He nimbly dodged donkeys and carts, skirted around people crossing the street. When he cleared a tall stack of crates, I let out an impressed whistle despite myself. The man could hustle. It seemed no obstacle stood a chance against Mr. Hayes, even willful donkeys and stray dogs yipping at his heels. Miércoles.
Mr. Hayes met my gaze after a near collision with a vendor selling fruit. He shouted something at me, but I couldn’t make out the words. I blew a kiss at him and laughed when he shot me a rude gesture. The only reason I recognized it was because I had made our gardener’s son explain it to me after I saw him using it against someone else.
The brougham made another turn and came to an abrupt stop.
I turned my head. A long line of traffic stood idle ahead of us. “Shit, blast, shit.”
A rush of rapid Arabic reached my ears. Any moment and—
The door flew open and a panting Mr. Hayes stood at the threshold. “You are”—he huffed—“more trouble”—another breath—“than you’re worth!”
“So I have been told,” I said. “No, don’t come in—”
Mr. Hayes climbed inside and sat on the bench opposite from me. Sweat glistened across his brow. “I had a word with your driver. He’s taking the both of us back to the hotel—”
“How dare you!”
“—for your own damned good!”
He glared at me, and I matched the ferocity of his expression with one of my own. I folded my arms tight across my chest, resentful that his brawn took up so much space in the cramped interior. “Remove yourself. It isn’t proper for an unwed lady—”
His jaw locked with an audible snap. “Do you see a lady present? If my sister comported herself as you have done, my mother would—”
“My mother isn’t here!”
Mr. Hayes fell silent, the color leeching from his face. “I didn’t mean . . .”
“I’m not your problem,” I continued as if he hadn’t spoken.
“For the hundredth time, your uncle made you my problem.”
Our transport pushed forward at a slow crawl. I swiftly glanced at the door, considered my options, and then rose from the seat.
“Don’t you get out of a moving carriage,” Mr. Hayes snarled. “Sit down.”
I pushed the door open and scrambled out, tripping over my skirts, my arms windmilling to keep balance on the dirt road.
Behind me, Mr. Hayes said, “Bloody hell.”
I heard, rather than saw, Mr. Hayes jump out, landing neatly by me. A strong, tanned hand steadied me before I toppled sideways on my accursedly long skirt. He held on to my arm as I rearranged my dress, dusting the hem to rid it of any dust that had blown onto it from my near scrape. My carriage, I noted, continued its trek away from us.
“Better run if you mean to catch it,” I said.
“Not without you,” Mr. Hayes said.
I wrenched myself free and waited a beat to see what Mr. Hayes would do. He stayed close but didn’t touch me. Instead, he gestured for me to walk onto the side path lining the road. I allowed it because it was safer not to block traffic.
Once there, I stood my ground. “I’m not going back to the hotel.”
“Have a care for your reputation,” he said, towering over me.
“As if you care about mine,” I snapped. “I’m just a job to you.”
Mr. Hayes didn’t bat an eyelash. He might have been made of stone.
“I’m going to the bazaar. If you want to make sure I stay safe, then come along. But don’t bother trying to take me back.” I poked him in his very broad chest. “I can be incredibly loud and annoying when I want to be.”
“Oh, I’m aware,” Mr. Hayes fumed, his blue eyes bloodshot.
I whirled and walked on, not caring which direction I went for the moment. But I felt Mr. Hayes’s scheming gaze between my shoulder blades with every step I took.
Capítulo Ocho
I was horribly lost. Khan el-Khalili had rudely decided to keep itself hidden, and several of the buildings all looked suspiciously familiar. They were all tall and narrow with sculpted recesses that displayed ornate entrances and front porches. Pale-skinned gentlemen wearing palm-leaf hats strode through the thick crowd as if they owned the dirt under our feet. A grand opera house added a sense of grandeur to the busy street. With a jolt, I remembered how Papá had taken my mother to see Aida, and they had reenacted the performance for me months later. Mamá forgot the lines, and Papá had valiantly tried to carry on without her. In the end, we had all sat atop the plush rug in front of the fireplace and talked long into the night.
Grief was like a memory keeper. It showed me moments I’d forgotten, and I was grateful, even as my stomach hollowed out. I never wanted to forget them, no matter how painful it was to remember. I wiped my eyes, making sure Mr. Hayes didn’t see, and strode on toward the bazaar.
Or where I imagined it to be, anyway.
Mr. Hayes followed me without saying a word for one block, and then another. When I made a turn he broke his silence. “You don’t have the slightest idea where you’re going,” he said cheerfully.
“I’m sightseeing. I believe the dictionary would say that there’s a significant difference.”
“In this case, not bloody likely.”
He walked at my side, keeping a careful distance while somehow communicating to others that we were together.
“I can help,” he said after another moment.
“I don’t trust you,” I said. “I won’t believe a word out of your mouth.”
He blocked my path and folded his arms across his broad chest. And then waited.
“Remove yourself from my way,” I said through gritted teeth.
“You’re going to have to trust me,” he said with a coaxing smile.
I narrowed my gaze.
“Do you want to see Khan el-Khalili, or don’t you?” Some of his anger had melted off him, and amusement curled at the edge of his mouth, a secret waiting to be told. His easy manner only inflamed my distrust. I felt as if he were handling me again. Accommodating me only until an opportunity presented itself.
My guard remained. “Of course I do.”
Mr. Hayes tilted his head toward a street we hadn’t traversed. “Then follow me.”
He walked away without seeing if I’d follow. A soft wind caressed my cheeks as I deliberated. Then, shrugging, I set off after him. If he tried to trick me, I’d make such a racket that he’d come to regret it. He hadn’t seen me at my loudest. He slowed to match my shorter stride.
“How far is it?”
“Not far,” he said with a quick look in my direction. “You’ll love it.”
The street became smaller and with every step, Mr. Hayes seemed to shed the layer of aristocracy that clung to him like a well-tailored cloak. His movements became looser, his long limbs more relaxed. We crossed into a narrow lane, lined with what seemed like hundreds of shops. High and narrow houses sat above the little storefronts, the upper stories projecting outward and peppered with windows bracketed by wooden shutters carved in delicate latticework.
“Oh,” I breathed.