Free The Book of the Seven Delights by Betina Krahn Page B

peering through stone archways and past carved latticework, calling for someone, anyone.
    The stillness, at first comforting, now began to worry her. She had decided to turn back to the outer courtyard to look for the man who had taken her horse, when a slender Moroccan-looking man in traditional dress of turban and a long-sleeved tunic stepped out onto the loggia and into her path.
    "May I help you?" he said, nodding formally over folded hands.

    "Thank Heaven." She clasped a hand to her heart. "I was beginning to think—I need to see the British Consul immediately."
    "I fear that will be impossible, ma'am," he said in lilting tones. "Consul Battingale is in Rabat and will not return for several weeks." He gave her a wan smile and somewhat apologetic shrug. "I am Ravad Qatar… house steward. Perhaps I can be of service."
    Her spirits rose as quickly as they had plunged. "Bless you, Mr. Qatar. I am in dire need of horses and a proper guide to…" She thought of Haffe and her bags and her detoured cache of money. "To Marrakech. I've come to search for some books that belonged to an old library… I work for the British Museum." His eyes widened at the mention of her employer.
    "Truly? I have heard of this place… this great house in London… where many wonders and treasures are assembled. If I can help—"
    Just then shouts and the sound of men and horses and confusion roiled through the half-open door to the outer courtyard. Dread seized her as the steward looked alarmed and nodded to excuse himself to see about the disturbance. Before he reached the main doors, Abigail had already recognized the voice shouting demands.
    "Ouvrez! Sur le nom de la Republique de France! Ouvrez les portes!"
    That voice—they had found her! The memory of the sergeant's hand digging into her shoulder and the blunted rage in his eyes came flooding back. They couldn't touch her here, could they? This was essentially British—
    Qatar's voice rose into the confusion, declaring "No, no!" and "No right to come here!"
    Rights or no, they seemed bent on invading and searching the consulate.
    She backed down the loggia toward the rear of the courtyard, looking for a rear exit. Spotting a promising doorway, she ducked inside and rushed to a far doorway and down a passage that led through what appeared to be a kitchen pantry. She paused for a moment, listening and collecting her breath, inhaling the scents of spices and flour and strings of dried garlic.
    The sound of movement and men's voices came from all directions now; they were searching the consulate. How long would it take for them to reach such an obvious hiding place as a pantry? She peered out through the curtain into the adjoining kitchen. On the far side was yet another door. Its size and the heavy wooden bar across it suggested it led to the street.
    Her only thought was to escape the consulate and find a place to hide until the Legionnaires left and it was safe to go back for her horse. Smith's face and voice rose in her mind proclaiming the Consulate useless as she listened to the search drawing closer to her. She would be well on her way to Marrakech by now, if she hadn't stopped to seek sanctuary where there was none.
    The sound of something being overturned in the room behind her caused her to bolt from the pantry and race across the kitchen. The bar was heavy and tightly fitted into its metal brackets. She pounded upward on it with the heels of her palms and the dull thuds drew the attention of a nearby Legionnaire.
    When he appeared in the doorway—rifle forward—she had just begun to move the bar. With one last panicky blow from her hand, the bar was free. He shouted what had to be an order for her to stop and she whirled to face him and shrank back against the door… where she felt a lump in the back of her belt.
    "Stay back," she called, reaching behind her for her pistol… the one Smith had jammed into the back of her belt… mildly surprised that she hadn't remembered it