Scandal's Daughter by Carola Dunn Page A

problem as troops patrol the shore road regularly.”
    “Turkish troops?”
    “Yes, but watching for bandits, not for us. They have their uses.”
    She seemed unconvinced, but saying no more she went over to her mule, stroked its nose, and fed it a crust. It twitched its long ears at her, nuzzling in hope of more. Thank heaven she had no aversion to mules!
    He was relieved to notice that she was not to be the only female. Joining her, he pointed out three riding beasts with side-saddles.
    Cordelia brightened at once. “Oh, I am glad. Do you think Kostas might find the women, or at least one of them, and present me?”
    “I shall ask him.” James was ashamed not to have realized how alone she must feel. She really was an extraordinary, an exceptional girl. However unconventional her upbringing, it could not possibly have prepared her for her present situation.
    He consulted Kostas, and a few minutes later was pleased to see Cordelia’s smile as she was presented to a stout merchant’s wife.
    Somehow the confusion in the courtyard was sorted out. The sun’s first rays broke through the clouds to gild the eastern sky as James and Cordelia bade a grateful farewell to Kostas. James lifted Cordelia into the saddle, saw that she was properly settled, and mounted his own animal. They took their places in the line filing through the gateway.
    “Give my love to Ioanna!” Cordelia called back.
    Kostas understood his wife’s name if no more. He waved and nodded vigorously as they rode out into the new day.
    The coast road was a stony track winding between sea and mountains. They passed few signs of habitation, an occasional tiny fishing hamlet around an inlet, or a shepherd’s hut clinging to a hillside. In places the road was carved into cliffs of solid rock, braced here and there with masonry which looked so ancient it might have been Byzantine, or even classical Roman or Greek. Elsewhere the track clung precariously to unstable slopes, or crossed a stream by bridge or ford.
    The rainy season was just beginning. A few of the stream beds were still dry but for a trickle of water; others tumbled seaward in muddy brown torrents, already knee-deep. These the caravan forded with care, the animals linked by ropes in long lines so that if one stumbled the others might save it. The mules plodded through with their usual stolid, sure-footed patience, which James admired the more since two of the horses skittishly baulked at every crossing.
    He admired Cordelia, too. Though her hands clenched white-knuckled on the reins, she made no complaint, never reminded him it was for his stomach’s sake they had taken this roundabout way. He made sure he was always beside her when they came to a ford.
    When the path was wide enough, she often rode beside the merchant’s wife, with whom she had quickly made friends.
    “Kyria Agathi is bent upon improving my Greek,” she told James as they walked along together, leading their mules. The side-saddle cramped her limbs if she rode for too long at a stretch, so every now and then he lifted her down. The caravan’s slow pace was easy to match for a mile or two. “My island accent horrifies her.”
    “You learn quickly,” he said.
    “I have needed to. But I enjoy it, too. There is something very satisfying about being able to communicate in a foreign tongue.”
    “Is there not? I have given up pretending to speak no more than a few words of Greek, since these people don’t know how badly I was bungling it yesterday. I’ve been talking to your Agathi’s husband, Mr. Miltiades. He’s a fellow-sufferer.”
    “Seasick?”
    “Yes, which is why he went by land to Istanbul when business took him there, sensible man.”
    Among the train, James had found two or three interesting people besides the fat merchant to chat with, all happy to talk about their own affairs and not enquire into his. He would have thoroughly enjoyed the ride had they moved at more than a snail’s pace. The clouds blew