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‘He was prepared to leave me.’ Cleo did not feel in the mood to be mocked, however mildly. ‘You heard him—Laurent said he would not permit me to go with Father and he replied that I would be in the way and I could go to Cairo with you.’
‘I could not square it with my conscience to leave him here. It is better that he is in Cairo.’ Quin stood on the gunwale to help pass ropes.
Cleo shifted so she could watch him. There had been something in his tone just then that she could not understand and she was still absolutely convinced that whatever Quin Bredon was, he was not an engineer. That morning when she had commented on his fitness he had answered with a general statement about engineers, nothing personal, no example from his own experience as she would have expected. Men liked to talk about their own lives and interests. But not this one.
Capitaine Laurent came down to inspect what they were doing and nodded amiably at Quin. Apparently their mutual tussle with her father had muted the antagonism between them somewhat. Should she say something to Laurent? But what? That she was certain Quin was not an engineer? But if he was not, then surely the only thing he could be was a spy and Laurent would have no option but to shoot him.
‘Look out below!’ Quin swung down to catch the tumbling sail before it covered her. ‘Daydreaming?’
‘No, just undecided about something.’ Cleo began to gather the sail up so Quin could tie it from one end while the boatman began at the other. He worked his way along, knotting as he went, until he was opposite her. She looked into the deep blue eyes that were so friendly, looked at the relaxed curve of his mouth and the dextrous hands. ‘I will sleep on it.’
* * *
Sleep proved impossible. Cleo lay staring up, sightless in the stuffy darkness. If Quin was a spy, then who was he damaging? The French, presumably, and she was a Frenchwoman by marriage now. But she did not feel French, any more than she felt English. And what had the French ever done for her? Married her off to a man who lied, who was unfaithful and who hit her.
If she went to Laurent, told him her vague suspicions, then he would want to know Quin’s mission and that meant only one thing. He would use torture and somehow she could not imagine Quin simply giving in at the first glimpse of a hot iron or whatever hideous methods Laurent would employ. So it would be prolonged and appalling and then they’d shoot him and she would never get it off her conscience.
‘And I like you, you infuriating man,’ she murmured to herself. More than liked, if the truth be told. She desired him. Her experiences of physical love had not been very satisfying, but she knew enough to suspect that it had been her ignorance and Thierry’s lack of care that contributed to that. Quin with his hugs and his humour, and his beautiful body, she admitted to herself, he would be different.
But it would be madness, even if he wanted her, even if they found somewhere to make love. No man was trustworthy, not deep down. He would be good to her while it lasted, then his own needs, his own interests, would emerge and he would leave her without a backwards glance. That was what men did.
She curled up on her side, her nose inches from the hanging panel that separated her from the open deck and Quin on his self-appointed guard duty outside her door. The boat rocked in the current, fish splashed, a jackal gave its harsh call. None of that was strange now, but something was keeping her awake beyond worry and lust. Someone was whispering.
‘I do not give a damn.’ That was Quin and the whispering voice had been him, too. His voice rose. ‘Don’t care. Why should I?’
Cleo parted the flap and looked out. Quin was flat on his back, eyes closed, the light rug that had covered him tossed aside. He was clad in only the thin cotton drawers that all the local men wore under their robes and in the moonlight she could see the faint trace of sweat glistening on his chest.
‘Quin?’ Cleo murmured as she touched his arm. He was deeply asleep and dreaming, but if his voice became any louder it would bring the guard and she imagined he would hate that.
He quietened at her voice, or perhaps it was her touch. ‘Not like my father. Either of them.’
That made no sense. He moved his head, restless. Cleo reached over and pulled the cover back over his body, concerned he would take a chill. Quin began to mutter again. She could not make out the words, but he sounded bitter and unhappy. For a moment she hesitated, wondering if it was his conscience speaking, and then decided she did not care. A hug had made her feel better, she would see if she could work the same magic for him.
Cleo slid down to lie close to the long, hot body, put her head on his chest and her arm across to hold him. ‘Shh, I am here,’ she said, echoing his reassurance of the night before. ‘Sleep, Quin. Just sleep.’
