A Spear of Summer Grass. Deanna Raybourn

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      5

      The next morning I woke to find Dora creeping around the suite, finishing the packing. She looked like hell and moaned gently from time to time as she folded and organised. The porters brought breakfast and I helped myself to the full English while Do sat nursing a weak cup of coffee, a wet handkerchief tied about her brow.

      I shook my head. “Do, I hope you’re not going to be difficult in Africa.”

      “Difficult?” Her voice was hollow, as if she were speaking from a great distance.

      “You take things too seriously, you always have. You ought to have some fun here, kick up your heels a bit. You’re only young once, you know.”

      I dunked a bit of toast into my egg and Dora’s face went green.

      “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I ought to go see about the bags.”

      She fled with the handkerchief pressed to her mouth and went down to supervise the loading as I finished up, taking my time with a second cup of tea. I stopped by registration to settle the bill and collect a packed lunch basket. A charming young man in livery trotted out to the curb with the hamper and added it to the mound of baggage piled on the walk. Parked next to it was an absolute heap of a vehicle. It had clearly started life as an ambulance and God only knew what sins it had committed to have fallen so low. It was pocked with rust and scarred with solder marks from where fresh bits of scrap metal had been used to bandage its wounds.

      As I watched, the driver jumped out and began to instruct the porters on where to shove the bags and I recognised him instantly. He was wearing exactly the same clothes as the day before, which didn’t surprise me. He had probably slept in them. I stepped up and fixed my brightest smile.

      “I didn’t realise you offered chauffeur service,” I said sweetly.

      He turned and pushed his hat back a little with his forefinger. “Only one service of many, Miss Drummond.”

      “That truck looks like it’s being held together with spit and a prayer.”

      To his credit, he smiled. “It’ll do.” He nodded toward the pile on the curb. “I see you’ve come well prepared for roughing it.”

      I shrugged. “I’m a girl who likes nice things,” I told him with the faintest emphasis on the word nice. “You haven’t told me your name.”

      He removed his hat and inclined his head in as courtly a gesture as I had ever seen. “J. Ryder White.”

      “And I detect by your accent you aren’t English, but I don’t think you’re a fellow American either, Mr. White.”

      “I go by Ryder. You’ve got a good ear. I’m from nowhere and everywhere, but I was born in Canada.”

      “A Canadian! How delightfully rustic,” I remarked in the same honeyed tones. “Tell me, are you housebroken?”

      His mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile. He bent to the pile of baggage and selected a long, narrow case chalked with indecipherable symbols from the Mombasa customs house. “I see you’ve come fully armed, Miss Drummond.” He flicked open the latches and threw back the lid. Whatever he had thought to find, the contents surprised him.

      “You’re not serious. Did a friend send this with you as a practical joke?”

      “I assure you, I am perfectly acquainted with that weapon.”

      He hefted the Rigby and smiled a crocodile’s smile. “Princesses shouldn’t try to slay dragons. Leave that to the knights.”

      “And the peasants?”

      He laughed aloud at that and replaced the Rigby, snapping the case closed. “Oh, I think we’re going to have fun.”

      “Don’t bet on it,” I told him, baring my teeth.

      I moved aside to let him get on with the business of loading his monstrous vehicle. Dora was standing at the passenger door and I went to shove her in. She shook her head desperately.

      “I need the window,” she whispered, pleading.

      “Oh, for God’s sake, when will you learn to hold your liquor?” The question was rhetorical. Dora got tight on a thimbleful of sherry and I had poured half a bottle of gin down her. The least I could do was give her a chance to be sick discreetly. I sighed and clambered into the wreck, settling myself in the middle while Dora crammed herself up against the door.

      “Stop moaning, Do. We haven’t even started moving yet.”

      “Maybe you haven’t,” she retorted. She closed her eyes and slumped, her head angled out the window. A moment later a shadow fell over her face.

      “Miss?” Ryder’s voice was gentler than I had yet heard it. Dodo lifted her head like a dog sniffing the air. He smiled at her and handed her a tin cup. “This might help.”

      She took an experimental sip. “Oh. Oh. What is it?”

      He shrugged. “Cure of my own making. Pawpaw juice, ginger, a few other things. Just keep drinking. I’ve got a flask full of it.”

      She stared up at him, her expression worshipful. “Thank you.”

      I slanted him a look and he smiled over her head at me, then lifted his hat and actually bowed to Dora. “Anytime, miss.”

      A moment later he was sliding into the seat next to me until his thigh touched mine. “Shove over, princess. I’ve got to work the gears.”

      I moved over as far as I could and gave him another sweet smile. “And where is my morning libation?”

      “You’re not hungover,” he pointed out.

      “I’m not hungover,” Dora put in as forcefully as she could. “Ladies do not imbibe to excess. I am merely overtired.”

      “Of course,” Ryder said soothingly. He winked at me and I folded my arms over my chest. Dora had her eyes closed again and was sucking hard on the cup.

      “What did you put in that?” I demanded.

      He leaned a trifle closer than absolutely necessary, his voice low. “Exactly what I said. Pawpaw juice, ginger. And half a bottle of gin.”

      “That’s what got her into this in the first place.”

      He shrugged. СКАЧАТЬ