Racing with the Sun: The Lambourne Legacy, #3

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dedications

To Samira - Thank you for all your incredible insight.  It is a joy to discuss the culture of Morocco with you and I cannot wait to see it for myself.  أشكركم على صداقتكم

To Diane - As always, you are my sounding board, idea generator, and brainstorming buddy.  I look forward to many more years and many more books between us.  And sushi.

To Susan - Your knowledge, advice, and blunt comments have made me a better writer.  You should know how much you are appreciated.

To the members of The Beau Monde - Always a pleasure to bounce ideas off you and delve into interesting subject matters.  I said it before and will say it again, the knowledge I gain in your presence is well worth the price of admission.

To my Readers - Thank you all for making my job more of a joy than it already is.

CHAPTER ONE

Tangier, Morocco - May 1821

Carson Lambourne stepped off the dilapidated dock onto the soft, sandy ground.  He stumbled as his boots sunk into it like quicksand, the cloudy water from the port rushing up around his ankles.

Several dark men rushed past him, lugging his trunk and bags to a teetering cart pulled by a mule that looked no heartier than he felt.

Yanking a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his brow and ran a hand through his dark, damp hair.  Tangier was much hotter than he expected.  Nothing like the rainy coolness of England at all.  The only similarity he found was the briny smell of the harbor. 

At least now he understood why the locals dressed in their robes and linens.  Standing there in his fashionable suit was enough to make him want to strip, modesty be damned. 

Mister Lambourne? a tall, dark, bearded man in a turban approached him, sizing him up with a wary eye.

Yes, I am Lambourne.

Come with me, sir, the man motioned and Carson, stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket, followed behind.  Peddlers and small children, hawking trinkets and food, littered the embankment leading up to the walled city.  An elderly man, crouched with a crate between his legs, was hammering something silver into an intricate piece of jewelry.  Carson stopped for a moment, marveling at the precision this man had with his makeshift table, sitting in the sand beneath the hot sun as if perched at a bench in one of the finest shops in London.

You must come, his guide demanded, and Carson nodded and pulled himself away to follow the man up to the wall and into the city through the huge arched opening.

He had been to many cities. London, Paris and Munich to name a few.  This was nothing like any city he had ever been to.  Narrow, sandy paths wound themselves between sun-bleached buildings that seemed precariously unsteady.  Overhanging upper stories bolstered into place with timbers that looked too old to hold any weight at all.  Carts, animals, people on blankets - every opportunity for a sale was taken here by anyone who was able. 

Amid the stark walls of the buildings there were intermittent bursts of color. Mosaics adorned arches of main entrances.  The brilliant reds, blues, and golds of the small tiles glinting in the sun as they passed.  Again, Carson found himself transfixed by the simplistic beauty of this art and stopped to look more closely, feeling the smoothness of the tiles beneath his fingertips.

Mister Lambourne, please!  His guide was vehement about their forward progression, which made Carson leery and he made a more astute observation of his surroundings.

Is there some reason we’re in such a hurry, Mister...?  Carson motioned to the man, not knowing his name.

I am called Hamzah, he offered with a sigh.  And I must get you to the Casbah on the far side of the medina before Bazani loses his patience.  He was not happy that you have arrived a day late.

We ran into bad weather, I didn’t have a choice but to be late, Carson offered as he tugged at his cravat.

Be that as it may, arriving much later will not help you, Hamzah said with a furrowed brow.

Carson took one last look at the mosaics then pulled away reluctantly.  After a few moments of bobbing and weaving through foot traffic in the narrow dusty streets, Hamzah stopped at a large, weather-worn door, its small window barred, and he knocked with the side of his fist.  The small door covering the window flipped open and dark eyes peered through the bars at them.  Carson didn't understand what was being said, but Hamzah turned and gestured to him.

You can go in, he said and ushered Carson toward the door.  I will wait here with your things until you return.

Carson nodded absently, looking behind him to glimpse the pile of his possessions.  He had no choice but to do as he was told and pray his belongings remained where they were. Inhaling, he straightened his posture, and stood taller as he followed the man behind the door.  Up two flights of stairs, across a walkway, and into another building where he was lead into an open-air courtyard within tall daubed walls covered in vines and mosaics.  It was like a fairy tale come to life.

You must be Carson Lambourne, a large, ashy man in a beautiful saffron tunic stood from a table stacked high with paperwork, his head draped in a deep maroon scarf held into place by a black roped circlet. The gold and jewel-tipped rings across several of his fingers glinted in the sunlight, and Carson immediately got the impression that this man demanded attention.  All of it.

I am, Carson offered.  You are?

I am Evîndar Bazani.  I am the Qaid.

Qaid?  I do beg pardon, I am not familiar... Carson said and took a seat when the man motioned to the chair beside his table.  Carson watched as the man situated himself in his own seat, shuffled his papers and folded his hands on the table, offering a rather condescending smile.

I am the official of this place, the person who makes and keeps the laws, he said looking over Carson’s shoulder, waving his hand. 

Archer told him about this man, that he was the one handling the accounts to be paid, and that he was rather flamboyant.  From Carson’s viewpoint he wasn’t so much flamboyant but egregious about his power here.  It was obvious in the way he spoke and showed off his wealth.  He found it immediately distasteful and wondered offhand why his brother hadn’t mentioned more about it.

As he watched the man carefully, a woman rushed forward carrying a large, ornate pitcher and two silver cups.  Like the locals he’d seen on his way in, she wore a long, shapeless robe.  A mass of fabrics looped around her head and neck and fell in a soft cowl at her shoulders.  When she turned in his direction, his breath halted on his lips.

Never in his life was he held captive by a beautiful face.  He’d heard tell of such things though he’d never experienced it for himself, until now.  Her eyes were haunting in a way Carson could not explain, and their pull at his soul held him entranced, unable to look away. Their vivid green was ethereal, and their shape whispered of the exotic land he found himself in.  As remarkable as they were to look into, it was what he found in their depths that struck him.  In that moment, he felt a great yearning, an incomprehensible craving dumbfounding him.  The sense of foreboding he felt looming there caught him off guard as if the woman pleaded to him.

He knew she was experiencing the same uncanny connection because she made no move to look away and without thought, Carson reached out to touch her hand.

Nasrin, leave us! 

Bazani’s bark broke Carson from his stupor and he shot back in his seat.  The woman set the cups and pitcher down hastily, and rushed off without a sound, disappearing behind a large wooden door.

Bazani turned a scrutinizing gaze back to Carson. 

You must not touch.

I do apologize, Carson said, straightening in his seat.  I didn't mean to touch her.  Who is she?

Nasrin is one of my indentured servants.

Nasrin.  Her name was as beautiful as her face.

Indentured, you mean she’s a slave? Carson asked, but Bazani barely blinked at his statement.

You will find yourself better suited if you do not meddle in our daily affairs, Mister Lambourne.  These types of servants are common here.  She is being paid for her service.

If she is being paid, why then is she indentured?

She has agreed to work to pay off her father’s past indiscretions.

Why can he not pay them himself?

That is none of your concern.  Bazani stood from his seat and picked up one of the small silver cups, filling it with the liquid from the pitcher, handing it to Carson with an eerily calm smile. 

Carson took the cup and eyed the liquid.  The cloudy, speckled mixture jiggled with what he could only think to be clotted cream, and he grimaced. 

Bazani sat and poured himself a cup and drank it without thought and then watched as Carson brought the cup to his lips.  The liquid had a faint mint scent, and Carson girded himself as he sipped.  The texture put him off for a moment, and he swallowed, trying to keep it down with as much comportment as he could muster.  It did have mint in it, which helped, but not by much.

What is this? he asked, licking his lips, trying not to pucker his face as the bitter taste hit the back of his throat.  It was not clotted cream.  The odd aroma did nothing to ease his tense stomach, and he was sure his face was giving that fact away quite clearly.

Doogh.  Do you like it?

Not something I have ever had before.  It is... interesting.  Carson said with a hesitant smile, and Bazani grinned and topped off his cup for him.  Carson groaned inwardly.

It will cool you, Bazani said, drank another cup, and motioned to Carson, who begrudgingly took another gulp.  The second cup went down easier, and the taste coated his mouth like a thick, sour milk.

Now that we have dealt with the pleasantries, Carson offered as he set the cup aside.  Can we get to our business, so I can be on my way?

Your brother was not as excitable as you seem to be, Mister Lambourne.

I find that hard to believe, he said, waving off another refill as Bazani motioned to the pitcher.  And I’m sure my brother was more comfortable with your customs and such as he has spent much more time here.  I have not.

I see, Bazani pulled a file from beneath his stack of papers and rifled through the pages, pulling a handful of sheets free.  He went over them several times and then set them down.  Your brother’s holdings are intact.  His fee for this year is sixty-five pounds, or if you prefer, dirhams?

Sixty-five? Carson could not fathom a sum being paid for what he felt was extortion.  Archer warned him the amount would seem atrocious, and if it went beyond seventy pounds he should haggle with the man.  This was cutting it rather close.

It is a fair sum, and not much more than he was charged last year.  I am sure you understand business is business.

Carson realized he should have prepared himself better and not reacted as he had, but it seemed ludicrous.  Archer advised him the sum would seem astronomical and gave him a vast amount to help in his travels and carry him over during this exchange.  Carson didn't press the issue and didn't pry into Archer’s business to know what kind of money he was gaining from his investments, but he knew it had to be a fair amount.  More than he would have imagined.

And what type of guarantee will I receive once I give you this money? Carson asked as he sat back from Bazani and crossed his legs. 

Bazani didn't react to his question.  In fact, he stacked his papers, and moved them aside as he leaned forward.

You can pay or not pay.  That is up to you.  I would suggest that your brother come next time to avoid these questions.

This is a large sum of money, Carson offered with restraint.  I want to be sure it is used for what it is intended.  He glanced back toward the doorway, hoping to glimpse the woman with the green eyes, but he was not so fortunate.

And what are you suggesting, that I give you a receipt? Bazani asked and then roared with laughter when Carson nodded.  I am a busy man, Mister Lambourne.  I assure you this money is used for what it is intended, but I must conclude our business for today.  You may pay me or not.  That is your choice.  Bazani got up from his seat and handed the paperwork to another man who entered and exited without a sound.  Carson, wanting to be out of this place and away from this man, pulled his wallet from his inside pocket and took several notes from it, handing them to Bazani.

That should cover some of what you ask, Carson said, stuffing his wallet back into his pocket. I do not carry such a large amount of money on my person. I will have to deliver the rest once I settle myself at my lodgings.

Thank you for your business, Mister Lambourne.  We will keep in touch.  Bazani motioned to the door, and another robed person showed Carson back through the courtyard and out the door where Hamzah thankfully stood waiting for him.

I am taking my brother’s rooms at Dar Jilani, he said and with a nod, Hamzah ushered him through another maze of alleys and pathways, up a steep grade and nearly out of town.  They walked so far in the beating sun, Carson thought he would expire.  When they arrived, he was more than eager to be rid of his guide and his clothing. 

Holding out some cash to Hamzah for his troubles, he was rebuffed and told it was not customary to accept money for a job well done.  News to him, as any man in London would have a hand held out for that and more.

The men carried his trunk and bags up three flights to a door at the back of the establishment.  It was one of Archer’s refuges and Carson hoped he had sense enough to keep a room where there were more modern amenities than he had already seen.

Upon entering, he found the room clean.  He didn't know what he expected to find, perhaps piles of sand in the corners, but this room was tidy and simply furnished.  Dark wood covered the floors and intricate tiles decorated the trim around the doorways and windows.  Even the furnishings bore decoration.  Everything in the room seemed to pulse with a life of its own. 

He made his way to the couch across the room, intent on ridding himself of his clothing post haste.  Removing his coat and shirt, the air hit his tacky, hot skin with blessed relief.  His boots were next to go as were his stockings and trousers.  Even his drawers were damp from the days exertions.

Exhausted, he went to the bedroom and opened the shutters to let in more air.  His view was nothing short of stunning. Muted and bleached buildings sat in rows leading down to the bay where ships dotted the sparkling water as the sun set.  Off in the distance, he heard the soulful cry of the evening prayer as it drifted through the hot breeze.  It was an eerie sound, warning him that he was an intruder in this place, but something about the rhythm of the words brought him comfort.  Laying on the bed he drifted off and within moments, dreams of desert oases and far off lands... and a woman with mysterious green eyes washed through his mind.

CHAPTER TWO

Nasrin Al-Shirazi lay curled with her back against the solid, stone wall.  If not for protection, the cold hardness of the surface was welcome against the sore bruise on her back where she had been kicked.  Bazani’s brutal henchmen did not hold back on their punishments and as she was one who did not take to following their absurd rules, it was something she endured rather frequently.

Until now, she remained fairly unscathed.  She was not adept at holding her tongue and she received a few backhands for speaking out of turn, or at all.  Bloody lips were something she could survive but being kicked for something she did not do was intolerable.  She did not think any of her ribs were broken, but it still hurt to breathe, and she knew in the morning it would be even harder to move.  The guards did not care.  At sunrise, they expected her to be awake, dressed, and ready for prayers before unending chores began her day.

But as she lay there in the dark with the pain in her back making her wince with every breath, she couldn’t help but smile.  He saw her, and he responded.  He was able to hear her pleas with only a glance.  He could sense it just as she sensed his connection to her.

Nasrin pushed herself up to sit and leaned her head back against the hard wall as she closed her eyes.  She wanted to see his face again and this was the only solace she had, to conjure him in her mind.  His eyes, clear and blue as the cerulean sea, held the same depth and complexity of that vast body of water.  On the surface, calmness pervaded and were soothing in their kindness, but beneath, she saw the churning and passion.  Everything held at bay.  Even out of his element, in a strange and foreign land, he made it his duty to show care for her, to risk himself for her safety and she admired that. 

Nasrin had lingered near the door to listen to their conversation after she ran off, and she heard him question her freedom.  Though grateful for the effort, she knew the Qaid would never bow to a white man questioning his decisions.  It would mark him as weak and that was one thing Bazani would never admit to.  Even though she knew him to be a coward, barking like a mean dog, but he always sent his men to scold her instead of doing it himself.

She’d been in his service for six years now, so long that being free of him seemed illusive.  Her family stopped communicating anything meaningful and if it weren’t for her cousin, Yusef, she would not understand what was going on in the outside world. 

Punishments aside, she wasn't treated badly.  She’d seen many other girls come and go, being abused beyond anything she could imagine.  That the Qaid wanted her sister and not her was a boon.  He considered her to be second rate, a lesser copy, and one he did not desire.  So, she became a servant, which pleased her.  Nasrin could not stomach being one of his women or one of his wives.  She could only imagine what she would be made to do against her will, which would only drive her to do something desperate.  She’d never hurt herself, but she’d find many ways to hurt Bazani.  Even now, it was a daily entertainment, coming up with new and creative ways to make him suffer. 

She’d only gone as far as spitting in his food and drink or mixing herbs into his dinner to make him lose his stomach, but in her mind, she’d come up with some ingenious ways to kill the man that had taken away her life.  That was, until Carson walked into it.

She met his brother two years earlier.  He’d been a cocky young man, full of bravado and ambition.  She’d heard talk of him in the market when he’d come to Bilal’s for food and complained about not being able to eat something specific.  Bilal did what he could to appease the man, and eventually Archer relaxed enough to consider the local cuisine and enjoyed it.  She did not see that trait in his brother.  Where Archer was blunt and insistent, Carson was curious and inclusive.  She could see he hadn’t traveled to many foreign lands because he was overly wary and observant.  The confidence was there but held in check.  Archer, not so much.  Well-traveled, Archer held an air of authority she could see both impressed and alarmed Bazani. Doing business meant the two would have to become acquainted and Archer strode into the Qaid’s Casbah as if he belonged there.  Carson came in as if invited, and Bazani took advantage of that show of weakness. 

Nasrin stood just out of sight when Carson spoke to Bazani and she knew the Qaid would try to rob him.  Sixty-five pounds was an awful lot of money and she knew he’d only charged his brother forty-two the year before. But, money being what it was, the Qaid also knew the English would not back down from paying the fees necessary to keep their investments safe.  If only they knew these investments did nothing but perpetuate the life she was living.

When her sister, Amina, ran off to marry a man over the offer of the Qaid, Nasrin did not understand how it would affect her life.  She’d only been fifteen then, working in the marketplace selling pottery she and her mother handcrafted. It was a simpler life then and she had little in the way of worry.  Her family was not wealthy, by any means, but she knew they were better off than many around them. Her father made his living as a merchant, bringing wares into Tangier from her birthplace of Fez. 

As a child, she helped to charm customers and bring attention to their shop, but as she grew older, her father gave her more responsibility, often running a storefront in Fez while her parents were off buying and selling goods.  It was something she enjoyed, and something she missed. It gave her some amount of independence and she could make her own money from the pottery she crafted. Turning out the pottery, feeling a shape being born in her hands was something she loved, but painting it was something she had a real talent for and her intricate designs often brought good money from customers.  Her decorative tagines had become a staple in town, not only for their beauty, but for their sturdiness and size.

Once sold into service to the Qaid, though, all of that was in her past.  Given a small cell to sleep in, and two scant meals during the day was her new life.  At first, she fetched and cleaned. Kept out of sight because she could not hold her tongue.  She knew she could no longer speak her mind and to survive, she remained silent and blended into the background like the others.  After a year, she received kitchen duty, preparing foods and drinks. When newer girls came in, she became a full servant, cleaning the compound and waiting on guests. And that was how she first came to know Lord Archer.

Like his brother, Archer had tried to speak to her.  She had said nothing to him, but he saw something in her eyes and in the way she carried herself.  This did nothing but anger Bazani, who thought she had spoken to Archer previously.  For this,