Trixi and Chris were well guarded, their presence in Nauplia relatively unknown. He'd been gone only a day. But the monk was riding low over his horse's neck, forcing the pace, and fear gripped him.
When he was close enough to see the man's expression, he expected the worst. As both men drew their mounts to a plunging stop, Pasha's heart was drumming in his chest, panic suffocated his ability to think. "Is she alive?" he shouted, all else insignificant.
"She was kidnapped by Hussein Djeritl's men. A message was left for you," the rider gasped, pulling a crumpled note from his bandoleer.
Pasha unfolded it and read the few words written in Arabic:
If you want the Englishwoman, come and get her
.
He glanced up at the sun, estimating the time. "When was she taken?"
"Shortly before dawn."
"And the boy?"
"Unharmed."
If it were possible for him to feel relief in his current state of numbness, Chris's safety offered brief solace. He should have taken mother and son with him, he thought, or better yet, sent them back the minute he'd discovered her in Nauplia. Neither option without danger in itself, he understood, safety and security problematical on several counts. But
merde
!
He'd have to kill Hussein.
"I can't take this supply train to Nauplia," he said to Makriyannis as he rode up a second later, deadly purpose having calmed his thoughts. "Hussein has Trixi. I have to get her back."
"The general's in the center of his army at Navarino. You'll need help."
Pasha shook his head. "I'm better alone."
"It's suicide alone."
"Unless we can match his army, which is an impossibility, less is better." Pasha was checking his water supply, gauging the amount he'd need to take him that far.
"Then just you and me and someone to wait with the horses while we go into his camp," Makriyannis proposed. "We'll slit Hussein's throat while he sleeps."
Pasha looked up. "You don't have to do this."
"And you haven't needed to fight my war. Hell, with luck," Makriyannis cheerfully went on, "we can walk in and out of there with no one noticing."
Both men knew better; both men knew Hussein was as closely guarded as the sultan's favorite wife.
"This will cash in all my markers," Pasha quietly said.
"You've saved my life three times, my friend. Don't talk to me of payment. Are you ready?"
"I'm killing him this time," Pasha coldly murmured, testing the sharpness of his dagger blade before placing it back in his belt.
"Since you don't collect trophies, I'll take his ears."
"Be my guest," Pasha grimly replied.
Cautious of informers, they left the supply train with a spurious explanation of another government mission and rode off in the direction of Nauplia. Only after they were out of sight of the supply train did they change course and travel west.
Once away from Nauplia, Trixi was freed from her bonds and given a mount. She couldn't escape surrounded by Hussein's officers, her reins firmly in their grasp. And while she was fearful, the fact that they'd not taken Chris offered her comfort. She was treated with courtesy; one man spoke a few words of English. She was being taken to Navarino to their superior, Hussein Djeritl, he said, alternating English, Arabic, and hand signals.
She recognized Hussein's name although she was careful to show no recognition. But her abduction had an explanation now. It had something to do with Pasha and the harem he'd brought to Nauplia. If this Hussein had her kidnapped because of Pasha, her life wasn't in immediate danger. She was being transported to his camp at Navarino for a purpose.
A kind of serenity overcame her, as though she were aloof from this mounted troop, as if she were independent of their mission. Perhaps having traveled so far from Kent and overcome such hazards during the past months, she'd become hardened to danger. She no longer took instant fright when threatened, but thought instead of contingency plans. Surveying the country around her, she took note of landmarks, wanting to recognize this area again should she return. The Turks weren't likely to kill her; she would be viewed as a valuable item for sale if nothing else. Not exactly a comforting thought. But death wasn't imminent.
And she had enormous faith in Pasha.
Perhaps she was naive, but she was confident he'd come for her, the phrase like a mantra in her mind. Lulled by that hope, comforted, she was able to control her anxieties.
The Turks rode at a steady canter, broken only once when they came to a village where they watered and fed their horses. She was offered a handful of dates and water, but not allowed to dismount. It seemed they were driven by a schedule of some importance, a note of concern in their voices. She was under the impression they had to reach Navarino by a certain time.
Pasha and Makriyannis were four hours behind, riding full out, traveling cross-country to save precious time, taking a dangerous mountain trail that would cut two hours from their ride. No one spoke, neither the mood nor the pace conducive to conversation. Trained to kill, proficient at the task after years of fighting the Turks, they understood what had to be done.
The precise fashion in which they'd accomplish their mission would depend on circumstances once they reached Navarino.
Trixi's level of alarm rose as they rode through the army camped around Navarino, and hundreds of men's eyes followed her progress through the tented city surrounding Hussein Djeritl's flamboyant red silk pavilion. What lay in store for her? Did Turkish generals meet with females, or would she be dealt with by some functionary? How would they treat her? A degree of fatigue after hours in the saddle marginally blunted her concerns; a haze of weariness dulled her senses.
Coming to a halt at last before the elegant lodging, two men dismounted and went inside. The conversation was impossible to hear, hopeless to translate in any event, but a harsh angry voice exploded on several occasions, followed immediately by a rapid flow of placating words.
And after a lengthy interval, the sound of laughter.
A chilling, evil laugh.
A man emerged a few moments later and spoke rapidly. One of her captors jumped to the ground and, striding to Trixi's horse, abruptly pulled her from the saddle.
She stumbled briefly as he set her down, his hands rough, his gruff, curt order unintelligible. When she didn't respond, he brusquely pushed her toward the entrance to the tent.
Clutching the black cloak around her, she moved forward, a sense of unreality pervading her mind. How did one conduct oneself when a captive of a Turkish general? What ultimately did he want of her? The obvious answer was unpalatable. Lifting her chin, she straightened her spine, determined to face her captor with courage. But such resolve was quickly put to the test when she entered the large tent and came under the scrutiny of a dozen hard-eyed men.
She stood at the entrance on soft carpets piled one atop another so the ground was entirely covered and cushioned. "Does anyone speak English?" she said into the silence, addressing the men leaning forward, staring.
With the exception of one man who lounged on a chair set on a small dais, gazing at her from under half-lowered lashes. He snapped his fingers, spoke a few short words in a low, harsh voice, and one of the men rose and walked from the tent.
Pasha Bey hadn't lost his admirable taste in women, Hussein reflected. The golden-haired beauty dazzled even covered in that common black cloak. She might indeed be recompense for losing his harem. Turning his head, he said as much to his dinner guests and everyone laughed heartily.
The humor was at her expense, Trixi thought, surveying the amused faces. The man on the gilded camp chair who drew such sycophantic laughter must be Hussein Djeritl. Oddly, he was dressed in a western uniform, reminiscent of a Napoleonic cavalry officer.
"
Parlez-vous français
?" she inquired.
He answered in a Parisian accent, his tone constrained. And then he gruffly spoke to the men in his own language, that same short, staccato delivery—an order, she presumed from his tone.
It was. They all rose like puppets on strings and exited through a flap held up by a servant at the rear of the tent.
"Come here," he said in a less gruff tone, beckoning her forward with a wave of his hand. "Pasha Bey brought you a long way for his pleasure. I want to see what he found in England."
The smallest hint of a Marseillaise patois underlay the more cultured French of Paris, she incongruously thought as she obeyed his order to approach. It mitigated the authority marginally, reminding her that at one time he was learning this foreign tongue like any other human being might. He'd not always been a supreme commander with the power of life and death in his hands. Also, she reflected, on a more personal note, he'd not wanted to share her company. A male phenomenon she understood. "He didn't bring me. I sailed here myself."
He almost smiled. "The adventuresome English female. Take your cloak off. Pasha Bey and I enjoy similar tastes in women. I want to see more of you."
"And if I refuse?"
"That would be very foolish under the circumstances," he mildly replied. "My men have brought you here for my pleasure."
"I prefer not staying, of course."
"Women in my world have no autonomy. And you are now a resident of that world. Kindly remove your cloak."
Even as she did, she was contemplating the extent and limitations of her current situation, weighing her chances for escape, making the necessary decision to appear compliant against some future hope of liberation. She dropped the black wool cloak at her feet and stood before him in her night shift.
A man of rare hedonistic impulse, Hussein was actually moved by the fresh innocence of the woman before him. So pale and golden, so bountiful and lush. "Take that off too," he murmured, indicating her night shift with a sweeping gesture.
"I prefer leaving it on."
"I can have two of my officers come in and take it off. They'll appreciate the duty. I could offer them your body once I've finished with you, if you choose not to cooperate."
"Should I call them in?" Her brows rose in query, as capable of a bluff as he.
He smiled, an actual smile that briefly warmed his eyes. "Tell me your name."
"Beatrix."
"Blessed indeed. Now be sensible. Take it off or I'll take it off for you." He uncrossed his legs and sat upright. "This can be pleasant or unpleasant. You decide." His dark gaze had turned chill, his voice held a frightening note of indifference, and he shifted in his seat as if ready to rise.
"Would it be possible to have a bath?" A means of putting off the inevitable, of buying herself some time.
"Everything's possible with an army at my command, the Peloponnisos under my control, the booty or conquest in my hands," he pleasantly declared. "But I'm not naive, Beatrix. Nor have I been for a great many years. Take off your shift so I may observe the prize my officers have brought me as partial surety for their lives. Your lover is the other requirement should they wish to live. You understand how limited your choices."
"I'm here as bait?" Her abduction was suddenly clarified.
"The very prettiest. And unless I mistake Pasha Bey's sense of chivalry, we should expect him in the near future. Did you know he took a woman I prized away from me at the slave market in Constantinople and sent her home to Georgia so I couldn't have her? A most irritating memory. As is his trying opposition in this war. Come now. Indulge me and you'll have your bath. Indulge me," he went on in a placating murmur, "and I may not kill your lover right away."
Her instant alarm brought a knowing smile to his lips; a cunning man, he'd survived the scramble for power in the sultan's army by understanding human weakness better than most. "If you cooperate I may let him live—for a time."
Her hands came up to undo the small buttons at the neckline of her nightgown, a faint tremble in her fingers the only indication of her dismay. Her gaze was unflinching, her posture straight and tall; she was stronger than most of the women he'd captured or purchased, and that strength intrigued him. What an indomitable woman with which to begin rebuilding his harem, he thought. A woman like her could give him many fine sons. He'd have to thank Pasha Bey before he killed him.
In utter silence she unfastened the small pearl buttons at her neckline and cuffs, slid the fine linen off her shoulders, down her arms, and let the nightgown fall to the carpeted floor. Stepping over it, she kicked it aside, gazed up at Hussein Djeritl, and said, "I could use a bath now."
He chuckled. "A woman of mettle. I look forward to the challenge. You shall have your bath and then we'll meet in my bed and see who will ultimately prevail." His gaze slowly traveled down her body and then up, coming to rest on the plump fullness of her breasts. "Men will envy me after tonight, my English Beatrix. If you please me in bed as much as you please my senses, I may take you as one of my wives."
"I killed my first husband."
"You'll not kill me." He didn't hesitate at her comment or his reply. Hussein Djeritl was insensible to death after a lifetime of war. And so utterly ruthless he feared no one. He spoke three gruff Turkic words and a servant materialized from the depths of the tent. "I'll see you after your bath," he pleasantly said, as though she'd not threatened him. "If you require anything, Jamil speaks French." He rose and stepped down from the dais.
She stiffened at his approach.
"Ah, a modicum of fear after all." He brushed a fingertip over one nipple and she stepped away. He didn't speak, but he followed her that half step and, taking the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, squeezed it until a small suffocated gasp escaped her. "There now," he whispered, releasing the stinging crest. "Just so we understand who's in charge here." With a nod of his head, he beckoned his servant forward, speaking to him in a low temperate tone. Then he addressed her once more. "If you'd follow Jamil, he'll see that you have all you desire," he pleasantly said. And he walked away, moving toward the entrance to the tent, calling out a name.