical cap covered his hair, and a white scarf, tied around the cap, concealed half of his face. Her knees sagged. She would have recognized him in any attire, with his face fully covered. She would know him by the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, his smooth walk that was half grace, half purpose.