CHAPTER TWENTY

There wasn't much time, but there was something he had to do. Tethering the mare outside, he rushed into the tent.

"Cambridge?"

The old man looked up, not from a book, but a painting that he held in his lap. Doyle knew what it was -- or rather who it was -- and it made him hesitate.

"She was so very beautiful, you know," Cambridge said softly. "But not at all wise."

"I came to say goodbye," Doyle offered weakly. "I know you'll understand--"

"Oh, understanding. A lovely idea. But none of us do, do we? Understand, I mean."

"Uh...no...I mean, I guess not. Listen, I wanted to thank you for--"

"Raymond, do you love him?"

Doyle stopped dead still. "I... Why do you ask me that?"

"Because I wish to know."

Doyle dropped down in a chair and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I thought I did. But every time I'm sure of it he--

"Turns into someone you cannot love?"

Doyle looked up, startled. "Yes."

"That's a real problem, you know. These people one falls in love with. They keep changing. Growing. Living. It's a pity one can't put a stop to it. It would save a great deal of trouble."

Puzzled, Doyle wasn't sure how to answer.

"There should be some way developed to fix them at just the moment one likes them best. Freeze them perhaps. They can be so troublesome otherwise."

"Cambridge, I have to leave. He won't listen to me. He won't understand."

"Have you tried freezing him? No, I suppose not. It would make for domestic harmony, but an extremely chilly pillow."

Doyle stood, too shaken and distressed to listen to more of Cambridge's bizarre philosophy or unconventional lessons of life. Bodie would look for him soon, maybe try to stop him.

"I must go. I really am very grateful for--"

"Does he love you, do you think?"

Doyle shut up, staring at the old man, and it seemed his heart skipped a beat.

"No," he whispered, the pain of it stabbing through him. "No, he doesn't love me."

"Then what do you think that chain on your wrist signifies?"

Looking down at the silver bracelet, Doyle touched it, remembering the night Bodie had taken it from his own wrist and placed it on his. Strangely enough, it had been a serene and tender evening; the passion taking second place to the closeness they felt. The fireworks between them had for once been muted and had warmed rather than blazed. And he couldn't remember ever being happier in his life than he had that one special but unspectacular night.

Doyle toyed with the chain thoughtfully, then pressed it so hard against his skin it left the impression of the links embedded in his flesh.

"He won't tell me what it means."

"You're an intelligent boy. Perhaps you can figure it out for yourself."

"Possession, perhaps," Doyle replied bitterly. "It is a chain after all."

"And are you so dim? Is not possession a part of love? Not the most admirable part, but a need nonetheless? Insecurity forges the chains. But all chains can be broken. Isn't it only understanding and acceptance that makes wearing them bearable?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Chains are chains. I can't be owned. Not and love at the same time. I've tried. I simply can't do it. Why can't you understand that? Why can't Bodie?"

"Perhaps because he's terrified you'll do exactly what you're doing. Run from him."

"Cambridge, I have no choice. I have to help Zachery."

"I see. But is that the only reason you're leaving, Raymond? You must know how this will hurt him. Make very sure you know the real reason you are going. Think, boy. Think beyond your excuse. See the truth, whatever it is."

Doyle stood, pushing away the words. "Excuse? It's Zachery's life! I can't think about any of this now. There's no time. I have to leave."

"That certainly makes it simpler for you. An admirable rationalization. So very noble of you."

"That's not fair!"

"Isn't it? Then why not wait a day or so? Talk to Bodie again. Sway him to your reasoning. You are not totally without power with him. It may cost you some time, but you know it would be possible. Convince him you will return. That he will not be losing you forever. That is what he fears. His fear is part of him. Unlike the bracelet, it is a chain he wears unwillingly. It was forged in his soul. Can't you accept that and help him break it? In your love, can't you find patience?"

"I can't wait. Because..."

"Because?"

Doyle turned to him, eyes dark and confused.

"Ah...Raymond. Can't you even see the truth yourself? Because you will not return to him. You know that. Don't you think he knows that as well?"

"But I--" Doyle swallowed the instinctive denial. "I do love him. I do."

"Yes," Cambridge said sadly, "I believe you do. But until you are free, neither of you will know for certain."

"And I'll come back. I'll come back to him."

Cambridge smiled and shook his head. "No, not you. A different Ray Doyle perhaps. But never you."

"What? I don't understand."

The old man stood and pulled him into his arms, hugging him tightly. "I wish you well, son."

Doyle hugged him back, frantically, sensing the truth in his words and afraid of their sting. He didn't want to face this now. He was running from so many things and he could not think about any of them. He couldn't afford to or he would never put one foot in front of the other. Cambridge could only see his fear of loving Bodie -- he hadn't calculated his fear of losing him. Or his fear of losing Cambridge and this safe, secure place. A place out of time, out of the stress and the harsh demands of life itself. A life Doyle had never truly been called upon to face until now. Cambridge had his blind spots as well; a fugitive no less than Doyle from all those very same things.

And now his decision was no less intimidating than that singular moment in front of Uncle Cedric's desk. The world was waiting and he was terrified.

"You forget," he whispered, "I've been happy here. Happy. Thank you. And sometime ... thank Bodie for me, too."

---

Jasmine set off across the desert at a slow canter. Her saddle was hung with waterskins, Doyle having learned his lesson. Even though they were within a two-day journey of Aden at this point, he was cautious. The desert was always dangerous.

He set aside the pain in his heart to plan what he had to do. He realized he would have to sell Jasmine to afford his passage to England. He wished he could shy from that grief as well, for it was too connected to Bodie -- but it was the only choice. There was no other way. Obviously going to the embassy would be pointless if Sir Melvin was still in charge. In fact, Sir Melvin would undoubtedly do his best to silence him, including murder. No, the only way was to go directly to England and use his family's influence and his own physical testimony to exonerate Zachery.

As the distance increased from the encampment, his eyes burned and stung. He wiped away the tears, ignoring their origin. He hadn't cried when he left England -- why should he cry now? This wasn't his home. So why was his heart breaking?

Jasmine snorted and tossed her head. She slowed her canter and danced to one side, sensing another horse behind them.

Doyle looked back. There was a rider following him, approaching rapidly. It wasn't difficult to guess who it was.

Unable to deal with this at the moment, he jabbed in his heels and pushed the mare into a run. He had said his goodbyes, such as they were, and he couldn't face any more.

Jasmine was faster than Shaizar, and she had a lead on him. With luck they could outrun them. For one of the first times in his life, Doyle dug in his heels brutally, instinctively knowing Bodie would not give up easily.

Time went by, air whistled by his ears, muffling the sound of hoofs on sand and the increasingly heavy wind of his mount. He crouched over the flying mane, refusing to look back, refusing to acknowledge his pursuer.

No, Bodie...please...don't do this....

Eventually, Jasmine's race slowed. She was faster than Shaizar, but she couldn't match his stamina. Furiously, Doyle dug in his heels, demanding more, knowing it was hopeless. He could hear the hoof beats close behind, narrowing the distance.

A voice called out. "Stop."

Doyle glanced over. Bodie was close behind; Shaizar's sides slick with sweat, chest heaving for air even more than his own mount. But Jasmine still had the better speed. And Shaizar had been pushed for a longer time. They could still outdistance them with luck. Desperate, Doyle slapped his hand hard against the mare's rump with a whispered apology. Jasmine sprang forward, beginning to leave the stallion behind.

"I will shoot the horse."

The Sheik's voice came over the meters between as calm and clear as if they were speaking across a dinner table.

Doyle looked back and saw the pistol in Bodie's hand, aimed at his horse's head. Across the short distance, he met the frozen blue eyes and knew it was no empty threat. Bodie loved Jasmine as much as he did, but he would, if necessary, cold bloodedly shoot the horse to stop Doyle's escape.

Even as he slowed Jasmine's pace, Doyle wondered dully why he was surprised. This man was a savage, after all. A warrior. He had captured him, held him, raped him. Now he was surprised he would kill a horse?

But I love him, some part of him protested. But now, so very clearly, he saw the part of him that could never love all of Bodie. He could never love this obsession, this irrational jealousy. Could never love the truly savage part of Bodie. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

The horses stopped, both winded, sides heaving with the extended exertion.

Doyle slid off, turning to face the other.

The Sheik did the same.

"When the horses are rested, we will return." Bodie said flatly.

"No."

"You have no choice."

"Yes, I do. I'm a man, Bodie, and I have a choice. I am going to Aden and then to England."

Bodie approached him slowly. "How easily you forget our bargain."

"The bargain is finished, Bodie. It was for six months, remember? You set the time yourself. I have been with you for nearly a year."

The blue eyes widened. "What--?"

"You've lost track, haven't you? But I haven't. Ten months, fourteen days. Whatever it meant to you, our deal meant something to me. I do keep my word."

Bodie blinked. "So why have you--"

"Don't you dare ask me that," Doyle cut him off, voice choked. "You know why I stayed. You know."

"But still you leave me now?"

Doyle bit his lip, fighting the betraying tears. "You know why I'm leaving. Why I must leave."

"I do not accept that. I will not permit it."

"You don't own me anymore. The lease is up. It is not your decision."

The blue eyes smoldered. "Do you think I care for bargains or deals? Do you think any of that matters to me? You are mine. You will never leave me, never!"

Doyle closed his eyes tightly. "I must. I'm sorry you don't understand. Whatever you think, it isn't easy for me either." He moved back toward the horse, but Bodie caught his arm and swung him around.

"I said, no. You will not leave me."

"Let me go."

"No. Never."

Tears burning his eyes, Doyle faced him. "Will you keep me in chains then? Bound hand and foot? For I will certainly leave you. You may keep me as a slave, but is that truly what you want? Is it, Bodie? Is that all I am to you?"

"And if I permit you to go, what will I have?"

"My gratitude. My love. Always my love."

The sharp blow snapped Doyle's head to one side. "You lie! You run from me. That is not love." A dark stranger looked from Bodie's eyes, a dragon on a broken leash. "You are mine!"

Doyle jerked free and swung around, using one of the moves Gaston had taught him and put the Sheik down in the sand. He stood above him, waiting for the countermove. One was made. Before Doyle could kick out again, Bodie caught his foot and twisted, sending him face first in the sand. Thereafter, the battle was in closer quarters, the result easily foretold. The Sheik outweighed him and was a more vicious fighter.

But Doyle fought on, blindly, hopelessly, unable to surrender what he knew would be his soul. He was so afraid of Bodie -- he was the only one who could take it from him. And if the fight continued, he would have it from him, one way or another.

Bodie found himself astride Ray, pinning him down, hands on his throat, choking...choking.... Even when the fight was gone from the figure beneath him, he pushed harder, harder....fury glowing red across his vision.

"You will not leave me...you will not..."

And then something deep inside flared red and black and snapped like a chain wound too tightly. He stared down at Ray, whose face was gray from lack of oxygen, breath rasping and painful, and realized what he was doing.

His hands jerked away abruptly, as if touching fire.

"No... No, I cannot...." He moved to one side, stunned, ignoring the coughing and gasping of the other man as he regained his wind.

Shakily, Bodie stood and walked away, then fell on his knees, head bowed, clasping his face in his hands and moaning. His head hurt, his mind roaring and screaming with a million unwanted images. He beat at his head, trying to fight them back, push them away as he had so many times before.

But the image of Ray remained, helpless under his hands, dying under his hands....dying....

And the other scenes flashed back, like angry fireflies, brilliant flashes of insight, wasps that stung and cut and sliced at him. Truth that left him trembling and terrified.

---

He could feel the sand beneath his knees as he knelt in the doorway. He had torn his trousers again and he knew his mama would in turn scold and laugh as she always did, uncaring but taking the chance to tickle and hug him as if it was some dire punishment. His mother was so pretty, she smelled so lovely, and he felt so good in her arms. He was older now -- nearly seven -- and he shouldn't want to see her so much now that he was so old. But he did because she was special. More than the other boys' mothers who were boring and all covered up and always sharp-tongued. She was clever and fun and loving. Even his father admired her. Adored her. When they weren't shouting they always kissed and hugged a lot. Sometimes they sent him away to Gaston or Cambridge because they kissed so much.

They argued, of course, his mama and papa. But his father only fought with people he respected. Otherwise he just gave orders that were obeyed. But it was clear Mother was a person. Mother was important. Mother was not like other mothers. She would sometimes be listened to.

He smelled tobacco as he inched inside, and knew his father was there. If they weren't kissing too much, they wouldn't send him away. He'd have to wait and see. Sometimes they wanted to be alone if they were kissing a lot. He smiled, knowing his father would also smile at his torn britches, and would be proud when he found his son had achieved them trying to ride an unbroken pony. His father was strong and brave and perfect. He would hug him tight and throw him up in the air when he heard of his triumph with the half-wild mount. Gaston would tell Father how he climbed up again after being thrown and how the pony finally accepted him. Father would be pleased.

He stopped then, hesitating, realizing that his mother might be less happy with the risk taken. Before he could decide how to please them both, voices rose inside and he shrank back into the shadows, turning his attention to the brightly colored top Gaston has given him. Purposely shutting out the harsh voices, preparing to wait it out. When they were kissing a lot, he went away -- when they argued, he would wait, knowing he could come in and stop it if it was too bad.

So they were fighting again. It wasn't unusual. And in some ways it didn't even upset him. He settled down to wait for the end of the argument or the right time to interrupt it and turn their attention to him; a sure way to distract them both.

But he heard his name spoken in anger. Diverted, his attention in the toy was lost, concentrating on the words spoken, suddenly, inexplicably frightened by the tone. He had heard it before, many times, but there was something different now. Something that curled him up in a ball, wincing from the viciousness vibrating around him.

"--think he's happy? He belongs here? You're a fool! This is not his home. It is not my home."

"You are mine, Diana. That is my son. My heir."

She laughed bitterly. "Are you so sure of that? So confident? Of course, the virile, masculine sheik! But you're not sure, are you?"

"Be silent, woman!"

"I've been too silent for too long! I want to be free of you! I want my son free! Let us go! I want to go home!"

"You said you loved me."

"How can I know what I feel? Chained here, I've come to hate you! What choice have I had? What choice does Bodie have?"

"There is no choice. You are my wife. He is my son!"

"You fool! You are so blind. That's not true for either of us. I have never been your wife and even you are not so stupid as to believe he is your son!"

"Hold your tongue, woman! Do not--"

"No, admit it! You know the truth. Say it! Cast me off as an unfaithful woman. Cast him off! He's a bastard. He's not your son! Let us be free of you!"

"No..." The quiet, dangerous quality of his father's voice made Bodie whimper and pull in closer to himself, more terrified than he had ever been. He should go in and stop this, but he couldn't. It was about him this time. He had done something wrong. He didn't know what, but they were talking about him. He looked through the crack in the tent, too afraid to look away, certain that if he watched nothing really bad could happen. They kept bad things away, his mother and father. They made things right.

His mother was backed up against the opposite wall, her eyes wide but defiant. "Yes! Yes, see it! He's not your son. You're not man enough to have a child--"

Struck down by his fist, she still defied him, lost in her fury, ignoring the blood that ran from her nose. "--he's not yours...accept it..."

Bodie curled into a ball, swallowing his whimpers. "No, papa, no..." he whispered.

"You've said enough," the man cut in, a strange quiver breaking his voice. "Please... stop...Diana...please..."

"No! Give me my freedom! Let me go home or I'll tell everyone. Tell them all about Bodie. I'll tell Bodie the truth. Tell him you're not his father; that you're nothing to him! Let me go! Let me be free--"

Bodie had hidden his eyes in his hands, swallowing his sobs, terrified they would hear him and turn their anger on him. It was his fault. He knew that. They kept talking about him, and he knew it was something his father was ashamed of. He didn't belong... somehow he didn't belong. There was something not right about him. A secret. A bad secret. He had done something terribly wrong. And it caused this fight between them ... and for the first time he realized perhaps... perhaps he caused them all. It was him. The wrongness in him.

The sudden, violent explosion made him jump, shaking him. Looking into the tent he could see blackness splattered against the white tent. Black liquid bits that began to drip and slide down in streaks, turning red. And more red, brighter -- crimson and even wetter against the black of his mother's silky hair. It looked sticky; solid pieces amongst the red and black of her hair--

And she had no face. Her beautiful face was gone.

Then her head fell to one side and he saw it was only one side. Her other eye was untouched. Still open. Still very blue and quite surprised.

He watched his father drop the pistol; heard the animal sound of despair coming from his father's throat. It all happened very slowly. He watched his father fall to his knees, his grief exploding with terrifying force, his face dropping to his mother's lap, his fists clutching at her skirts, begging her to be alive, to wake up. Watched Gaston arrive, shocked and stunned by the sight. Watched Gaston close his mother's good eye and pull his father away, holding him, comforting him.

He stood and walked away. He would come back later. When they weren't fighting. He didn't like to hear them fighting. He would come back later....

"....he found me. Hours...I do not know...maybe a day later. I cannot remember... They forgot me at first. Understandable in the circumstances. And then, I do not think they knew what I saw ...."

"Bodie?" Doyle approached him cautiously, watching the emotions tear through the other man before he covered his face with his hands and collapsed, moaning. Doyle reached out his hand and felt his trembling. Impulsively, he took him in his arms, trying to understand what was happening. His throat still ached from the killing pressure, but he had recovered now, enough to know Bodie was going through something even darker. "What is it, please? You have to tell me. What is happening?"

Bodie sat up suddenly and took a deep breath. His face was streaked with tears but he seemed calmer. The violence of his emotions played out and exhausted. "He killed her. I did not remember that. That is very odd. That I forgot."

"Your mother?" Stumbling to find the truth, Doyle realized he had found it, and caught his breath at the horror. "Your father? He--? And you .... you saw it happen? Oh my god, Bodie..."

"They told me she had taken her own life. That is a sin, you know. Even in your Christian religion, it is an unforgivable sin. I hated her for it. Blamed her for... All these years I have hated her." He laughed harshly. "But murder is a sin, too. I can hardly win either way, can I?" He stared down at his hands, then wiped them reflexively against the sand. "The sins of the fathers..." Then he laughed again and there was an edge of wildness, to it. "But perhaps that is not a problem either." Bodie laughed again, the hysteria growing. "And I have dared to worry about their sins? There is true irony. Patricide. That is yet another sin. I killed him, you know. And it was not in battle, but from sheer hate, revenge. I killed him. I thought he had hurt you. Not for my father or mother or what he did to me, but for you. I cut his throat like a sheep. And I am not even sorry."

"Bodie!" Doyle shook him hard. "Stop it. What are you talking about?"

"It makes sense, you know. That he was my father. It is no surprise that I have felt...not right. I suppose I should not have killed him, but I was afraid he had hurt you and whatever else I could bear, I could not bear that."

"I don't understand. Fasik? You think Fasik was your father? How can you know that? Are you sure?"

Bodie's voice was tired and uncaring; he sighed wearily. "It is too late, you know. None of us sees until it is too late. He loved her and he killed her. He loved her so very much. And yet he killed her."

Worried, Doyle grabbed his hands and held them. "Bodie, what is it? Don't--"

Bodie blinked and looked at him. "She wanted to be free, Ray. And he gave it to her. Freedom. The only way he could bear to free her. But he did not want it to end like that. He was a good man. Do you understand that?"

Horrified by the blank expression on Bodie's face, Doyle shook him again. "Bodie! Stop it! Don't do this to yourself!"

Again, Bodie looked at him, and this time the eyes were clearer, returned to the present. He reached out and touched Doyle's face, stroking it tenderly. "I very nearly did the same." He shut his eyes tightly, then opened them, ignoring the tear that slipped from his lashes. "It is all right, Ray. You can go. I will not hold you. You are free. I have the key. I kept losing it, but I knew I had it. Now I understand."

"What?"

"Go, Ray. Leave. I will not stop you. Not now that I understand."

"I can't leave you like this. Let's go back to the camp and--"

"No," Bodie cut in harshly, pushing away his hands. "Go now. For both our sakes, it is best you leave."

It was difficult to forget those hands around his throat, cutting off his air -- but his response was nonetheless honest, "You wouldn't hurt me, Bodie. I know that. I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be. I have hurt you before."

"No. You've always stopped. You're too harsh with yourself. Whatever has haunted you, you've always held back. You've hurt yourself as much as you've ever hurt me."

Bodie shook his head. "And when I raped you?"

"Even then. We both know it could have been so much worse. I've hurt you, too. Only now do I realize how much and why."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No. Nor me either. Maybe just to understand. That's a start."

Bodie pushed him away again and stood. "Not a start. An ending. You are leaving. This is the end."

"No," Doyle argued, feeling a sudden panic. "It doesn't have to be like that. Not now."

"Have you forgotten your precious Zachery?" Bodie reminded him blackly.

"I'll return to you. When I've cleared him, I'll come back. We can start again."

"I do not want you back. This is over, finished. Leave me now."

The words stunned him. Running was one thing, being thrown out was another. "Bodie--"

The Sheik stood, pushing Doyle away. "Enough."

"Please, Bodie. I'm begging you, don't do this. You know I must go. I'll come back--"

"No!" Bodie's hand chopped off the rest of his sentence. "You will not come back. We both know this."

Doyle stared at him, and knew the truth. No, he would not return. He could not. Once free of this tie, he would find another life so very different. It was pointless to deny it. But it hurt.

"I love you," Doyle told him helplessly, truthfully. The one truth he knew while all else was confusion.

Bodie only looked at him, taking in every bit of him, hungry and sad and resentful all at once. "I wish you good fortune."

He turned and caught up Shaizar's reins. Mounting, he rode away without looking back.

Doyle remembered suddenly what the Sheik had said such a long time ago. If you loved me, I should have to let you go. If I loved you I would banish you....

While he had refused to say it, it had happened and they were both damned.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

England, 1893

This was the first time he had ever beheld a prison, let alone been inside the bleak, dank walls. Doyle shivered, feeling the despair of the place sinking into his very marrow. He reminded himself that he was bringing salvation to one particular inmate -- and a very odd-looking saviour he must appear in threadbare sailor's garb and sporting the scruffy but first real beard of his life.

It had taken nearly ten weeks to return to England. He had discovered at the last moment that he hadn't the heart to sell Jasmine to the riff-raff that offered a reasonable price, unwilling to place her in hands that might be cruel or use her badly. In the end, he had turned her over to a caravan that regularly traded with the Jafarr. He knew the leader was a friend of Bodie's and, more importantly, that he would never dare fail to safely deliver the Sheik's property.

However such altruism salved his conscience, it definitely delayed his voyage to England. He had little else to sell except the silver bracelet, and he would die before that left his wrist. He made certain it was secure under his shirt sleeve, out of sight, further concealed under a wide strip of engraved leather from Jasmine's bridle. The remainder of the tack he did sell, and it brought enough for food and the bribe for the chief petty officer on an American freighter that would make port at Liverpool -- eventually. In the meantime, he worked. Scrubbing decks, shoveling coal, peeling spuds, and trying very hard not to be noticed by anyone. He had nearly succeeded. There were a few close calls, but the cook and the engineer were both older men with lads of their own hardly many years younger than Doyle, so they kept a watch on him and warned the others away.

Despite their paternal protection, there were a couple of nights, however, when Gaston's lessons with a knife saved his skin. He found himself explaining to the first mate why the boatswain had a four-inch slice in his arm. The first mate, being from Boston, didn't want to hear the sordid details, and sent Doyle rapidly back to the galley, warning him to keep himself scarce and to pray for his soul, as if it had been a seduction rather than an attempted rape. Embittered, Doyle did as he was told, keeping his mind on his goal, to return to London to free Zack.

He refused to think of his home in the desert. Of Cambridge, and Gaston and ... Bodie. It was lost for now. First, he must free his friend. He dared not think beyond that one goal.

He squirmed uncomfortably on the hard wooden chair, finding these last few moments of waiting unbearable. He had arrived in London from Liverpool on the five pound note the cook had generously given him, and the first thing he did was make for the prison where Zachery was incarcerated.

Before anything else, Zack had to know he hadn't been abandoned.

There was a chilling jingle of keys in a lock and the clank of chains. The heavy door opened and Zachery appeared, shuffling in his bondage. If he had been thin before, he was skeletal now, shoulder blades and ribs obvious even under the loose, frayed prison shirt.

Doyle's heart ached. This was his fault.

Zachery sat down in the chair before the mesh wire and looked up wearily, his entire demeanor listless and indifferent. Finally he looked up.

He stared at Doyle for a long time, eyes blank, all the eager light drained from them.

Doyle's fingers entwined in the wire, unable to speak, his heart breaking into bits. Oh Zack...

"Ray?" The voice was rusty, tentative, unbelieving. "Is it you, Ray?"

"Yes." Doyle choked on his tears and wiped his arm over his face. "It's me."

The dark eyes lit like spotlights, glowing with a flash of sheer joy, and his entire frame came to life. "Oh, you're alive! You're all right. I was so afraid for you! Oh, my dear friend, I'm so glad you're alive." His fingers came up to touch Doyle's. They were cold, but warmed as their fingertips caressed. Until the guard slammed his club against the metal frame and they were forced to move back.

"You don't hate me, Zack?"

"Hate you?" Zachery looked puzzled by the idea. "Oh, Raymond, I've thought of you every moment. Worried about you. You saved my life. How could I ever hate you?"

"But they put you in here because of me. It's been so long..."

"I'm sure you came as soon as you could have done. My only fear was that you would be ... unable to come. How could you ever believe I would give up faith in you?"

Doyle dropped his head in his arms and wept. Zack loved him so completely, so truly. Why couldn't he love this man as he did Bodie? He was far more worthy. His faith was total, his goodness and worth beyond question.

"Ray, please ... don't. There's no need. You're here now."

Doyle brought himself under control, snuffling back his sobs with an effort. He looked up. "I'll get you out of here soon, I promise. I've sent a message to my brother who's a member of Parliament. He's out of town at the moment, but they told me he'll receive the telegram tonight. And I spoke to the warden and he's sent word to the Governor. They can't release you tonight, but they're sending you to a more comfortable place until the decision is made. They can't keep you now. You'll be free very soon. I swear it."

With a glance at the guard, Zachery put his hand back on the mesh. Doyle met its warmth, entwining their fingers.

"Thank you, my friend. Thank you."

"Don't. This is all my fault."

"You know that's not true. Sir Melvin is to blame. Perhaps he will pay for his crimes now," Zachery shrugged philosophically, "or perhaps not. Politics being what they are." He studied Doyle intently. "But are you all right, Ray? Really all right?"

"Of course."

"You've changed," Zachery noted.

"I'm older."

The dark eyes watched him, filled with sadness. "No, not only that. You talk of guilt and blame, but I know what you did for me. What you offered for my life. That has been the hardest thing. I feel they should have hanged me for that if nothing else."

"No! The only thing you did was to be my friend. Please don't ever be sorry for that."

Zachery dropped his hand and his eyes. His voice was choked. "Every time I think about... Tell me the truth; did he hurt you, Ray?"

It was an impossible question. There were too many answers, all contradicting, all of them true. But he knew what Zack was really asking, the basic physical question and he could answer that.

"Not really. I don't know what to tell you to make you feel it's all right." He hesitated. "I'm afraid if I tell you the truth ... you'll think less of me."

Zachery merely shook his head. "Never. How could I?"

Doyle smiled sadly. "Once, you told me to follow my heart. I think I did -- for a while at least."

Zachery was silent for a moment, trying to comprehend. "I'm not sure I understand."

Doyle laughed shakily. "Yes, well, neither do I.

Zachery waited and when nothing else was forthcoming, asked softly, "Ray...? Are you saying that you... Did you love him, then?"

Doyle met his eyes, startled. He hadn't expected his friend to reach such a conclusion so swiftly. But Zachery's quick, if occasionally skewed, perception had always surprised him.

"Did you?" Zachery asked again, patient but insistent.

If nothing else, he owed this man honesty. He took a deep breath and replied, "Yes, I think I did. I still do. While you've been rotting in prison, I was having a love affair." He closed his eyes tightly. "So... do you hate me now?"

There was another long silence before Zachery let out his own breath in a heartfelt sigh of relief. "I was so afraid you were dead -- or hurt. Hate you? No, Raymond, I'm not sure I really understand, but if you are telling the truth, I have never felt more consoled in my life."

Doyle's laugh held a touch of hysteria, finding this see-saw of emotion impossible. "Don't you ever get angry with anyone, Zack?"

The other man considered it. "Well, I'm not half pleased with Sir Melvin at the moment."

"Well, there's a surprise."

The guard rapped sharply on the partition again. "Time!"

"I must go."

"I'll have you out of here soon."

"I know. I trust you."

Doyle found himself crying again. God, when would he learn to control his emotions? Still, there were tears of relief and happiness in Zachery's eyes, too, as he was led away.

---

Arabia, 1893

Bodie stood watching the muted sunset as the clouds moved in to swallow the last glitter of remaining light, listening to the prayers lifted up in the distance.

He felt more trapped in the desert now than he ever had in the past. Trapped and lonely and empty inside, without even the constant bitterness and hate that had warmed him before.

The voices of his people chanted their steadfast prayers that carried across the sea of sand, lost in that vast ocean of deepening twilight.

He had a prayer of his own, but it wasn't directed at any deity and he knew his prospect of an answer was even more remote than theirs. They, at least, had faith. He had nothing but regrets.

"Forgive me, Ray," he whispered, then shivered as an evening breeze swept over him.

---

England, 1893

Doyle stood in front of the desk and eyed his uncle, a reflective smile curving his mouth. Was it only a little over a year ago he had stood in this precise spot? It seemed a thousand.

That year had changed so much, not only in his life, but in his perceptions of life. His uncle seemed smaller, the power he had wielded over his fate appeared ludicrous now. The room itself felt smaller. Remembering the naive, timid boy he had been, Doyle's smile widened, sympathizing with that pathetic waif, but hardly able to conceive of the fear he had once experienced standing in this very position. It was like something read in a Jane Austin novel, and it seemed so long ago, he had trouble relating any of it to the man he was now. If he hadn't already seen the darkest face of the world, he had certainly been presented with enough to possess a vivid picture of the perils. And, more importantly, what he didn't know he was no longer afraid to face.

"So your friend is free and given a more prestigious post, despite his very ordinary background, and you are now a ... hero. Quite a surprise, I must say."

"I'm no hero."

His uncle huffed and searched for his pipe. "Well, we can agree on that much at least. Your brother, however, seems to want to make you an idol to boost his political ambitions."

"I'm aware of that. I told him to forget it."

"Very wise." Cedric struck a match and puffed busily on his pipe. "We don't want this story bandied about. Could cause a scandal if .... Umm. Hardly good for the family name. Pleased you realize that."

The younger man chuckled. "You think I give a tinker's damn about the family name?"

"I should hope you do! It's the only honorable thing you have left to you after the things you've got up to--"

Doyle laughed outright. "Pardon me, Uncle? You mean being a sheik's bedboy wasn't what you had in mind when you shipped me off to Arabia? You amaze me."

"Don't be absurd! What happened to you-- well, we won't discuss that. It's better forgotten. We must--"

"Oh no, we will discuss it. And loudly, unless you convince my brother to leave all of it alone. He wants me to play up my heroism and play down exactly what took place. I'm telling you right now, if he wants this public, it'll be a hell of a lot more public than any of you wish it to be. All of it. And why I was in Arabia -- against my will, incidentally. And who was responsible for my being sent there. Because I don't bloody give a damn!"

"You wouldn't drag your family down--"

"My family! You must be joking." He leaned forward across the desk. "I'm not ashamed of what I did to save a friend. I'm not even ashamed that I ended up enjoying it." Noting with intense satisfaction the flinch of distaste on his uncle's face, Doyle smiled ferally. "But you are mortified, dear Uncle. The very idea upsets your oh-so-moral guts. Not that you object to fucking a scullery maid or even the odd stableboy; it simply isn't proper to admit to it. And heaven forbid that a Doyle be put in the predicament of a lowly stableboy. Even less that he might relish the situation . . . or should I say the position?"

Cedric looked on the edge of apoplexy; he nearly bit his pipestem in two. "Shut your filthy mouth!"

"Not until I receive what is due to me from this house."

"I see. So it's money you want, is that it? I never thought I would yield to extortion, but with the family name in jeopardy, I have little option. How much? 5,000? 10,000?"

Doyle's expression hardened. "I want what is mine. My mother's legacy."

Cedric snorted. "Your mother had nothing--"

"My mother had her jewels. I want them."

"A few paltry pearls, a cameo, a..."

"A diamond brooch. Yes, I know. I want them."

"They won't bring you a fortune, whatever you imagine."

"They'll bring enough. Enough to get me out of the country. Isn't that what you want, too? What you've always wanted? To be rid of me?"

Cedric eyed him coldly, then abruptly went to the wall, turned to one side the head of a moose and opened the wallsafe behind it. He brought out a small, carved music box and handed it to Doyle with disdain.

"There, that's the lot. She didn't bring much to the marriage besides her wastrel father's debts. But that's the Irish for you. Trust me, it's all there. There isn't much worth pawning."

Doyle had never seen the box before, but as he touched it, he felt an unconscious kinship to it. He tamped down the sudden rise of emotion, unwilling to reveal anything in front of this hated man.

"So what more do you want?" Cedric demanded, returning to his pipe. "Out with it. How much? Obviously you don't care for your family's reputation and honor. How much to keep your silence?"

Doyle was still examining the box, fingers smoothing the intricately carved lid. "Family honor? No, I don't have a lot of that. This may surprise you, but it's worth nothing to me, and so I ask nothing. I have something more important, you see, but I doubt it's anything you will understand. You can't shoot it, or mount it on a wall, or invest it in a bank." He looked up, meeting the other's eyes. "Personal honor. Did you really think I came here to blackmail you? You never knew me at all, did you? You never even tried to know me."

"What was there to know? You're not a Doyle! There's never been anything of a Doyle about you!"

Ray laughed bleakly. "Oh, you would be surprised, Uncle. I once agreed with you. Even welcomed the thought. But I know myself better now. I don't particularly like my heritage, but I've stopped denying it. I can hate more bitterly than any of you. The sight of blood doesn't scare me in the least. And I can surely kill if pushed to it. I think that qualifies me to sit for the family portrait gallery. The only difference between me and you is that I am aware that these are not assets. They simply make me a human. A flawed human. And, god help me, they also make me a Doyle."

"You're talking nonsense again."

"Am I? Well, perhaps I need to illustrate my point in a more forthright manner. Subtlety is definitely not a Doyle trait. There have been enough misunderstandings between us. So, as a beloved teacher of mine once told me, if you're going to kick someone in the teeth, make sure it's for the right reasons." With a single, graceful motion, he put his uncle on the carpet.

The older man looked up groggily, wiping blood from his flowing nose.

"That's payment for destroying my paintings," Doyle explained simply. He smiled down blackly at his shocked relative. "See, there's a bit of the ol' Doyle bloodline in me after all."

---

Out in the lush garden, hidden by an overgrown lilac bush, Doyle sat on a stone bench and studied the box in his hands. It was a part of his past he had never been encouraged to think about, his first breath having signaled the end of life to the woman who had held this box before him. It had always been too difficult to look back and wonder about her, guilt for his own existence invariably foremost in his mind. But now he pushed that to one side and opened the box.

It was a waltz. Lovely, lilting and poignant. The tinny, melancholy notes twisted at his heart. Inside, nestled in faded red velvet, was a string of a young girl's first pearls, a cameo pin, a pair of garnet earbobs and a small diamond brooch. His uncle had been correct; none of them were worth a great deal. Even the diamonds were of poor quality.

It had been difficult to feel much of a tie to his mother, having her incessantly used as a cudgel to prove to him how little he was worth in comparison to the rest of the family. He had even come to resent her somehow. Resent her death -- even resent her life which brought him his own.

He picked up the strand of pearls and let them slide through his fingers. Had she ever been happy? When she first wore these at some grand ball, had she been thrilled and excited as she flirted with handsome, eager men who jostled for her hand in a dance?

The pearls dropped back onto the velvet with a clatter. He should have mourned her long ago. Having no memory of her in life, it was a bit late in the day to start now. Oddly enough, he had felt more touched and moved by the story of Bodie's mother than his own. The beautiful, stormy Diana, who had retained her dignity and defiance until the end, and imparted to her son all her beauty and dark, dangerous pride. In all honesty, he envied Bodie that splendid heritage.

His own mother had bequeathed him what? Passivity, vulnerability, weak acceptance?

For a second he nearly crashed the box against the flagstone walk. But he hesitated. How dare he judge her, this unknown young girl without even the options he possessed as a man? She had been barely seventeen when she was married to his father, almost the same age as when he left England. Had he been any braver than she? In reality, had his mother been less of a chattel than he had been in the desert? Or had she been offered any more of a choice than Bodie's mother ... or than he had? What was the true difference in their world between kidnap and polite barter?

Or a deal?

He laughed harshly, shutting the box and silencing the music. Was life really made of such things -- bargains, deals, theft? Was love always coerced or bought or stolen? Certainly in his life and Bodie's this had been the overwhelming rule rather than the exception. When had either of them witnessed anything else? His own heritage was hardly more noble than Bodie's.

Suddenly he saw his mother in a new, more tolerant light. She was only a young girl, unable to fight the tide that pushed her against the killing rocks of life. She hadn't even had the chance to fight, to claim what few, paltry rights a woman had in this society.

The wind picked up, tossing down a shower of lilac blossoms. He watched the clouds skip across the darkening sky as he opened the box again, listening to the waltz with a kinder and softer ear.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he had intended on returning to the desert -- to Bodie. The funds garnered from the contents of the jewel box would cover his fare. But now he realized it had always been a dream. He had somehow known that deep inside. He loved Bodie, but not enough to return to what he had been there. Cambridge had known that as well; he had said as much, but Raymond hadn't understood it properly. Now he did. Neither he nor Bodie knew how to love.

Despite all that, he would have still been willing to try, except....

Bodie had told him not to return. Had he not wanted him back because Bodie realized he would be different? That he couldn't accept Doyle might return as a man -- an equal?

And Doyle knew now he could return as nothing less.

His melancholy decision made, Doyle shut the box and stood, brushing off the lilac petals, and made his way out the gate into his future.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Arabia, 1894

Bodie entered the tent and hesitated, looking to Gaston for the truth.

"It is not good, Monseigneur. He is very ill."

"What happened?"

"He collapsed while teaching ze children. It is his heart, I think. He asks for you."

Bodie shut his eyes, fighting back his panic. This could be nothing. Just a spell, a spasm. The heat. Anything.

Anything but the chance of losing Cambridge: the man who had loved him, nourished him, taught him.

Steeling himself, Bodie parted the curtains and entered the bedchamber. Cambridge was on the bed, reclining on pillows. His face was waxy, his silky white hair matted with the sweat of pain.

Seeing the look of death on the old man's face, Bodie's strength left him. He dropped weakly to his knees by the bedside.

A thin, blue-veined hand sought his over the coverlet. "Bodie?"

"Yes...yes. How are you...?"

"I'm dying, my boy."

"No! No, you are ill, overworked. Tired--"

Cambridge chuckled. "I wish we had time to debate the point, but we don't. I'd be dead now if I wasn't so blasted stubborn. It's always been my greatest fault. Just ask them at the university."

Bodie gripped the thin hand tightly. "You will not die, Cambridge. We will take you to Aden -- physicians..."

"Doctors can do nothing for this, my boy. And I would prefer to die here in the desert, where I chose to live. I will die in peace once I've told you what I must. I must admit, I almost wish I'd simply written a letter, cowardly or not."

No matter how Bodie's jaw muscles fought it, his chin quivered and his eyes brimmed with blinding tears. "No, you cannot die!"

"Actually, it surprises me a little myself. I've never thought about death as much as I should have done, I suppose. It's such an abstract concept. But, please, don't sidetrack me on such esoteric issues. I've held on for a specific purpose and I simply don't have time to squander. I have something to say to you, boy."

Bodie lowered his head against the bed, fighting back a sob. "Oh, Cambridge--"

"Now, stop that. At least have the courtesy to wait until I'm dead to mourn. I want you to listen to me. Deathbed histrionics are distasteful enough without you making them more difficult."

Bodie pulled himself together and straightened. "Yes, I am listening."

"There is something I must tell you that may cause you to despise me."

"No," Bodie avowed, his heart breaking as he realized he was losing his truest friend and selfishly wondering how he would go on without him.

"Please, just hear me out; you may change your opinion. You know well the story of your father and your mother."

Bodie shut his eyes tightly. "Too well. Shhhh... This isn't important now--"

"Please, it's my deathbed. I'll decide what's important, if you please."

"Yes, of course. But you--"

"About your mother's death--"

"My father killed her."

Cambridge looked surprised. "How do you know that?"

"I remember it. I saw it happen."

For a long time the old man was silent, taking this in. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't aware of that. Why did you never say?"

"I only remembered...." He didn't want to tell him it was the day that Doyle left. He didn't want to think about either the memories that had flooded his mind or the loss of Ray. Even now, months later, it was a wound that would not heal. Now, with a new overload of pain, it was the last thing he wanted to deal with. "I only remembered recently."

"I see." Cambridge sank back in the pillows, voice noticeably weaker.

"You should rest," Bodie began again, but Cambridge shook his head.

"No time. This isn't something I wanted to tell you. In fact, I once thought I would never tell you. But now I know I must. For your sake, not mine. I've been very selfish, you see. I was so afraid you would hate me. And I was never sure it would change anything for you -- not for the good at least. Since Ra-- Well, now I have come to think it might make a difference."

"I do not understand."

"Bodie, Nassar loved Diana deeply, madly. And in spite of everything, she loved him."

"And he killed her."

"Yes. But you have accepted that, haven't you? I truly believe it was an accident. I cannot believe he meant to--"

"No, you are right. I saw. I know he did not plan what happened and that he suffered for his action. We both know he was never the same man afterwards. In truth, oddly, he was undoubtedly a better man."

"Ah. So you have forgiven him?"

"Forgiven him? No. Understood, yes. I can hardly do less, since I have seen the same evil in myself. A dark lesson, but one I grasped before it was too late."

Cambridge regarded him thoughtfully. "With Raymond, you mean?"

Bodie looked away.

"Please, I don't have time to be tactful. Were you afraid of what you felt for Ray? That you loved him too much?"

"Yes. To love like that is an insanity."

"And this is why you never loved? Why you were so afraid to love?"

"Please, Cambridge, you must rest--"

"Bodie, just tell me. I'm right, aren't I?"

"Perhaps. I have never thought about it. I just knew I did not dare feel ... certain things. And with Ray ... I could not stop the feelings."

"I've been afraid of this for years. And I have been loath to tell you everything, but you must know the truth now. That is not your inheritance -- to murder the one you love. I never knew you realized it consciously, that you actually witnessed -- but I've always known it has haunted you. The fear that you would share that jealous madness. And I saw with Raymond how you refused to accept your feelings. I knew the reason, and yet I was too cowardly to--"

"I did fear it once," Bodie interjected. "But no more. Please, just rest. There's no further need for concern--"

"Because you let Raymond go?"

Bodie almost laughed, but it came out more as a choked sob. "No. Ironically enough, I gave him his freedom because I understood at last that my jealousy was my own and there were no excuses. It was my own flaw and I could, in fact, control it simply because it was my own. I could no longer blame it on inheritance or kismet because ... Nassar was not my father."

Cambridge's breath caught in his throat and he clutched at the sheets.

"Cambridge! Are you in pain? Is it--"

The old man shook his head, regaining his breath. "No more than can be expected. Death is always painful in one way or another. This one is more generous than most. It's like...sinking down in stages. My heart is...slowing...I think. Forgetting to beat."

Bodie kissed the delicate hand. "Oh, Cambridge, I wish..."

"So you don't hate me, my boy?"

"Hate you? No, why should I hate you? I love you as I always have."

"But you said you realize Nassar was not--"

"Was not my father. Yes. I remember that, too. On the night he killed her, she told him as much."

Cambridge studied him calmly. "So whom do you believe sired you?"

"Fasik, of course. I know my mother fled. I know she was once captured by Fasik. Not that it is a knowledge I cherish. His blood in my veins is no honor to me. Fasik himself told me what happened, although I do not believe he realized what it meant. I can not believe even he would have tried ... I do not think he knew the result of his rape of my mother--"

"No, Bodie. He was lying."

Bodie stopped, staring at him. "But--"

"I remember what happened also. Your fath-- Nassar rescued Diana before Fasik could touch her. Fasik's luck has always been rather dismal."

"But if... how can... if Nassar was not my father, nor Fasik, then who....?" Bodie looked into the gray eyes and knew the answer, felt as if he should have always known. "You? But how? Why? No! By Allah, no! You loved my father! How could you betray him?"

"Betrayal," Cambridge sighed deeply. "Such a complex word. Life is seldom black and white. Truth is not so easy to grade. Yes, I loved Nassar. But I loved your mother, as well. How can I explain? How can you possibly understand?"

Bodie, fighting a war within himself, demanded hoarsely, "Tell me."

"What can I say to make you comprehend? There was only ever one night between us. Diana was ... how can I make you see? She was so beautiful, a saint could not have refused her. And I am hardly a saint. I loved her, for months I had loved her. What could I do? Repulse her? A stronger man might have done so, I could not. I know now that she was hoping I would help her escape; she was very calculating in her seduction." He regarded Bodie honestly. "I do not lessen my crime by saying so; only state the truth as I see it now. Nor does that knowledge alter or diminish my love for her in any way."

"But you have always said she loved my-- loved Nassar."

"She did. But she loved the idea of freedom more. She would have done anything to gain her freedom."

"Yet you refused to help her."

"I loved your father, too. I only hope you can believe that. It was impossible...impossible. And I knew she loved him. In my soul I knew this. It would have been so very different if she hadn't. She was fighting herself as much as Nassar. For that one, exquisite night, I thought, believed -- dreamed -- it wasn't so. That I could take her away. Make a life for us. That she could love me with a tenth of the passion she felt for Nassar. But it was never possible."

"Why? Why did you stop?"

"Because I saw her eyes in the morning. Eyes that would look to me for help and affection, but not desire. I was nearly old enough to be her father, and I think she viewed me in that light. She loved me, but never as she did Nassar. Do you know how devastating that was to accept? So I made my decision, and whether you choose to believe me or not, it was far more for her sake than mine."

"Cambridge--"

"Do you hate me now, son? For all the years of deception? I have loved you as my son. And I loved your mother and your father. And he was your father ... in every way that mattered. You know that. Don't ever lose that feeling for him. All I ask is that you try to understand and don't hate me or your mother for our mistake."

Bodie stroked the silky grey hair, tears blurring his eyes. "I could never hate you. No, I will never forget Nassar. He was my father and he was good to me. I have been doubly fortunate, for you have also been my father, in all ways that matter. I love you, my dear friend. And I shall never forget you."

Cambridge took a deep breath and relaxed. "This is more than I ever hoped to hear. I am very content. The only advice I leave you, my son, is to let your heart rule your pride. Pride has been the ruin of so many of us. Please don't let it steal your happiness. And remember, you did give Ray his freedom. That is not insanity, that is love."

"Yes, Father."

Cambridge smiled. "Father. I thought I'd never hear--"

But there was no more. Only a quick intake of breath and then his eyes closed. His passing was so peaceful and sudden Bodie was still waiting for the end of the sentence when he realized it was the finish.

He rested his face against Cambridge's chest and wept, putting aside for the moment all the confusion and uncertainty and simply mourning for the man he loved so very deeply.

All his life Cambridge had been there -- from his first steps and first words to the present. The lies had been told with love, and even if they were lies, the love was true.

Bodie lifted his head finally, staring down at the old man, taking in the new truth and accepting it. It wasn't nearly so great a leap to see this man as his father rather than Fasik, the man he had executed. So he didn't have the blood of patricide on his hands after all. It was a relief of sorts.

And there was a greater relief. He loved and admired this man. He could not be ashamed to accept his blood in his veins. And considering what he had been thinking most of his life, it was a comfort. Yet it underlined other problems that had plagued him all his life.

He didn't belong here. In truth, he had never been part of the desert. This was the ultimate proof.

---

France, 1894

Doyle's French was quite equal to understanding the tirade hurled at him; he damn near had it memorized in all the various renditions. He could almost set it to music. No, they didn't need a dishwasher, cook, or even sidewalk sweeper. He was too skinny, too small, too young, too inexperienced and most of all too English. The last was punctuated by a hawking sound and a splatter of saliva on the pavement near Doyle's feet.

The British were not particularly popular in France at the moment -- as if they had ever been. The present antagonism was higher than usual. Englishmen spending money were tolerated; Englishmen looking for work were about as welcome as body lice. There were surely enough Frenchmen going hungry without being sympathetic to a foreign intruder from a country proclaiming itself the greatest Empire in the world. The French begged to differ on that grandiose status. Waterloo was ancient history and they had a few colonies themselves, merci beaucoup.

During the year he had been in France, Doyle had been informed of these trenchant facts in a variety of ways in numerous towns and cities throughout the country. Whatever the dialect, the message was eternal, and as his sparse funds eroded, so did the compassion and patience of the natives. The occasional odd job was few and far between, and the more destitute he became the less they were inclined to give him a chance. Manual labor was out of the question. Taking one look at his slender frame, the politest of potential employers (and this was France, after all, where politeness was a rarity) only laughed at him. More skilled work already had a score of applicants (all French, German or Dutch, and all held in higher esteem than the English).

So here he stood once more, back on the street. April in Paris. The scent of cherry blossoms and fresh baked bread laced the air. His stomach was empty, he had slept on a park bench the night before, and there were only two lonely sous clinking together in his pocket.

Doyle leaned back against the brick wall and smiled ruefully to himself. This, after all, was what Uncle Cedric had warned him about. Poverty, starvation. The judicious use of the proceeds from his mother's jewels had lasted him for several months, but eventually reached an end. While he'd managed to survive since then through luck and perseverance, both qualities had deserted him with a vengeance in the last few weeks. Wearily, he sank down the wall and rested his face against his knees.

Had he once boasted that he had never gone hungry? Well, it was beginning to be an all too familiar sensation. And it wasn't as romantic as he'd once envisioned. It was uncomfortable at best and at worst . . . at the worst, like now, it hurt.

Helplessly, he recalled the meals at the manor. Roast beef, broiled potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, pheasant, young peas, sweet-cream cakes...

Or even the food of the desert, exotic but sometimes surprisingly delicious. Tender roast lamb or kid, wild rice, kous kous, succulent fruit and honeyed dates....

He moaned, as much at the pain of the memories of who he had dined with as at the gnawing in his stomach.

Doyle sat up, refusing to think of that. It was pointless. Better to regret he hadn't blackmailed his Uncle Cedric. At this moment he knew the true meaning of the phrase "pride goeth before a fall." Well, he had finally hit bottom. It was nearly impossible to even remember he had come to France to be an artist. For one thing he had discovered quite soon that his devotion to art didn't extend to sacrificing his next meal in order to buy canvas and paint. Perhaps that signified he wasn't a true artist. Hopefully, it only meant he was an artist who simply didn't fancy starving to death.

Either way, it hardly mattered. The one unshakable imperative was to survive. In his heart, no matter what anyone labeled him, he knew he was a survivor. Somehow, someway, he would manage. He was hungry, he was depressed, but the spark of determination hadn't deserted him yet. The next step on the agenda was...what? Stealing? Yes, if necessary, he would consider that. At this point, his options had narrowed to a pinpoint.

Oh, Christ, he dropped his forehead back on his knees and sighed.

"Pardon me, Monsieur, are you quite all right?"

Doyle jerked upright at the voice. It was in French but had a distinctly British accent. "Yes... I'm fine, thank you," he automatically replied in English.

The man took a startled step back. "Oh. Excuse me, I thought you were French. I'm very sorry."

Doyle looked up at the man. He was in his late forties or early fifties, with a clipped mustache and an expensive suit. Doyle stood warily, wondering why the stranger was so uncomfortable with his nationality. "Does it make a difference?"

"No... I mean, you startled me, is all." For a second he looked as if he would bolt, but he hesitated. "Are you all right?"

Doyle smiled at him sheepishly. "Yes, of course. I didn't mean to snap at you. It's been a difficult day."

"Ah. That is a pity. And the weather so charming. It was raining buckets when I left Dover last week. Is there anything I can do to help, old chap?"

"No, thank you, though. I appreciate the thought."

The man paused again, uncertainly, as if still undecided about something but unwilling to relinquish his original impulse. His eyes swept Doyle from head to foot, lingering at spots on the journey. "Well, if you're very sure there's nothing I can do...?"

"No, it's kind of you to--" Doyle suddenly caught the expression, poorly concealed in the older man's gaze, and almost bit his tongue. The look was hot, hungry and slightly wistful. Doyle recognized it only because it recalled a similar admiration from a very different pair of blue eyes.

Sensing Doyle's awareness and lack of hostility, the man stepped a tad closer, his voice soft. "Are you alone here in Paris?"

"Y-yes."

"May I ask where are you staying?"

"I...I don't have a place...yet."

"Well, sometimes it is difficult to find a decent room if you have not booked in advance, yes?"

Some part of Doyle realized exactly what was happening; he wasn't that naive, not anymore. He'd had advances made to him in the last year -- crude, basic and easily dismissed or discouraged by showing his blade or utilizing other skills taught him by Gaston -- but this was quite different. This man was clearly a gentleman and couldn't possibly be doing what he thought he was doing. Not to him.

"You're a very lovely young man. Perhaps you would like to have supper with me? My name is Anthony, by the way. What's yours?"

Every alarm bell went off in chorus. Yes, it was exactly what he thought. He was being propositioned. There was nothing lewd or ugly about the request, however, and the man's class was comforting and familiar. He dimly recalled having belonged to it about a million years ago. As one segment of his mind upbraided himself for even considering the implications beyond the invitation, another part, around about his beltline, just happily clamored supper!?

He was amazed to hear himself respond calmly, "I'm Raymond. Yes, supper would be very nice, thank you. I've heard the hotel down the street serves an excellent coq au vin."

---

Anthony had been very kind to him and Doyle heaped no scorn or disgust on him. That he saved for himself.

Sitting on a park bench in the afternoon sun, Doyle considered his life and his prospects. Now, thanks to Anthony's generosity, he had five hundred francs in his pocket. Not to mention a full belly and a generous and sincere offer to remain with Anthony as long as he stayed in Paris on business.

Doyle had turned down the offer, not because he was unattracted to the older man, but because of his own confusion.

So he was a prostitute now.

He had taken money for sex.

Worse yet, he had actually enjoyed the sex.

Did that make him worse or better than an ordinary whore?

He had had sex with numerous women since he had arrived in France, and he had certainly enjoyed the encounters immensely. But no more or no less than he had enjoyed being with Anthony who had been the only man since Bodie. Still he had felt no particular need for the contact with Anthony. The interlude had been opportune, not to mention lucrative. However, the sexual sensations all seemed very much the same, male or female. Pleasure, a bit of human warmth and release of tension. For the life of him, he couldn't decide what that made him. If homosexual, surely he wouldn't have enjoyed the women as much. If heterosexual, how could he have savored the night with Anthony?

And none of them even came close to the complex and enigmatic euphoria he had experienced with Bodie.

Obviously his sexual orientation was warped beyond redemption. Not a particularly surprising result considering how he had started, but after his first time with a woman had been so satisfactory, he had been certain he would never touch a man again. And he had obviously been very mistaken. While part of him almost preferred to believe it had been hunger and the money that convinced him, self-honesty told him different. So where to go from here?

The money seemed to burn in his coat pocket, and he wondered if he would feel less damned if he had stolen it. Or if he had earned it by going against his nature rather than with it?

He shook himself mentally and tried to consider the situation logically. Anthony had been more than pleased and had literally pushed the money on him, ignoring the guilty protests. Weak protests. The money was in his pocket and he wasn't sorry it was there. In fact, his earlier depression had faded with the comfort of food and shelter the money represented.

And something more. He wanted to be an artist. He could only be an artist if he survived. He needed money to survive. He needed money to buy paint and canvas and time and a place to paint. No one was going to hire him because of his nationality, his build, and his inexperience. He possessed no marketable skills.

Except one.

Ah, there was the rub. After last night he reluctantly acknowledged the only skill he owned besides painting. And after a year under Bodie's eager tutelage, he was hardly inexperienced in that art.

Even the thought of Bodie made his heart contract painfully. But then it hardened, angered by a memory.

He was so pleased by my innocence!

Now that his innocence was lost forever, it was no wonder Bodie didn't want him back. There would be dozens of virgins available to a sheik. What use had Bodie of old goods? The shine and glitter had worn off.

Already hurt and troubled by his shattered relationship with the Sheik, guilty and uneasy at his own recent actions, it took little to convince himself that his situation was entirely due to Bodie's callousness. That of course he would have returned to Arabia if Bodie had asked him. Or, more importantly, he would never have found himself in this impoverished state to begin with (easily pushing aside the fact he despised his family and had sworn to take nothing more from them -- the reasons for which had absolutely nothing to do with the Sheik).

It was easier to let the resentment grow. His chin went up stubbornly, eyes narrowed with determination. For all Bodie had loved his innocence, there were others, like Anthony, who would appreciate his proficiency.

One art could nourish the other, so to speak.

Selling his flesh wasn't a new thing, Doyle reasoned blackly with his conscience, and Anthony had hardly been his first customer. He had served his apprenticeship in Arabia.

Doyle choked back the flood of emotions as he considered his own survival. What he could do to save a friend he could surely do for himself. After all, it was a little late to consider morality or the sin of his sensual appetites. They had already been developed and obviously would not disappear. What could it matter now? Who was there to care?

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Paris, 1895

It was an extremely small room, dubiously enhanced by peeling, water-stained wallpaper and tiny dormer window. A totally cliched artist's garret, complete with drafts and paint-stained floorboards. Geoffrey was delighted. He hadn't seen anything like this for ages. Particularly not inhabited by anyone with real talent.

"Well?"

Turning, Geoffrey's eyes widened. The boy had reappeared from behind the screen, buck naked with a practiced come-hither look in his exotic green eyes.

It was difficult to retain his composure. "Oh my, and I thought you were going to show me your paintings?"

Doyle stretched his lean muscles like a cat reveling in the delightful feel of its body, then looked over his bare shoulder teasingly. "Is that all you want to see? Don't be so shy. I know my own countrymen. Openness is not easy for any of us, is it?"

Geoffrey swallowed uncomfortably and loosened his collar. "Obviously easier for some than others," he replied wryly. "But, on the whole, uh...no, I expect not."

Doyle smiled with practiced sweetness. "Don't you like what you see?"

Geoffrey looked from Doyle to the rumpled bed, scanned the inviting flesh, and then glanced down at his surprisingly agreeable groin. He shrugged. "Well, I'm only human, dear boy. You are quite ... uh ... alluring."

Abruptly all business, Doyle rapped out, "Three hundred francs."

Geoffrey just looked at him.

"Very well, for you, two hundred. But that's my final offer, and don't expect anything...strange. I won't do that for any price."

"Well, your subject matter is of course your prerogative. But I really must see the painting first. I would hate to cheat you. It might even be worth more. I'll have to see it first, before I make any guarantees."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, that is why I came here."

"You came here to see my paintings?"

"Well, of course. What else?"

Doyle blinked. "You really came to see my art?!"

"Well, that is what I said. Perhaps you weren't listening. I saw some of your work displayed on the sidewalk outside La Place and then your portfolio and the--"

"But why--?"

"Do put some clothes on. I'm not made of stone, you know. And you are a very pretty boy. Not to my usual taste, true, but you have a potent if basic charm. Still, I do prefer my wife. Gretta has some real meat on her bones. The most exquisite curves." He kissed his fingertips. He smiled apologetically. "Never marry a Swedish woman, dear boy. We've been married four years, we have four and a half children -- what can I tell you? She's a very sensual woman. It's a trial to me."

"Does she know you...do this kind of thing?"

"Look for new artists--? Oh, you mean--? Well, I should certainly hope not! What a dreadful thought. No, I think it best I don't tell her about this afternoon, don't you? It might upset her if she thought I came here for ... well, for the reason you are implying." He regarded Doyle earnestly. "I mean, honesty isn't everything, is it?"

Totally bemused, Doyle pulled on a dressing gown and sat limply on the bed. "You don't do this often, I take it?"

"Well, just between me and you, I've never done it."

"What?" Doyle was obviously astounded. "Are you telling me you didn't come here for sex at all?"

Geoffrey looked stricken. "Well, I didn't want to hurt your feelings, dear boy. You did seem to have your heart set on it. But all things considered, I expect we'd better not indulge, don't you?"

Doyle covered his face in his hands, laughter erupting helplessly.

"I must admit, the idea is quite interesting. I've always wondered about this kind of thing. Not as irresistible as Gretta, of course, but very nice nonetheless. Tempting in a epicurean sort of way."

Recovering, Doyle looked up. "So tell me, why did you come here?"

"I already said, I want to see your pictures."

"They're not that good."

"How can you know? Some of them are. The landscape of the Seine against the sunset--"

"No," Doyle's eyes narrowed. "There are dozens as good as me. Better. So why me? What do you know about me?"

The green eyes were as sharp and incisive as a blade. For all his earlier pussycat demeanor, this was obviously one feline who had been abused by friend and foe alike, and was nervously wary of traps.

Geoffrey sighed, knowing only the truth would serve. "Very well, I have a friend. He asked me to check out your work. I did. I happen to like it."

"What friend? Why my work?"

"Shouldn't we discuss your art first? Don't you have some more pieces I can see?"

"I have more, yes. Who sent you here?"

"Isn't it enough that he believes your work has merit--?"

"No. Just save your breath and tell me who sent you, or get the hell out of my room."

"He said you were a nice lad. I'm beginning to think I've the wrong Ray Doyle," Geoffrey stood, provoked by the biting tone.

"Wait! All right, I'm sorry I was rude. Just please tell me."

Geoffrey hesitated. "Zachery Hart, if you must know. He's an old mate of mine. We went to school together."

"Zack?" Doyle sat down suddenly. "He's here, in Paris?"

"Yes. Working on some kind of trade negotiations with the embassy here. He returns to Arabia shortly. He wanted me--"

"How did he know I was here?"

Geoffrey ignored him and continued. "He wanted me to look at your art and see if it was something I could promote."

"Answer my question! How did he know I was here?"

"He saw you in the Montmartre the other night."

Doyle swallowed painfully. "I suppose I don't need to ask what I was doing or who I was with."

Geoffrey looked down at the floor, flushing. "He's worried about you. He wants to talk to you."

Doyle's hands covered his face. Muffled, he said, "No! He owes me nothing."

"Well that's neither here nor there. I think you have promise as an artist -- given the right direction and brilliant management, that is."

Doyle peeked hesitantly from his hands. "I can't see him like this."

"Not in your bathrobe, certainly. However, I promised to bring you for coffee or chocolate on the promenade."

"But I can't let him see what I've--

"You're an excellent young artist," Geoffrey said sternly. "Whatever else you've had to be is of little interest to me or Zachery. Get dressed or he'll think we're not coming."

Doyle was trembling a little, ashamed and shaken. "I can't--"

Geoffrey squeezed his shoulder. "Will you stop saying that! If you don't go, you'll break his heart. He wants to see you, Raymond."

Twenty minutes later they were in a sidewalk cafe. Zachery Hart was waiting at one of the tables by a wall overhung with a riot of golden flowers. He was toying nervously with a spoon.

Seeing Doyle, he leapt up, almost overturning the spindly chair. "Ray!" Ready and eager to embrace his friend, he pulled back after noting the reserved expression. "Please sit down. Geoffrey, thank you for bringing him."

"My pleasure. But I must tell you, he isn't nearly as nice a chap as you said he was."

Zack glowered. Before he could speak, Geoffrey laughed. "However, his art is far better. I'm surprised you even recognized his ability."

Pleased, Zachery leaned forward. "Really? Then I was right? He does have talent, doesn't he?"

"A great deal of talent, however his presentation leaves something to be desired. If we--"

"Do I have nothing to say in this?" Doyle broke in coldly.

Zachery and Geoffrey both turned, startled.

"Well, of course you--."

"I should say--"

"Good," Doyle cut them off. He looked directly at Hart. "Then I thank you very much, but no thank you. I told you--"

"When I was in jail," Zachery put in helpfully.

"--that you owed me nothing. I meant it. I appreciate the effort but--"

"Shut up!"

Doyle blinked. He'd never heard that note in Zachery's voice in all their time together.

Zachery leaned across the table and took Doyle's collar in his hand. "Now you listen to me, you little twit. You told me you were my friend, but I came out of that jail and you were long gone. How do you think that made me feel?"

"But you were all right," Doyle sputtered. "You were cleared. The charges were dropped. You were a hero. I know, I made sure of it. I read the newspapers. They made you first consul to the embassy. They recalled Sir Melvin. Why are you--?"

"And you were nowhere to be found. No congratulations from Mister Raymond Doyle!"

"Zack, that's not what--"

"Not a bloody word. No, he's too busy seeking his fortune. Forget the hurt that might cause his friend, being dropped cold without a word or a thought. Too busy making his own way in the wide world. Well, bloody good for him."

"But--"

The grip on his collar tightened. "Now I'm going to ask you a couple of questions and you just answer yes or no, got it?"

Doyle nodded, eyes wide, totally astonished that this was Zachery Hart half-choking him across a Parisian cafe table. He had never imagined that Zachery could lose his temper, but looking into the furious eyes it was apparent this was an exception.

"If I hadn't been so fortunate when I got out of jail and I needed a job that suited my abilities, would you or wouldn't you be willing to recommend me to a friend for possible employment?"

"Of course, but--"

"Tut-tut...just yes or no."

"Yes...yes."

"Good. And do you think I should resent you for that recommendation? That you...owed it to me?"

Doyle tried to think quickly around the question, but the hold on his throat was increasingly tight.

"N--No. No."

Hart released him with a smile. "Very good. So you'll listen to Geoffrey like a good boy."

Coughing a little, Doyle settled back in his seat. "You didn't need to do that."

"Didn't I? Listen, Raymond, I may be a mild mannered person, but there are times and places where meekness simply doesn't work. I've been worried sick about you. I looked for you for months. It was no more than luck that I saw you yesterday, and that scares me to death. I don't like depending on luck. I'm not sure if I can forgive you for that."

"Zack, I never meant for you to worry."

"Then what did you expect? That I would just waltz off and not give a damn." He tightened his grip on Doyle's collar for a second, then pushed him back in the chair.

"Ah, Ray, don't you see how selfish you were?"

Doyle lowered his eyes, understanding very suddenly exactly what Zachery was saying. "You're right, of course. It's just ... no one ever cared before. It didn't even occur to me."

His hand reached out across the table and Zack caught it and held it tightly. "I know you want to make your own way in the world and that is all very admirable. But part of that is taking advantage of contacts, as I've learned very well from politics. Your brother's support certainly did me very little harm when it came to my present position. Should I have turned his assistance down? Cursed him for daring to offer? Does accepting his help make me less able in my profession? Am I now a parasite in your eyes?"

"No, I never meant that. Of course not! You love your work and--" Chagrined, Doyle ducked his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude or ungrateful, it's just..."

"That you didn't want to depend on anyone else. I know that. And that's why I sent Geoffrey around. Trust me, he won't even give you the time of day if it won't make a penny for him."

Geoffrey was outraged. "Excuse me, I--"

"Shut up, Geoff. Remember when you sold my cricket shoes to Binksley after they tossed his in the sump pond?"

"Well, I made a profit, didn't I? We split it fair and--"

"You fellows were mates at school?" Doyle cut in.

Zachery grinned across at Geoffrey. "In a manner of speaking."

"Well, pardon me," Geoffrey snapped. "I'm telling you right now, Pooky, if he's as difficult as you to deal with, count me out. I simply don't need--"

"Pooky?" Doyle regarded Zachery in amazement, biting his lip to keep from laughing.

"Believe it or not, there are worse names to be labeled with in public school. Anyway, Gagsy, do you really want to walk away from Raymond's art and the profit you smell?"

Geoffrey made a face. "I suppose not. But I can't abide temperament, young man. You'd best get that straight right now. No matter how clever you are."

"You like my art?" Doyle looked from one to the other, searching for honesty. "You really do?"

"He pointed you out, Raymond," Geoffrey said huffily, "but I didn't have to pursue it. No one pushes Geoffrey Lynde around!" He hedged, "Well, not unless they have a great deal of money and/or a title. You -- nor Pooky -- have either. He might bully me into looking but he can't make me like it! The Queen herself couldn't make me -- well, maybe the Queen ... or somebody of royal blood, but mostly I wouldn't -- perhaps a duke..." He dismissed his fanciful reverie and shrugged, "You do have talent. I can't guarantee any more, because talent doesn't necessarily sell. But I can tell you it's worth my time in trying."

"Not just because of--"

Geoffrey's eyes narrowed angrily. "Because Pooky asked me to? You're talking about the man who dyed all my underpants purple. Exactly how much do you think I owe the sod?"

It took some time, but they were eventually able to convince Raymond that Geoffrey's interest was sincere -- and not overwhelmingly optimistic at that. Having worked in Paris for over a year, alternately starving and doing whatever was necessary to buy paints and food for nearly that long, Doyle was finally able to accept the cautiously propitious future.

Geoffrey left after an hour or so to return to his beloved plump Gretta and Doyle and Zachery sat alone in the sidewalk cafe, drinking still another chocolate, neither of them quite willing to part.

"I missed you," Zack said finally.

"And I you." Doyle sighed. "You know why I had to leave. My brother would never have let it rest while I was in England. He would have tried to make some kind of half-baked hero out of me to further his political career. Better that he use you. You were the real hero anyway."

"Rubbish. We both know better. All I did was get shot. You--"

"What I did isn't decent fodder for the Sunday papers, is it? If I stayed, I would have had to lie, and I couldn't do that."

Zachery was silent for a moment. "I wanted to see you, Ray. To be certain you were all right. It hurt that you weren't there. You could have left me word of where you were going."

"I'm sorry, I never meant to hurt you. But I knew you would be more worried about me than about your own future. I had to manage by myself. Don't you see? And it did work out well for you, didn't it?"

"Professionally, yes. But do you think that's what I wanted?"

"No, but it did you good, didn't it? You're as practical as any bedouin."

Zachery smiled. "Thank you."

"I do appreciate what you did with Geoffrey, sending him to see my work. It was kind of you."

"You're good, Ray. That's why I sent him."

Doyle looked away, his jaw tightening. Finally he looked back bitterly, "You might as well admit the rest of it. You didn't want to see me being a prostitute. That's the truth, isn't it? That's why you didn't speak to me when you saw me. Because I was ... with a customer."

"Are you saying that to hurt me?" Zachery responded after a long moment.

"No!"

"Then why say it? You disparage yourself by saying it and that hurts me."

Doyle bit his lip. "The truth does hurt doesn't it?"

Zachery sighed. "You're right. I realized what you were doing, and I didn't know how to approach you about it."

"You were ashamed of me."

"On the contrary. Your greatest fault has always been your inability to see your strength. I'm not condemning you, Ray. I admire you too much. And envy you. I always have."

Startled, Doyle looked up. "Admire me? Why?"

Zachery smiled again and pulled out his watch from his vestpocket. "I've a boat to catch. I don't have time to list all the reasons, nor would it mean anything if I did. You have to figure them out for yourself."

"Zack--"

Zachery stood. "I really must go. Please be as nasty as you can to Geoffrey. He's a complete toad. But he's honest enough if you watch him closely. I'm rather fond of him, actually. But I'll never forgive you if you tell him that."

"I don't-- God, Zack, there's so much I need to tell you. So much you've given me--"

"Raymond, if you start thanking me we'll be here all day. And if I start thanking you, we'll be here a month. We can't talk about owing each other anymore, can we? We're friends. Isn't that enough? Are you finally able to accept that as real?"

Throat tight, Doyle just nodded.

Zachery grabbed Doyle up in his arms and held him fiercely.

No one paid attention to two men locked in a fond embrace.

They were in Paris.

---

Arabia, 1895

Bodie rode far from the encampment with only the limitless desert spanning before him.

Back in the camp, all was safe and at peace. He had spent months training and grooming his heir, making the future of his people secure. A wise move in anyone's view -- even his doubtful uncle's. And made far more palatable by the fact it was Hassid's son, Omar, who was chosen to succeed. He was eighteen now and strong and smart and ambitious. Competent and eager to step into the shoes of power, young as he was. Bodie had been even younger and in many ways far less prepared. Omar, in fact, already had a wife and a child on the way. With their only real threat, Fasik, disposed of, the tribe of Jafarr was secure and would continue and thrive as it had for over a hundred years.

It was his own future that was ambivalent.

He reined in the stallion before a jumble of rocks and sat for a moment, trying to make the decision that had troubled him for months.

It was too early for the bats and his horse was more interested in the sweet grass that sprang from the cliff face than the restless murmur of sleeping wings from the caves. But the memory of this place was strong for Bodie. He remembered...

"My father brought me here..."

Now he knew it hadn't been his true father who had shown him this place. Nassar was just a man -- a decent man -- who had accepted and treated him as a son.

There was nothing of Bodie that belonged to the Jafarr. Even his name was alien, unfitting. It was not just his mother's blood that had made him feel so foreign. All of his blood was of the hated English. His rule here was a false one. Built on lies and false aspirations.

It was past the time he could lay blame for his situation. He faulted no one for it, not his mother or father or -- Cambridge. There had been no malice in the deception he had lived for over twenty-three years. It was no more than a truth that could no longer be denied. He simply did not belong here.

Bodie sought for anger in the thought, resentment, outrage, disappointment. But all that he could feel was a sweet, clean release from responsibilities he had never really desired.

More than that, for the first time in his life -- he was free.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Paris, 1895

"Raymond, there is someone you simply must meet!"

Doyle pried himself reluctantly from the lovely Celeste. "This better be good, Geoff."

"Well, of course it is!" His agent leaned close and whispered urgently, "She's only a model, drop her! I've got a buyer on the hook, you twit!"

"A buyer? What a novelty."

"Oh ye of little faith. I've sold four of your paintings already this evening."

"Oh, thank god. I'm bloody starving. Front me thirty francs--"

"Not until you give back the fifty I loaned you two weeks ago."

"Be fair! That was--"

"Forget it, Gretta's upset with me as it is."

"But I thought you said I was brilliant, a genius, a sure--"

"That was last month when you charmed the Russian countess. You ruined it last week when you insulted that rich Bulgarian count."

Doyle grinned nastily, "The Bulgarian count should've kept his rich, bloated hands to himself! I only broke his little finger. That's not enough to slow him down."

"Forget that. Will you listen for a minute, and pay attention? The man at the end -- I've heard he's a millionaire. And he seems interested in your work. Very interested. Now, will you pay attention?"

Doyle's eyebrows lifted. "I'm all ears. Whom do you want me to seduce now?"

Geoffrey glowered at him. "Will you behave yourself? I haven't asked you to--"

Doyle laughed. "No?"

"No... well, only that once, and you must admit we pocketed a hefty sum on--"

Doyle sighed. "Okay, Geoff. Which one? The fat one with the--"

"No, the other. The slender older gentleman looking at the Arabian picture. And seduction isn't in it. He definitely is not the type. He's been staring at the picture for ten minutes and he just asked to talk with the artist. I can sense it. It's a sure sale, Raymond!"

Doyle froze. "The Arabian... No, I told you, that's not for sale. I didn't even want to put it in the show."

"I realize that, and I insisted because it's one of your best works, Raymond, you know that."

"And it's not for sale."

"How hungry did you say you were? And when's your rent due?"

Doyle's jaw clenched remembering the portrait. "Not hungry enough and the rent be damned. Tell him it's not for sale."

"You're joking, yes?" Geoffrey was appalled. "You're not turning down a definite sale?"

"It's posted below the picture pas à vendre."

Geoffrey stared at him. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"I told you before I agreed to exhibit it. I meant it."

"I know, but...." Geoffrey hesitated, reading the determined green eyes. He sighed tragically. "Gretta told me I'd go broke as your agent." He headed off with the air of a saint relinquishing the sins of the flesh.

Doyle smiled, appreciating his sacrifice. Still, it wasn't just another picture. He wouldn't take ten thousand francs for the portrait. Not even twenty thousand. It was priceless to him. He hadn't wanted to display it at all, but Geoffrey had convinced him it was one of his best work and it would only add to the collection. He couldn't deny that, because the beauty of the piece still personally thrilled him. It was of Bodie and the wild stallion, Shaitan, as he remembered them long after the fateful battle. Both still wary and respectful of the other's power, both still beautiful and only partially tamed, ready to meet as partners of a sort in the game of desert survival. It was of the two of them against a backdrop of only sand, but the power of both figures carried the picture, balancing almost perfectly, despite the animal's larger bulk. There was something in the man's face and stance that pulled the eye and made it equal.

It was Doyle's only portrait of Bodie, the only one he could bear to paint before his regrets swallowed any more. He had realized he had to stop or his career would be spent painting a particular sheik. It wouldn't work -- for his peace of mind or for his art.

Nevertheless, this was a painting he was unwilling to lose at any cost.

Geoffrey returned, very flushed. "Raymond, my dear, you simply must talk to the man. He refuses to even consider another painting. He wants that one! He offered anything for it. Can you imagine? He said--"

Doyle shrugged, bored. "I told you, it's not for sale."

"But--"

"Tell him a hundred thousand francs."

"I did. He accepted."

Doyle turned to him, astonished. "What?"

Geoffrey looked as stunned as he did. "I only threw it out as a wild figure of what you might accept thinking it would make him look kindly on the price of the other oils. I swear to the Holy Virgin, he didn't even blink an eye. He just said fine. But he wanted to meet you first."

"He's mad," Doyle responded, unable to believe it.

"Very likely. Isn't it wonderful? Come on." He grabbed Doyle's arm and dragged him across the gallery. "Monsieur Bodie, this is Monsieur Doyle, the artist."

Doyle stopped dead at the sound of the name and looked into a face he had never expected to see again. It was older, much older. The hair was grey, the eyes a few shades lighter blue and deeply lined with pain and worry. The nose was slightly larger and more Roman, the mouth less full and sensual. But it was Bodie in the autumn of his life. Still attractive and upright, but there was bitterness and disappointment marking this face that Doyle would never wish on the Bodie he had loved.

Like the Sheik, he was very abrupt and to the point. He acknowledged Doyle briefly, too interested in the picture to stray from the subject. "Where did you find the individual in this portrait, Mr. Doyle? Obviously it is not drawn from imagination."

Raymond managed to close his mouth and wet his lips despite the sudden dryness. "No, sir."

The blue eyes pinned him. "Where?"

"Arabia, sir. It was--"

"That much is obvious! Where? How?" The words snapped out curt and demanding, and Doyle had only to shut his eyes to hear the arrogant echo in a different land.

"I--" How could he answer? It wasn't difficult to guess who the older man was. Cambridge had told him enough and the name -- and more importantly -- the countenance told him the rest. This was Bodie's grandfather. Doyle didn't want to think about the serendipity that brought him here to this small gallery in Paris at this particular time. And he certainly didn't want to explain how and why he knew the man in the portrait.

Geoffrey, perceiving his inability to respond, jumped in helpfully, "It is an striking painting, but as I explained, this one is for exhibition only. However, we have some others that are--"

"No." Doyle said rashly. "He can have it."

Geoffrey's face lit up like Christmas. "Marvelous. Bless you, Raymond! A hundred thousand francs, wasn't it?"

"Pounds," the man cut in coolly. "100,000 pounds."

Geoffrey gaped, eyes wide, unable to speak, visions of a winter villa in Italy dancing through his mind.

"No," Doyle contradicted. "He can have it. Free."

Two pairs of eyes turned to Doyle, equally astonished.

Geoffrey found his voice. "Raymond, you can't do this to me! If the man is willing to pay--"

"I mean it, Geoff. It's his." He turned away and a hand caught his arm.

"Wait, I--"

Silence fell as their gaze dropped to the silver bracelet that encircled Doyle's wrist.

Refusing to release him, the older man stared at it for a moment, then looked up, his face flushed. "Where did you get this? First the portrait and now ... this." He looked stunned.

Gently, Doyle pulled himself free of the grip. "Don't you know? Can't you guess?"

"My daughter?"

"I'm sorry, no. She's dead. For many years."

"You know that for a fact?"

"Yes, I'm very sorry."

The older man nodded, closing his eyes. "As I thought." He opened them and regarded Doyle intently. "And the portrait?"

"Your grandson."

"My--" He paled and turned, gaze fixed to the portrait.

"Would you like a chair?" Geoffrey offered worriedly. "Some water?"

"No! Leave us!" The order was given and Geoffrey slipped away obediently.

Without taking his eyes from the picture, he asked hoarsely, "You say this is my grandson, my Diana's child. How can you know this?"

Doyle proceeded to tell the man exactly who and what his grandson was, and where he might be found, and the sketchy outline he knew of his past. It seemed the right thing to do, somehow, as if fate itself had pushed him to this point. Why else this meeting, after all? Or maybe even, why his meeting with Bodie? It could make some cosmic sense he supposed. Some good might come of it for someone.

For a second the older man trembled, visibly blanching. Doyle reached out his hand to steady him. But he straightened proudly.

"You seem very sure of all this."

"Oh yes, I'm sure."

"How can you be? I've searched for over twenty years and--"

"I've seen you and I've seen him. It was you who found the portrait. What do you think?"

He took Doyle's wrist in his hand, looking at the silver bracelet. "And this?"

"It was given to me."

The blue eyes froze to ice. "Impossible. You stole it from him."

Doyle jerked his arm away. "No one steals anything from Bodie. If you ever get a chance to meet him, you'll know that much."

"Do you understand what it means?" he demanded.

"I only know what it means to me."

The older man looked confused for a second, then his face hardened. "How much do you want for your information?"

Doyle fought back his rage, seeing the stiff-necked pride in the figure and recognizing it, not only in the Bodie he knew, but in his own family as well. Not a particularly admirable trait, but one all Englishman must share to one degree or another.

"I don't want your money, sir," he replied at last, forcing a calm he was far from feeling.

"But--" The older man looked at Doyle, then at the portrait. His face softened. "He is so very like Diana."

Shaken to his soul, Doyle slipped away, unable to face any more.

Later, he made certain the portrait was shipped to Sir Bodie, free of charge, ignoring Geoffrey's wounded protests.

He had seen too much of the Sheik in Sir Bodie and the reminder of what was lost was like a knife in his heart. But each sexual act was a reminder. Every lover's touch a hollow echo of Bodie's, often leaving him frustrated and bitter with his current lover, cold and even occasionally cruel. He wanted to be free of all of it and the portrait was his last tie to the past.

No, it could never be for sale but it could be surrendered. It had finally served the enigmatic purpose for which it had been painted. Kismet perhaps. It was bittersweetly satisfying to know that he had lost Bodie in the cause of revealing his existence to his own flesh and blood.

The last tie? Hardly the last. The bracelet was a different matter. It still weighted his wrist, still held its purpose by chaining him to the memory. But somehow he couldn't be free of it. He had sworn he would never take it off and it was a pledge he could not bring himself to break. He knew that it meant he could never really escape the memories -- but some deeper, more honest, part of him never wanted to lose them.

---

Arabia, 1896

Bodie had no idea how to react. The man in front of him was a stranger, and yet....

"You are very like her, you know. My girl--" The man's voice broke and he turned away. Somehow Bodie sensed this was not a man who was easily moved nor easily disturbed.

Awkwardly, Bodie stepped back. "Who are you? What is it you want?"

"Don't you know? No, of course not. How could you?"

But Bodie did know, suddenly, totally. "My mother's father? You are--"

"Yes. If your mother's name was Diana Phillipa Bodie. Yes, I think so."

Bodie swallowed and sat down on the side of the well. "How did you find me?"

"I had some information that you came to Aden the first day of the feast of Ramadan. I waited."

"There are many wells in Aden, how did you--" He stiffened. Memory flashing on another meeting on this very day some three years past. "English told you? But this isn't even the same well."

The older man also sat down, weary. "Then it was providence that we meet. Fate is kind for once. My information was very sketchy and these squares are similar."

"So it was Doyle who told you where to find me?"

"Did you give him Diana's bracelet?" the old man countered.

Bodie blinked, surprised at the question. "How do you know that? What did he tell you?" Bodie stood angrily. "Why are you here? What do you want from me?"

"What do I want?" The shoulders slumped and suddenly the man looked very old, very tired. "The past, which I lost. The future which is impossible. Everything. Nothing."

Drawn despite his will, Bodie sat down beside the old man. "My mother ... told me about you. She loved you very much. She never ceased longing for you."

The pale blue eyes looked up hopefully. "Truly? And she never--"

"She never blamed you for what happened to her, if that is your question. It was not your fault. And she was happy in her life."

Some dark weight shifted and the bowed shoulders straightened a bit. "She was happy? If I could only believe that-- My girl was happy, truly?"

Once more a lie seemed the best choice, the more merciful -- he understood Cambridge very well now -- and this time it was only himself to know it was a partial truth. He owed it to the memory of his mother, certain of what she would want him to answer. "Yes. All her life, she was happy. She missed her home very much, she missed you. But she was happy."

He stood and gathered up the reins, preparing to mount.

"No, please, don't go. Not yet." The man looked panicked. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to be uncomfortable .... William, don't go."

"My name is Bodie," he snapped.

"Yes, your last name. Our name. But I know she would have named you William if she could have done."

Bodie started to protest and then realized he had no other name. He could hardly use his Arabic name any longer. And, strangely enough, he had never known Cambridge's surname. Not that it mattered. He had already decided to go his own way, and a name was the least of his troubles.

"I am sorry. I cannot be what you want of me." He mounted the horse and turned it away.

"Perhaps you can't be William, but you are my grandson. Is that so impossible? I lost my daughter, do you deny me that as well?"

Bodie looked down, feeling torn. "I do not even know you. How can I make promises?"

"You don't know what I want. Can't we just talk to each other? I've been afraid to face the truth for over twenty years. Can't you face it for a few hours?"

Bodie hesitated.

The few hours turned into a few days, then weeks and then time no longer seemed to matter.

Sir Bodie was very like Cambridge in many ways. He could be very convincing.

---

"Did you find him, son?"

"No, Grandfather."

"I'm sorry. So Cedric wasn't of much help, I take it?"

"Help? No, he was hardly that." Bodie noticed that the fireplace screen was slightly warped from the pressure of his hands. A little chagrined, he tried to bend it back, then propped it against the hearth.

"I told you Cedric was a pompous old windbag."

"And that must be one of his more charming qualities. It is fortunate for Cedric that England is such a civilized country. In the desert I would find it necessary to slice him to pieces and feed the offal to the jackals."

The old man regarded him with concern. "You didn't--?"

Bodie shook his head. "Do not upset yourself. I did nothing to the miserable wretch. I realized if I followed my instinct, it could reflect badly on you."

Alistair relaxed slightly, but a twinkle appeared in the blue eyes that so much resembled his grandson's. "What a shame. We haven't had a good, rollicking scandal in the family since your great-great grandfather, Sylvester Bodie, fought a duel over an opera dancer in 1809."

"I thought duels were legal then."

"Oh, that wasn't the scandal; it was the fact he later married the opera dancer, you see."

Bodie grinned. "So she was my great-great grandmother?"

"Indeed. That's where we get our blue eyes."

Bodie's smile faded a little. "In any case, I am quite sure that just my sudden appearance has raised enough sensation."

Alistair shook the young man's arm affectionately. "Nonsense. Much I care about prying gossips. But whatever did old Cedric say to you to rile you so?"

"Obviously the gossip hadn't reached Sussex yet. He was more than pleased to welcome Sir Alistair Bodie's grandson, but he was unaware that I had met Raymond before, or that I was the sheik--" He broke off and turned away, staring into the fire again. "Damn him, he knows nothing of Ray at all. I cannot believe Ray was reared in that house and still became the person he is. Cedric Doyle knows nothing of Ray's courage or honor or--" Bodie's jaw clenched, fighting back his renewed fury as he recalled the scene in Cedric's study. "Instead, he had the audacity to warn me off association with his nephew, as if Sir Alistair Bodie's grandson might be soiled by contact with such a bad lot as Raymond Doyle."

Bodie spun around. "He actually said that to me. There is irony, indeed. I nearly killed him then."

"But you didn't," the old man said gently.

Bodie blinked, some of his anger fading. "No. Ray would not thank me for it. I know him too well. So I simply left before the temptation became too great to resist."

"It sounds as though he's best away from his family in any case."

Bodie sat down tiredly in the chair and stared off in space. "When you saw him in Paris did he seem content?"

"I didn't really consider him at all, I'm afraid. I was too stunned at seeing your portrait. I wasn't clear on much else." He smiled ruefully. "Now that I think of it, I'm sure I behaved as badly as Cedric. Pompous was the least of it."

"No one can be worse than that son of a goat," Bodie replied fervently.

"A few weeks later I received the portrait with no return address. He had told me he would not accept payment for it, and I couldn't trace it back to the source to even try. An unusual man, your Mr. Doyle."

Man, Bodie thought, startled by the image. Yes, he is a man now. No longer a boy. But remembering the pain in the glorious green eyes the day Ray left the desert, Bodie knew that in any way that mattered, he had been a man even then.

Alistair squeezed his grandson's shoulder. "Is it so important that you find him?"

"I would like to talk to him again. Explain . . . some things. Yes, it is important."

"But not vital? We're scheduled to leave for New York in a week."

Bodie sighed. "No, not vital. Not now."

"Would you rather return to Paris and search again? I'm sorry I can't remember the gallery, but I was a little . . . distracted at the time, and there are so many. We can try again, if you like."

"No, it is all right, Grandfather, honestly. I will find him some day. I know I will."

"Son, I've never asked you this, but . . . I saw he was wearing the bracelet. Diana's bracelet. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but I must ask. Why did you give it to him? Did you ever know what it was meant to convey?"

He reached up and clasped the hand that rested on his shoulder. "I was told the meaning, yes."

"I see." The old man hesitated for a long moment, then said very carefully, "Have you considered the fact that perhaps he doesn't want to see you again?"

Bodie was silent for some time before he let out a regretful sigh. "I think that is quite probable. Nonetheless, I must know the truth."

Neither said more, but the strong grip of hands never lessened.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

England, 1898

Doyle was bored. Once an affair such as this would have excited and delighted him -- the beautiful women in bright silk gowns and sparkling jewels, men in elegant tuxedos. Crystal chandeliers and champagne to match the twinkling flirtations and effervescent conversation. But after nearly five years in gay Paree, there was little in a London ball to rival the luxury and opulence he had enjoyed in Paris.

He stepped outside onto the terrace and lit a cigarette, watching the colorful swirl of dancers inside, wondering how soon he could make his apologies to his hostess.

A couple twirled past the window and Doyle froze, his heart skipping a beat.

It's impossible.

He lost sight of the couple in the rapid swirl of dancers, but he stood very still, searching the sea of people, until the heat of his cigarette seared his fingers.

"Ah, Raymond! So you're hiding out here, eh? It's such a squeeze inside, I scarcely blame you." It was his agent, as talkative and sociable as ever. "Still, dear boy, you must mingle. Your exhibition is less than a week away, you know, and they're all anxious to talk to you now that you've finally come home. If you present yourself correctly, we'll make a killing." He winked. "Especially with the ladies, you dog."

"Geoffrey...."

"What is it, old chap? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

Doyle laughed shakily and ran his hand over his eyes. "You're not far wrong. I thought I saw someone...but, it couldn't be."

Geoffrey looked worried. "Are you quite all right?"

"Yes, of course." Doyle took a deep breath. "Silly of me."

"Well I dragged you here for a reason, my boy. Won't you at least give it a try? Lady Tinsdale-Forbes is nibbling on the line, and it would be a sin not to hook her. Her husband's rich as Croesus and she's mad about art -- not that she knows a Van Gogh from first form fingerpaints, but there you are..."

"I wish you'd stop twittering about like a bloody fairy, Geoff. You make me nervous."

"It's all in the game, my boy. Art dealers are expected to be a bit light these days, don't you know? And it's not exactly painful for me."

"Please. Gretta's pregnant with the -- seventh -- isn't it?"

"Well, yes. But don't let's toss that around, shall we? Not good for business at all. Is it my fault my wife is beautiful and plump and sexy? And let me warn you, you've been paying far too much attention to those models and not nearly enough to the men. Mystery, my dear, mystery. Androgyny sells art! And despite your hairy chest, there are several men in there with big purses that think you're quite a dish."

"Bugger that."

Geoffrey frowned. "Crudity does not sell. Behave yourself!"

He forcibly led Doyle back into the ballroom where he introduced him to several people. Doyle nodded, shook hands and bowed on cue, but his mind was far away. In another country to be precise.

---

He glanced over the large, silk flower on the girl's shoulder as he waltzed her around the dance floor. "Someone mentioned Raymond Doyle would be here."

She looked up at him dreamily. "The artist?"

"Yes."

"Do you know his art?"

"I have seen it," Bodie replied shortly.

"It's all the rage in Paris. He's made quite a splash. There's a show of his work next week in the London Gallery." She fluttered her eyelashes at her partner. "There's some dark, romantic story there, I hear. He was some political hero a few years ago; exposed some dreadful embezzlement in the government or something of that sort. It was all very hush-hush but his brave, romantic image lingers. He disappeared, exiled himself abroad to prove himself or something of that nature. His family is very well placed, but he refused to play off their influence or his heroism. Wanted to make his way on his own talent. Very admirable in a vulgarly colonial sort of way. They adore him in Paris and Vienna. Or so I hear."

"As an artist?"

She dimpled prettily. "And as a man. They say he is quite the Casanova. Our mothers have all warned us against him. A lusciously dangerous fellow. And since he refuses to take money from his family, not a viable prospect -- although his art is selling for outrageous sums. But he is very pretty, I must say."

Bodie swung her around and stopped. "So you have seen him?"

"Yes. We were introduced earlier this evening." She looked up at him, puzzled by the intense tone.

Shaking off his reverie, he smiled sweetly. "Would you care for some champagne?"

"Yes, that would be lovely."

He obtained a drink from a tray and gave it to her.

"Aren't you thirsty?"

"I do not drink alcohol."

"How odd," she murmured, sipping hers, then she asked him curiously, "Do you know Mr. Doyle?"

"Perhaps. It was a very long time ago."

"Is he as dangerous as they say?" she asked coyly. "Would you warn me against him, Monsieur?"

"Quite possibly," Bodie replied absently, his gaze still searching the dance floor. "He is not ... easily forgotten."

"You sound as if you knew him well."

There was no response, her companion seemed entranced by the fizzles in her champagne glass, his blue eyes very dark and distant. She touched his hand and it took a second for him to return to reality. "My apologies, what did you say?"

He was so charmingly contrite she couldn't be offended by his lack of attention. Not to mention the fact he was so dangerously attractive. Her mother would have warned her off here as well -- except what would not be tolerated in a eccentric young artist estranged from his family, could be easily forgiven in the heir to a fortune and the well-respected Bodie name. No mama in her right mind would warn her daughter off that prospect.

"I was just wondering how well you knew Mr. Doyle."

"Not well enough."

"Oh, I wondered--"

"To be quite candid, he is the only reason I am here tonight."

"Really?" She looked up archly, fluttering her lashes just a bit. "And here I thought it was because of me."

"No."

The flat answer confused her. "Pardon me?"

Luckily, before he could offend her further, a man came up and introduced himself. Bodie's eyes and attention were solely on the man's companion, lost again as he had been so many years ago.

English!

He almost said it aloud, the joy washing through him in dizzying waves. He had been told Doyle would be here, but seeing him in the flesh was still a kind of low-grade shock. Fortunately, he had a second to pull himself together before Doyle looked up and saw him. When their eyes met, all Bodie wanted to do was hold him close and kiss him. He remembered so well what that beautiful mouth tasted like, the softness of those curls.... The years between meant nothing.

But after the first electric moment, Doyle turned to ice. He offered a mumbled excuse and darted off into the crowd.

"I'm very sorry," the other man said, obviously puzzled by his companion's behavior. "He hasn't been back in London long and he really loathes these types of affairs. You know the French!"

"But he is not French," Bodie protested as the man started to move away.

"Ah, no, you're right. But he has been in on the Continent a long time. Living in foreign lands, you know. It spoils one for civilized contact."

Bodie smiled wryly. "That is quite all right. I am not civilized either."

Remembering abruptly who he was speaking to, Geoff flushed bright red. "Excuse me. I only meant--"

Bodie smiled. "No offense taken. You are his friend?"

"I'm his agent. And his friend."

"In that order?"

The dark eyes flashed in amusement. "It had better be in that order if he wants to make a living." He hesitated, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me, but have we met before, Mr. Bodie?"

"I do not believe so, sir."

"There is something familiar--"

"Bodie!" Tired of being ignored, the girl tugged at his coat sleeve. "Let's dance, shall we? This waltz is simply divine!"

Having decided he liked the man despite his rather silly airs, Bodie wanted to know more of his friendship with Doyle, but Geoffrey bowed politely to the lady.

"I'll let you two enjoy yourselves. My apologies again on Mr. Doyle's behalf."

Bodie started to call him back, but the blasted girl was clinging to his arm.

"Well, I must say, attractive as this Mister Doyle is, he is abominably rude!"

Bodie took her in his arms and swept her onto the dance floor. "Yes," he replied lightly, "but you were right. He is very attractive, is he not?"

---

Geoffrey had almost literally dragged the resistant Doyle around the ballroom, introducing him to likely clients and supporters. On his part, Doyle gave his noblest effort to stifle his boredom.

"Good evening! So pleasant to see you tonight. You're looking so very lovely. Raymond, this is Mary Anne Salforth, second cousin to the Duke of Salforth."

"How do you do?" Doyle said mechanically for at least the forty-third time that evening.

"And this is....Mr. Bodie, isn't it?"

Doyle had looked up at the name and froze, their eyes locking and holding. For an instant time stopped. The music hushed, the dancers seemed to halt their movement. All he could see was those intense blue eyes that arrogantly held his own. They could have been in a torchlit square in Aden. They could have been on the North Pole. Those eyes hadn't lost an iota of their power over him whatever the time or space.

With a force of will, Doyle broke the gaze, fighting the compulsive surrender to deja vu.

He jerked back his hand before it was touched.

Bodie nodded politely, "Mr. Doyle."

"Excuse me," he croaked in the vague direction of the lady and Geoffrey. "I need a bit of air."

The sound of Geoffrey's soothing apologies followed him out onto the terrace. He was alone in the cool night for only a few moments, when his agent popped up at his elbow.

"What was all that about then?"

"I'm sorry, Geoff, I just couldn't--" He turned and stared through the window at the party. Wincing at the pressure on his arm, Geoffrey looked from his companion's stunned face to inside the ballroom. The man and woman stood near the staircase where he had left them.

"Bodie? I didn't realize you knew him, seeing as how you only arrived in London this week. However, he's become quite society's darling in the last few months."

"You know him?" Doyle asked hoarsely. "How...? Why...? What is he doing here? Why didn't you tell me he would be here?"

Surprised by the vehemence, Geoffrey hissed, "They didn't send me a guest list, my dear! Let me get the blood back in my arm, and I'll be happy to tell you what I know."

"Oh...sorry." Doyle released him, but didn't take his eyes from the man inside.

Geoffrey regarded him worriedly. "I take it you know him, Raymond?"

"Yes...at least, I did. But what is he doing here, now?"

"That's right, you wouldn't have heard the story yet, would you? It's really quite the romantic tale. All the ladies are in delight over it, as you can imagine. He's Sir Alistair Bodie's grandson. Poor chap lost his daughter, years ago, somewhere in some heathen eastern country, Egypt or Turkey or Persia or somewhere. She was all the family he had and it broke his heart. It seems he's never stopped searching and hoping to find her. Tragically, she had died, but he found his grandson. William Andrew Philip Bodie is his name, but for some reason he prefers to be addressed only by his surname. Sir Alistair located him in Arabia; he was an emir or a sheik or something like that, if you can believe it-- Oh, of course. So that's where you must've met him. You were there several years back, before Paris, weren't you?"

"Yes, that's where I met him," Doyle responded absently.

"In any case, he's become quite the rage. Le Sauvage, they call him, although he is anything but. Impeccable taste and manners. Still, there's that dark hint of danger that drives the females wild, don't you know. One must admit, he is a handsome devil."

Doyle did more than admit it, he found himself reacting to it on a very basic level. His mental picture of Bodie had dimmed through the years, and he had long ago convinced himself that memory had transformed Bodie into some perfect, idealized vision -- no more than a product of youthful fancy. The real Bodie would undoubtedly be crude and unappealing to his older and more sophisticated eyes.

His memory had played him false indeed. He had forgotten the blue-black shine of hair, the perfect tilt of the nose, the clean symmetry of the muscles, and the arrogant, princely carriage.

In a moment Doyle was hurtled back in time and felt like an awkward, painfully gauche boy again. All the old, hurtfully exorcised feelings rose up and engulfed him, snatching his breath and bringing tears to sting his eyes.

Oh, Bodie...

"Well, if you know him, perhaps he would be interested in your art. We can use another sponsor for your exhibition in Brighton next month. Raymond! Whatever is wrong, dear chap?"

Doyle blinked, regaining control of himself with an effort. "Nothing. Really, it's nothing. Too much champagne, no doubt. I'll be fine in a minute. Don't wait on me. Go back to the ball, Geoffrey."

His friend looked at him doubtfully, having seen far more than Doyle expected; despite his light-weight chatter, he was an extremely shrewd man, not only in business but with people, and he had been observing his protege closely. "Are you sure?"

"Positive." Doyle smiled at him. "I'll leave you to tout my artistic abilities, shall I? You're much better at it than I am. I'll probably scare them off. All these years in France have made me too impatient to suffer fools gladly."

"Then I really will present you as a French artist! No one expects better of them!" But he reluctantly accepted Doyle's excuse and returned to the ball.

Doyle lit another cigarette and leaned back on the rail, seeking a calm he was far from feeling. Inside the ballroom Bodie had disappeared again, and Doyle was relieved. He needed time to regain his composure. He had no intention of being at a disadvantage when he met the Sheik again.

---

"Excuse me, Miss Salforth. Mister Bodie, may I speak with you?"

Bodie turned to him, recognizing the man as Doyle's artistic agent. "Yes?"

The man smiled. "I think I introduced myself earlier? Geoffrey Lynde? I wondered if you have had the opportunity to view Mr. Doyle's work? He is an exquisite artist, as I'm sure Ms. Salforth or Lady Dibble will tell--"

"Doyle--?" Bodie took a deep breath. "He asked for me?"

"Well, he mentioned he knew you. As I said, I represent Mr. Doyle's work. Perhaps you would like to--"

"Where is he?"

"Actually, I left him outside on the terrace just now--"

"He's on the terrace?" Bodie interjected curtly.

"Well, he was a few moments ago, but--"

Bodie abandoned the two abruptly, leaving both of them offended at his abrupt departure, before reminding themselves that he was, after all, a savage and rudeness was no more than to be expected. Silently they recognized that he was far too rich to ever be censured for it.

Bodie stepped out on the terrace and found the man he sought much more quickly than he anticipated or was prepared to deal with. Doyle moved forward to stand in the light pouring from the windows.

"Well, this is a surprise. How does the cliché go? Fancy meeting you here."

For a moment, Bodie had no voice. Having been given little time to study him earlier, he could only stare at Doyle now. Whatever he had expected, whatever he had wanted, Doyle had changed. Only a little taller, he had filled out and matured. While still slender, the wiry, supple muscles were apparent even beneath the exquisite cut of his jacket. His reddish brown hair, disregarding fashion, was longer than Bodie remembered, although brushed into a sterner style. As an artist fresh from Paris he was at liberty to indulge such eccentricity.

The eyes were just as green and possessed the same exotic tilt. Larger and brighter than in memory, perhaps due to the gleam of light from the ballroom and the glitter of extreme emotion.

"Ray."

An eyebrow shot up. "Yes, we were introduced. I remember now. Mr. Doyle, to you."

Bodie bowed. "Mr. Doyle."

"And you are Sheik Bodie, I presume?"

The blue eyes wavered and dropped. "No. I am no sheik. Just Bodie is sufficient."

"Not Sir Bodie?"

"My grandfather is a sir, not I. Nor am I a sheik."

Doyle hesitated, all his sarcasm dried up in his mouth. "I don't understand. What happened? Why did you leave--?"

Bodie stiffened, unwilling to explain. "Is this your concern?"

"My apology. Of course not. It's just..."

"You were curious." Bodie sighed. He looked out over the garden, clutching the metal railing. "Perhaps you do have the right to know."

"Bodie--"

"You know my mother was British. But what you do not know -- what I did not know -- was my father."

"Cambridge." Doyle shut his eyes tightly.

Bodie turned to him, surprised. "How did you--?"

"I guessed. Whatever you believed, I couldn't accept Fasik was your father. Never. But Cambridge.... He idolized your mother. He loved you so intensely. Yes, I thought it might be possible. How is he?"

Bodie turned away. "Cambridge is dead."

Doyle felt it like a hollow pain in his stomach, remembering the kind old man who had treated him so gently, played chess with him, and challenged him to think and feel. "Oh. I'm sorry. I'm so dreadfully sorry. I loved him, too. What? How...?"

Bodie stared out over the gardens. "His heart. I left the desert soon after."

"He was an incredible man. I cherish his memory."

"Yes. A man who honored truth but lived a lie. He should have told me, long before. Who I was. What I was."

"And if he had, what would it have changed?"

"How can I know?"

Their eyes met and the intensity was too ambivalent and turbulent to hold. They both looked away hastily.

Bodie's emotions, however, were too violent to remain silent for long, the memories tearing at him. "Why did you leave?"

Doyle clutched the rail tightly. "How can you ask that?"

"I hated you for leaving me."

"I hated you for a score of things. I still do. You wouldn't let me return. I have certainly hated you for that."

"You could have come back...."

"As your slave, your chattel? No, I don't think so."

"You did not want to return to me. Do you think I was that blind?"

Doyle shrugged. "What does it matter? There must have been a dozen pretty boys after me--"

Bodie jerked him around, staring into his eyes. "You do not believe that."

Doyle looked deep and saw the truth. "Perhaps not..."

Bodie released him abruptly. "You were mine. You were important to me. I cared for you."

"You never said that until the end, when you knew I had to go. And you never said you ... loved me."

Bodie turned away, taking a deep breath. "Was it so hard to see?"

"Was it so hard for you to say? Even now?" Doyle countered.

There was no reply.

"Ah..." Doyle sighed. "Well, it was long ago. We were both very young."

"Nearly six years ago."

"I thought Bedouins ignored time."

Bodie laughed shortly. "And I thought I was a Bedouin."

The silence stretched, laced with the tinkling of music, the scatter of conversation and genteel laughter from the ballroom.

Bodie glanced at him. "You've done well."

"I make a living."

"A very comfortable living, from what I see."

Doyle laughed. "I'm invited to a lot of expensive, lavish parties, but that's not my life. This kind of luxury is still beyond my ordinary means." He leaned back on the railing watching Bodie. "Speaking of doing well, it looks as if you've come into a good thing. With your grandfather, I mean. Filthy with it, from what I understand."

"Yes. He is quite wealthy, and I am his heir."

It was no more than a statement of fact, there was not a lick of embarrassment or modesty about it.

Doyle's jaw tightened. Why should there be? He had been a king among his people, even this luxury was a come down of sorts. Bodie had known nothing but wealth and ease and power all his life. The easy serenity of Bodie's acceptance of that wealth irritated him beyond bearing. "You're still an arrogant bastard, aren't you?"

Bodie looked no more than amused. "We've already established that I'm a bastard. Would you expect me to duck my head in shame?"

"Don't be an ass. I never meant that and you know it." He paused.

"You are the one who sent him to me, after all," Bodie pointed out.

"Yes. Are you sorry I did?"

"Sorry? No. It has given me the opportunity to see much of the world, as I always wanted. No, I am not sorry."

"He's good to you, is he? Your grandfather?"

Bodie smiled ruefully. "I upset him daily and try his patience. Hardly surprising. But, yes, he is a good man. I am very fortunate."

"I'm happy for you," Doyle replied, his tone aloof.

"Are you?" Bodie challenged.

The emotions tore through Doyle, ripping at him, shaking him. "No. If you want the unvarnished truth, I wish you hurt like I've been hurt."

"What makes you certain I have not? What makes you think I changed you more than you changed me? Or that poor little Raymond is the only one who feels pain or rejection?"

"How dare you? After what you did--!"

Like a match touched to dry tinder, they were nose to nose now, both blazing with self-righteous fury.

"What I did? You were hardly kidnapped like a swooning maiden."

"I was kept--"

"You came there to destroy me and my people, or is your memory so selective?"

"It gave you no right to--"

"It gave me all the rights I needed!"

"And you took them, didn't you? Like the selfish, arrogant, spoiled--"

"You speak to me of arrogance? You were not invited into the desert. You came, imperious and vain and superior as the rest of this damnable race -- and Allah help me that I must accept it is my blood, too. And like all of the cursed English you took far more from the desert than you ever gave back!"

"I--"

"You--"

Their words caught in their throats as they stared at each other, the fury and passion racing through them, so intense they were both trembling with it. They were no more than a breath away from chucking it all, grabbing each other and clinging like orphans lost in a storm.

"Ray--"

"Bodie--"

"Ah, so you found each other!" Before they could touch each other they were interrupted as efficiently as a dousing with cold water.

They jerked away at the sound of the jovial, affected voice, shaken and appalled at what they'd almost done, right here on Lady Petiffer's terrace. A kiss would have been the least of it once begun. Of course there was still enough violence threaded in the passion that murder might have been just as possible.

"Lovely party, isn't it?" Geoffrey gushed. Close enough now to read their expressions, he halted. "Oh...have I interrupted something?"

"Yes," Doyle snarled.

"Not at all," Bodie put in smoothly. "I was just telling Mr. Doyle how much I would love to see a self-portrait. Poor, big-eyed, abused little English boys are all the rage. And I do love fantasy."

Confused, Geoffrey sputtered, "Well, I really--"

Bodie bowed politely. "Good evening, sir. Mr. Doyle."

For a wild second, Geoffrey thought Raymond would pursue him, his eyes feral, his fists clenched. But Doyle stopped himself and kicked a potted plant off the terrace instead. It crashed against a piece of statuary on the lawn, neatly snapping off the cupid's head.

"Now that'll cost us a bit," Geoffrey observed sadly, wincing. Lady Petiffer was very fond of that statue.

"It was rubbish."

"But of course. She paid 100 guineas for it just a month ago. You remember Jasper Finch, don't you? Dreadful man, terrible sculptor, but he brings in a pretty penny--"

"Oh go ahead, say it Geoff."

"Raymond, what do you want me to say? It's happening again, isn't it? Is it him? Or should I say, was it always him?"

"What are you babbling about?"

"I thought the name Bodie was familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. There was a man, what, two years ago, three? that wanted to buy a picture. I can't believe I forgot it because it was one of the heartbreaks of my life. One hundred thousand pounds sterling, god help us all. Must've been hysterical amnesia, no doubt. Far too painful for me to recall. You gave it to him. Totally disregarding me and my starving children and my dear, long-suffering wife--"

"Oh, just stop it."

Geoffrey sobered. "Very well. So tell me the truth for once. It is him, isn't it? The man in the portrait was Bodie. The one who's been chewing at your heart all these years."

Doyle blinked away the burn of tears, too shaken to even think of an evasion. "Yes."

"Ah. Well, now I understand."

"You don't understand anything!" Another pot went the way of the first, and Geoffrey hastily drew Doyle back into the shadows before someone came out searching for the cause of destruction.

"Listen, my boy, don't you talk that way to me!"

"Oh that's right, how can I forget?" Doyle jerked away from the grip, still fighting tears and anger. "You found me in the gutter, selflessly took me to off the streets and made my fuckin' career, such as it is."

Geoffrey hesitated a moment, considering. "Yes, I like it. Very nice. Perhaps we'll use it for the next promotion. Lots of pathos. If only there was a way to conceal my wife and six children and insert a romantic angle, just a tad more sordid..."

Doyle looked up, startled, then his mouth quirked at his friend's quasi-hopeful expression. "Seven. Bastard," he added without heat.

"How ill-mannered of you to mention. And totally untrue. I don't believe the rumors, even if mama did dance divinely."

Doyle's shoulders slumped in defeat. "I don't know what to do, Geoff. I thought I'd never see him again and now..."

"And now you have. So what do you feel?"

Doyle's fingers tore at his carefully styled hair. "I hate him. I...love him. God, I still want him. Mostly I think I want to kill him."

"I see." Feeling at a loss, Geoffrey turned to the one thing that always seemed to force Raymond to think twice before he acted. "And what would Zachery say?"

Doyle's head jerked up. "Zack?"

"Yes, Zack. What would he say?"

Doyle hadn't had a letter in weeks, but it wasn't difficult to hear the deep voice repeating the advice given years ago.

Doyle smiled. "He would say I should ... follow my heart."

Geoffrey made a sour face. "Why am I not surprised? Pooky always was a bloomin' idiot."

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Thunder sounded in the distance and the sheer drapes on the windows billowed in a ghostly dance. Bodie lay on the bed and watched, unwilling to shut the windows to the balcony. The approaching storm mirrored his internal conflict, the ever-tightening build of pressure. Lightning flickered and spat on the horizon, sizzling with frustration and anger.

Seeing Doyle tonight had brought a tempest of emotion, most of which he'd managed to push aside for years. It mounted inside him now, not unlike the approaching storm.

Ray was so different. He was not the boy he had known six years ago, and Bodie wasn't sure he liked the changes, remembering the sweet, gentle lad he had been. The new Ray thrilled him certainly; the silent challenge, the unassailable masculine stance, the dangerous flash of the emerald eyes.

And the promise of youth had obviously been realized in abundance. The sinful mouth and every sensual move of the lithe body had exuded a hungry, potent sexuality. The boring female had been right about that much -- Doyle was someone to be warned about. Obviously a man accustomed to indulging his tastes ... whatever they may be now.

He, on the other hand, had been civilized.

Bodie smiled wryly to himself, watching the jagged spits of lightning. Oh yes, his grandfather had taken him in hand with a vengeance, making up for the score of lost years. Bodie was too fond of the old man to disillusion him. It cost him little to behave as a gentleman and it gave Sir Alistair much satisfaction to believe his near-success; ignoring the truth that it was all window dressing and most people sensed the fact and remained a bit nervous in his grandson's presence. Still, the facade was harmless and Bodie knew his true nature had been formed and sealed long ago. He didn't belong in the desert, but he even less belonged amongst the cream of society, whether it was New York or Rome or London. As always, he was alone. Belonging nowhere.

There had only been one brief moment in his life when he had felt complete and secure. But that was long ago and no more than a dream. He was twenty-seven now; too old for self-pity and far too old for such dreams. Tonight, seeing Ray again had closed the door on all of that for the final time. And while he had expected it to end this way, it hurt more than he had realized possible, recognizing how little control he had ever had on his life.

The uncivilized part of himself had wanted to scoop Doyle up and take him off -- ravish him, hold him, love him... But he was no longer a sheik, and Raymond Doyle was no longer anyone's victim. Despite himself, Bodie smiled at the thought. If Ray had been a damnably difficult captive at seventeen, it boggled the mind to conceive of what he would be now.

A cannon-roll of thunder startled him a little. The storm was very near. He could hear the first light patter of rain hitting the glass, wondering if he would ever grow accustomed to the erratic British weather.

He sighed, reminding himself he was civilized now, and got up to shut the doors to save the expensive carpet. A soft scraping sound froze him as he reached for the door. Another peal of thunder covered further noise. Curious, he stepped out on the balcony and looked down into the dark garden, the smell of damp mint and gardenias teasing

his senses. Black clouds raced across the face of the moon, spinning bizarre shadow tricks.

Turning back, he caught a movement at the edge of his vision. Before he could react an arm seized him, covering his mouth. The cool edge of a blade kissed his bare throat.

"Do not call out," a soft voice ordered.

A thrill raced down his spine as he recognized that voice. He nodded and the hands freed him, but kept the knife in clear view.

The silver glare of lightning confirmed the identity. "How did you get in? How did you know I was--"

"I climbed the wall, of course. Your grandfather's dogs are partial to raw beef."

At a loss for words, Bodie stuttered, "I... You... But why?"

"Why did I come? Our conversation was cut short this evening. There was more we had to discuss. Much more."

There was something eerily familiar both about this conversation and the situation. "If that was all, you could have simply made an appointment with my secretary," Bodie pointed out uneasily.

Doyle laughed. "No, I don't think so."

They regarded each other in silence. Doyle moved forward and touched the other's face. "You are still very beautiful. I had hoped you would be fat and greasy and stinking of goats by this time. I was wrong."

Bodie backed against the metal railing, wary of the knife. "I beg your pardon?"

"If anything, you are more beautiful. You have a face that is difficult to forget."

The elusive memory returned like a slap, taking his breath away. Another balcony, another night, half a world distant and million years in the past. Could he have said those things? Acted like this?

The answer and witness to both questions was standing before him, eyes gleaming wickedly.

"What do you want?" Bodie snapped, unwilling to remember, embarrassed and refusing to accept it.

"I did not realize I was being so subtle. I want you."

So Doyle was sticking to the script. Bodie remembered that, too; remembered how he had felt in that position. The excitement of attaining a difficult goal, the secret hush of the night, the heady smell of the blossoms and the madness of the moonlight. There was no moonlight now, only lightning and thunder and the scent of danger. Some part of him reveled in it, feeling more alive than he had for a very long time.

"You said ... you wanted to talk. Finish our conversation." He, too, could follow the script.

"I lied."

Bodie stepped forward helplessly, happy to continue. "Ray, I--"

The knife flashed up between them. "Oh, no. Not just yet."

Grimly, Bodie backed off. "So it's revenge."

"Maybe. What do you think?"

"You agreed to the bargain at the time."

"And I had so many options. Zack's death. Mine. Quite a bargain, indeed."

"So kill me then and be done with it!"

"That's odd, I think I said something of the same to you once."

It started raining again, a bit harder, and the rolls of thunder were closer now.

"Let's adjourn this inside, shall we?" Doyle suggested, jerking his knife toward the open doors.

Moving into the bedroom, Bodie eyed him thoughtfully, looking for an opening.

Doyle smiled, teeth gleaming coldly. "I wouldn't try it. I was well taught and spent some time on the back streets of Paris perfecting my skill."

"Being a whore, I suppose," Bodie snarled.

The green eyes narrowed. "Mais oui!" Doyle purred. "The years have given you a perception you sorely lacked. Unlike you, I didn't possess a rich grandfather, you see. But I had such an excellent teacher in the sensual arts. I have always given you total credit for my skill there, monsieur."

Bodie closed his eyes. "I did not mean that. I know it is not true. I know you would never--"

"Then you would be wrong," Doyle cut him off. "How do you think I existed when I first got to France?"

"Your family--"

"Do you think I would have taken anything from them? Ever? My uncle once told me I couldn't survive, that I was too weak. I even believed him. He was wrong. You were wrong, too, Bodie. In truth, I think I'm a better whore than an artist ... although I'm not certain it's not often the same thing."

"So you intend to kill me now, for what happened to you. For what you believe I did to you."

"Kill you?" Doyle considered it. "I have killed you. Over and over. I've cut your throat and mangled you and blown your brains out. But you keep coming back. You never stay properly dead. No, I'm not going to kill you." He hesitated and smiled drily. "Unless you push the point."

"So why are you here? What do you want?"

A loud knock on the door froze them both.

Doyle laughed, "Ah, history repeats itself yet again. Tell them to go away."

The knock came again, louder, and a voice, distinctly French. "Monseigneur, do you require anything else for the evening?"

Doyle caught his breath sharply. "Is that Gaston? He came with you?"

"But of course," Bodie growled.

Doyle grinned. "By all means, let him in. Gaston!"

The door opened and the Frenchman took in the scene with amazement. Doyle, dressed in black wielding a blade, Bodie a few feet away in his robe, very pale and stunned.

"It is wonderful to see you, Gaston," Doyle said cheerily, breaking the silence.

Gaston looked from one to the other, judging the electric atmosphere that had little to do with the storm. "You look well, mon petit."

"Thank you. So do you."

Gaston considered the knife. "You have kept up ze practice, I see."

"Like the dance, mon ami. One must work to retain the skill, no?"

Their eyes met and something flashed between them, a message, a plea and an understanding that Bodie was not privy to.

"If there will be nothing else?"

"Some brandy would be nice," Doyle suggested wickedly. "Yes, that would be just the thing, I think."

"You will find some on ze sideboard, Monsieur." Gaston pointed out helpfully.

Doyle glanced to his left and spotted the crystal decanter and the glasses. "Excellent. That will be all then, Gaston. Thank you. Please lock the door on your way out."

Gaston bowed. "But of course."

"Gaston--!" Bodie stared at the closing door, hearing the lock click in place, then glared at Doyle. "How do you know he will not summon help?"

Doyle chuckled. "Gaston has such faith in you. Could your pride bear it? A mob of servants to save you from ... me? Skinny, slight fellow like me? An artist of all things! Good god, you have been civilized, haven't you?"

"I've seen you throw a knife. You could kill me in half a second. Do you think I underestimate how dangerous you are?"

"You did once."

"I did many things once that I now regret."

Doyle regarded him for a long moment, unappeased. "I wish I could believe that. You're an abominable host, Bodie. Pour us both a glass of brandy, sl vous plait."

Shrugging, the other man complied, reaching out the glass.

"Thank you. Just put it on the table. And you've forgotten yourself."

"I do not--"

"Oh, how could I forget? You're a Muslim. Alcohol is forbidden! But you were drinking wine tonight. I saw you."

"You saw me holding a glass. It is easier than explaining repeatedly that I do not drink to people who think a Muslim is a kind of cloth."

"I see. Well, nevertheless, I think it's time you started. I, of all people, know this is not a stringent religious taboo of yours. What was it you told me... a loss of control? You're very right. So I suggest you drink mine."

Bodie looked up. "I do not--"

"Drink it!" Doyle demanded sharply.

Bodie glanced from the glass on the table to the other man. The green eyes flickered like a cat's in the firelight, unforgiving and witchy. He found himself more intimidated by the hot magic of the gaze than the knife.

He picked up the goblet and downed it, feeling it burn his throat. He coughed and took a deep breath, surprised by the efficiency of the liquor which warmed his stomach within seconds.

"And again."

Bodie blinked. "What?"

"Have another glass. And, please, be more generous. I realize it is very old Napoleon brandy. Very expensive, and very potent. But I expect you can afford it. Drink."

Bodie wet his lips, already feeling the effect of the first shot burning inside. He poured another portion.

"More," Doyle ordered harshly.

He obliged, filling the goblet nearly half full.

"Now, drink it. All of it."

Once more, Bodie met the ungiving eyes. He brought the glass to his mouth and took a sip.

"No, you can do better than that. Drink it."

Bodie drank a mouthful and choked, feeling it burn his mouth and throat. He swallowed it down, then hesitated, coughing. "I cannot--"

Implacable, Doyle ordered, "All of it. Trust me. It gets easier."

"I am not accustomed to--"

"Precisely. Unfortunately, I don't have any opium on me or we could use that. Brandy will have to do."

"Do for what? I do not--"

"Drink," Doyle insisted calmly, and while the knife was not threatening, it was in view and Bodie knew well what damage it was capable of wreaking on his undefended flesh. Still, it was expression in Doyle's eyes that made him comply.

He upended the brandy snifter, swallowing several times until he choked again, unable to continue. He nearly retched in reaction until his system adjusted and took it in. For a long time he stood, feeling the warmth curl inside him like hungry fingers, slowly relaxing his muscles against his will. The burning eased, bringing a lovely languor that began deep in his gut and spread outward.

"Are you satisfied?" he snarled, forcing himself to stand straight.

"No, not quite yet. Have another," Doyle instructed.

Glaring at him, Bodie did as he was told, unwilling to admit it was what he wanted himself. At this point the brandy was making its own demands and another drink didn't seem at all out of line. Nor did it burn this time as he took a swallow.

"Why are you doing this?" Bodie demanded; without thinking he gripped the side of the table for support.

"I want you," Doyle said flatly. "The liquor should relax you. And that, as you are well aware, is the best way to have you without damaging you -- too much."

"What?" Eyes widening, Bodie took a step back, almost tripping on the carpet, beginning to fathom Doyle's purpose and feeling a bolt of apprehension. The brandy snifter overshot the edge of the table and rolled, nearly empty on the rug.

"You have a very short memory," Doyle said softly. He reached the other man's side in an instant and held him tightly. "While I don't have the drugs at your disposal, my intention is no different."

His mouth found Bodie's and for a long moment they clung together hungrily, their lips and tongues eager. Then Bodie pushed him away, gasping, dizzy from lack of air.

The room was unstable, revolving in a slow spiral. He shut his eyes tightly, heart pounding, muscles languid. Was this drunkenness? And did it result from the brandy or merely from the taste of Ray?

Outside the thunderstorm had reached its apex, the curtains whipping wildly in the wind and rain beating a drumming rhythm on the balcony. Giddy, unsure of his footing, Bodie tried to move away, to recapture his equilibrium. Doyle caught him as he stumbled again and held him tightly, fingers bruising flesh.

"You know what I want. You know why I'm here."

Bodie took a deep breath. It did little to steady him mentally or physically. "Reprisal. Yes, I know very well what you want. Rape..."

Doyle released him abruptly, startled by the bluntness.

Bodie regained his balance and struggled to gather his thoughts. He managed to make it to the bed and methodically tugged at the tie on his robe. "It is only just, I suppose..."

"Bodie, I..." Doyle faltered.

Nude, Bodie sat on the bed, holding to the edge to keep himself steady as the alcohol made itself felt in a euphoric wave. He laughed, finding it suddenly difficult to be concerned about Doyle's intentions. Fifteen minutes ago he would have found it unthinkable to submit, to let another male possess him. But this was Ray. And his brandy-fueled conscience insisted it was only fair.

With difficulty, he focused on the other man. "I understand," he said with dignity. "If this will settle the debt between us, then proceed. You have haunted me long enough. By all means, rape me."

To his bewilderment, Doyle dropped to his knees beside the bed. "Oh, god, Bodie! That's not what I want. I do want... But if you refuse me, even now.... I'll leave. I'm not a rapist, no more than you."

"No more than me...." Bodie shuddered, remembering a time he had been no more or less than just that. He looked down, amazed to see two Doyles at his feet, both more entrancing and desirable than the other. Wildly aroused, he arbitrarily picked the one on his right and cupped the striking face. "Do you imagine I have forgotten or forgiven myself for what happened? How could I expect you to do so? I will not fight you." The skin felt cool, still damp from the rain. Heart aching even more than his body, he added simply, "I never possessed the strength to deny you; that was part of what I refused to face."

There was an eternity of absolute stillness, a gulf of time and space that was met in the center by both of them -- incredibly wide yet instantaneously crossed as Doyle reached up and took Bodie in his arms. They fell back on the bed and Bodie held to him frantically, terrified he would disappear again. It had been so very long.

Their kiss was deep and ravenous with the hunger and loss of six years. Then Doyle purposely slowed the pace, tracing his tongue down Bodie's throat. Bodie tilted his head back and moaned, the room spinning faster as the stimulus heated his mind and body. He clutched at Doyle's shoulders, frustrated to feel damp cloth where he desired warm flesh.

Taking the hint, Doyle levered himself up and began stripping, eyes caressing and transfixing him.

No longer the untutored boy, Doyle began loving him with a skill that left Bodie breathless with sighing ripples of pleasure, pliable and thirsty for more. As he closed his eyes to shut out the pirouetting ceiling, he was greeted with sparks behind his eyelids, flaring brilliant at every deft touch of his throbbing nerve ends. He was soon delirious and wanton, aching for the denied culmination.

"Please... please..." He hardly recognized the pleading cry as his own.

Doyle's voice was husky with need but still he held back. "Are you certain, Bodie? Is this what you want?"

Bodie's laugh was tremulous, strung tight with lust. "Hassid was right. You are a demon sent to taunt and torment me. Is this not why you came here, to take me?"

"Yes, I thought I could... I thought I wanted-- But--" Doyle's body was trembling with the effort to check his own passions, muscles tied into ropes of tension. "I find I don't want to hurt you after all. I can't. I must know you want it, too."

"Yes! Ray..." He clung to him, desperate, the carnal need surging like fire through his veins, igniting the brandy in his blood.

Doyle succumbed to his urging, crushing Bodie to him with a sob of relief and delight.

There was pain then, searing and shocking, but drowned by the unquenched desire, and beyond even the pain and passion, tender wisps of the past raced through Bodie's pleasure-fogged mind, an overload of images--

...jade-greed eyes glowing with pride and ire in a torchlit square... a slender wraith of a boy facing off a dozen armed men with nothing more than a quavering pistol and the courage of a lion.... the larger bravery of submission to save a friend.... rainbow sparkles on slick, tanned skin and the brazen eroticism of a harlot.... the tender warmth of affection under a blaze of desert stars.... and the splendor of spirit that refused a just revenge...

--crystal sharp in clarity and beauty, the visions of Ray coalesced and merged with the fierce radiance of orgasm, his mind consumed in the streaking starburst comet that poured from and into him.

---

The thunder was a dim, distant rumble on the horizon, echoing hollowly like the aftershocks of exhausted anger. The fire in the hearth was only embers, the room poorly lit by the gaslight lamp that still burned by the door. Dawn was beginning to battle the clouds, and there was a sudden, grey coolness that chilled them both. Rain spattered listlessly against the windows, feathery and petulant.

Doyle pulled away and Bodie let him go.

"It's nearly daybreak. I'd best leave."

There was no argument, Bodie busy working through what he had permitted to happen to him and why. Like the sky, his thoughts were overcast, clouded by lack of sleep and the after-effects of brandy. It was impossible to speak. Impossible to know what to say. Neither their passion nor pain lent themselves to words.

He watched silently as Doyle located his scattered clothes and dressed. He, too, seemed without words.

Bodie sat up, found his robe twisted in the cover at the foot of the bed and pulled it on. Stalling for time, he went to the hearth and added coals to the fire -- too many -- for after a few seconds the dying coals caught and flared up brilliantly, offering more illumination than either of them wanted.

They stared at each other feeling more distant than when the night began. At least then they had had a purpose. Revenge, closure, some kind of settlement of the past and where they stood in the present. Now those questions were answered.

They were equals. They no longer owed each other anything; all debts and obligations paid in full. The bargain was completed on both sides in all ways.

Before, they each had definite roles to play; captor and captive. Now the future stretched like a new world. And just like the explorers of the ancient past, they knew you could sail off the edge of the world into oblivion. They had reached unchartered territory without a map or guide for assistance. Nothing either of them had learned in the intervening years had offered a clue of where to go from here.

Doyle blinked and inhaled a shaky breath, then took a step toward the balcony door.

"English!"

Ray turned back almost eagerly. "Yes?"

"You forgot this." Bodie found the knife on the floor and tossed it to him.

"Oh...yes." Doyle stared at it for a second, then tucked it in his boot. After a pause he said gently, "Thank you."

Knowing it wasn't for returning the knife, Bodie asked softly, "For what?"

"For pretending you were actually afraid of me. Christ, I know you too well for that."

"You underestimate yourself. I am certainly ... wary of you."

Doyle smiled wanly. "Rubbish. I couldn't kill you before. I haven't changed that much."

"What else?"

Studying the floor, it took a moment for Doyle to respond. "What do you mean, what else?"

"You thanked me for more than that. Why else did you thank me?"

"For admitting you regretted.... Well, it's all the apology I'm likely to get from you."

It was Bodie's turn to smile. "Apology? The only thing I regret, English, is letting you go. It was the greatest mistake of my life."

Doyle looked up, startled. "I had to go. I would have hated you if--"

"Oh yes. And you have loved me so much since. Your gratitude overwhelms me." Bodie fought to dredge up anger. It wasn't easy; all he felt was sorrow and a soul-deep longing. "In any case, what does it matter now? You have had your revenge, so go!"

"Revenge...? Reven--" Doyle's voice cracked and he bit his lip. Even in the dimmed firelight Bodie could see the glisten of tears. "Is that what you really think this was? Even now?"

"What else?" Bodie's voice was also shaky but neither of them were in a position to notice the other's unsteady composure, too entangled in their own misery.

"Damn you, I loved you. You know I loved you. I would have come back, but--"

"You never asked me to go with you," Bodie cut him off short. There was still enough alcohol in his bloodstream to enable him to express the greatest hurt. He blurted it out, and didn't regret it. "Why?"

Doyle was silenced, stunned by the words.

"You tell me you loved me, but not once did you ask me to go with you."

Doyle pulled himself together shakily, "I just didn't think you ... It never occurred to me you would leave...." And it should have done, Doyle realized with a shock. How many nights had they spoken of the world, how many times had he heard the wistful tone in Bodie's voice? If he had asked him to go, how different would things have been now?

"You wanted to be free, Ray. Free of me. So blame me if you will for what happened on the desert, but I decline responsibility for the rest. What happened to you, what you had to do or chose to do to survive after you left me was not my doing. It could have been very different -- for both of us."

Even accepting that truth, knowing in his heart that he had used Bodie as a scapegoat for years, out of habit as much as conviction, he still defended himself hotly, "Different how? If I would have returned I would have been 'your boy' until I was eighty. That would never have changed."

"Perhaps not. And if we had left the desert together, it might have been very different, too. And for that I blame you."

"Would it have changed the way you saw me?"

"Perhaps. I do not know. We will never know."

Doyle took a sharp breath, steeling himself for the question he was terrified to ask. "Did you love me, Bodie? Do you love me now?"

Bodie refused to meet his eyes. "You are still wearing the bracelet. You must know what it means. What it has always meant. You're mine."

Doyle looked down at the silver links, remembering what they'd meant to him, good and bad over the years. The times he'd almost sold it just to put food in his mouth. The times it had been the only thing that made him keep going out of pride, defiance, but most of all the unbanished memory of love.

Love was nothing without respect and honor and most important...truth. They had both made mistakes, he as much as Bodie. He could admit that now. But he had voiced his truth; if Bodie couldn't do the same, what honor and respect was in it? The rest hardly mattered. He was no longer tolerant of society's -- or Bodie's -- inability to express true feelings. His own mother had probably died because she didn't dare speak up for herself, undoubtedly too young and naive to even know what she wanted or needed. Bodie's mother had been killed because she lied about her true feelings in order to achieve a freedom she probably never wanted. Both had been possessions and both had died for not declaring what they really felt.

He had no intention of living with a chain holding an unspoken meaning. Chains were never good, no matter how lofty the purpose. And he could not base his future on unspoken pledges.

Doyle looked back up at Bodie, his gaze steady. "No, that's too easy."

Coldly, cleanly, he snapped the chain and threw it at the other man. "Symbols aren't good enough. I'm not chained to my family by a name. I'm not chained to you by a bloody bracelet. Say what you mean or forget it!"

He turned towards the door, emotions in a turmoil, too impatient to wait for an answer, afraid he would waiver, furious, tired of feeling like property. And he had, deep down in his mind for years, been Bodie's. No matter how many others he had been with, as long as he wore that chain, in his soul he had belonged to Bodie. But no more. Not if Bodie couldn't even say three bloody words.

Blinded by tears of fury and disillusionment, Doyle reached the balcony and paused to wipe his eyes and take his bearings before he started to climb down the way he had come up.

In the room, Bodie picked up the fallen chain still warm from Doyle's wrist.

He is leaving me.

He felt a sudden terror followed by a rippling, cold certainty that if he didn't do something now, the time for decision would be lost forever. And suddenly the edge of the world wasn't so foreboding. Not nearly so terrifying as this. The world, after all, was round. Which must mean one could always start again at the beginning.

"Ray!"

For a bleak second, he thought Doyle had already gone. Then he saw the shadow at the edge of the balcony.

"Don't try to stop me," Doyle warned.

"No, not if you really want to go." Bodie paused, searching for the right words. The magic words to make it all right. Helplessly, he settled for the mundane. "It is still raining."

"Yes."

"You are getting wet.

"Yes. So are you."

Bodie moved closer and Doyle tensed.

"Don't. Please, Bodie."

"Do not what?"

"I can't--"

Bodie took him in his arms, holding him close. "Do not what, my English?"

"Don't....make me want you so much I--"

"I love you," Bodie whispered against the wet curls. "I love you. By Allah, I love you. If you leave me again, I cannot bear it. It nearly destroyed me before, can you not see that?"

Doyle's stiff body relaxed against him, arms surrounding his waist, face buried in his throat.

"Really?"

"Oh, English.... Raymond... Ray... I love you. It has a lovely sound, I will say it forever... I love you. I love you. My heart has been shouting it for years. I love you. I will sing it. I will--"

"No," Doyle chuckled, snuffling a little. "I think I'm happy with this much. Very happy," he added hoarsely.

They kissed, ignoring the light rain that continued to fall.

Doyle finally managed to pull away. "And what about the future? Your grandfather... my family ... society...?"

"My grandfather is a very adaptable man. He accepted a sheik as his grandson, did he not? He is also very rich. Your family are politicians and influential from what I understand. With such a combination, no one will dare question our friendship."

Doyle leaned back, brushing away a drop of rain from Bodie's brow. "Perhaps not. My family know enough unsavory things about me already and certainly wouldn't want to be indiscreet. But your grandfather will want you to marry and have chil--"

"No, I do not think so."

"He... doesn't care?"

"Oddly enough, unlike my Uncle Hassid, his goal in life is not breeding me like a prized stud. He is still too amazed and pleased at actually having found an heir at all to push me in that direction."

"But he may in the future.

"You forget how he found me, Ray. He saw the bracelet on your wrist. Of all people, he recognized its significance."

"But--"

"Shhh. I love you. I love you. That is what you wanted me to say, is it not? Now I can tell you that, I offer you my heart, and still you quibble? How very English. Are you so terrified of happiness?"

"I'm afraid to expect it to be easy, yes."

"I never said easy. I said I love you. Now you tell me."

Doyle slid his hands through the short, wet hair and pulled the other man's face very close until their lips nearly touched. "I love you, Bodie. I love you so very much."

Bodie kissed him then pulled back. "Good, now can we go back inside? We are both soaked to the skin by the rain. I am still Bedouin enough to find the sensation uncomfortable."

Doyle hung back for a second, happy but uncertain and a little apprehensive. "What happens now, Bodie?"

Bodie looked down at the chain still clutched in his palm. He smiled widely. "First of all, this!" He threw it with all his might out into the garden. "No more chains. That part of our past is over, for both of us." He linked their fingers tightly. "This is the only chain we need."

"And now? What is before us?"

Bodie took their entwined hands and tugged him toward the warmth and light.

"The future, Ray. The future. Stop being so bloody English and just enjoy it."

-- THE END --

Originally published by Manacles Press, 1992

< Previous