acquaintance." He smiled as he looked around, showing that he was
conscious that they were being watched. Honoria was aware of a
flash of bright white teeth. She recalled how devastating that smile
could be when set off by a dark beard. "I have had etiquette
lessons," he said, playing to that crowd.
She could not see the charming twinkle in his eyes, but she
heard it in his voice, felt it in the response from the onlookers. He
could make them like him, believe him. Want him. When they
laughed, it made her want to scream.
Somehow, she smiled instead. "The deportment lessons
seemed to have taken—Mr. Marbury. I'm not sure the same can be
said for mine." She was speaking! Actually coherently speaking!
"Untrue, Lady Alexandra." He touched his cheek with the tip
of a finger. "The note you sent me was a masterpiece of propriety.
And you have such lovely handwriting."
"I don't imagine you had any trouble making it out." Was his
smile as frozen as hers? She couldn't tell. "Does your facility for
languages extend to being able to read them as well? Arabic?
Turkish? Latin and Greek?"
Fool
! she shouted to herself.
This is
not the time or place
! But she had to know.
"Alas, no, Lady Alexandra. Until recently I could make out
only a bit of Spanish. I was never a very good student, though I am
told my comprehension of English is progressing nicely. I haven't
had the advantage of your classical education."
"How odd," she said in Arabic, "I thought you took
advantage of it quite thoroughly." He could always be lying. He
probably
was
lying. It had not clawed at her soul for years, and it
didn't matter, anyway.
Diego tilted his head appealingly and shrugged slightly. She
wanted to kick him.
"You always had me at a disadvantage. Led me around by
my—"
"Greed," she interrupted hastily.
He smirked. "You could call it greed." His gaze swept boldly
over her. She took an angry step toward him.
"What did you say, my dear?" her father asked, before either
she or Diego could do anything. "And what was it you replied, Mr.
Marbury? How nice to see that you and my daughter have
something in common."
Was that a hint of speculation in her father's voice? Oh, no,
was he sizing up another candidate for her marriage bed? She
leaned closer to her father as her gaze flew to his face. Yes, there
was definitely a hint of benign but crafty conjecture in his features.
This did not bode well from a man who wanted grandchildren. She
squinted past him, trying to make out if Cousin Kate, standing on
the other side of the duke, was looking as smug as Honoria
suspected. There was tension in the air, as though everyone in the
room was poised for the very dishonorable Honorable James
Marbury's response.
"Yes," he answered. "I am sure your daughter and I have
much in common, Your Grace." Diego's voice sounded rich as
cream, and as smug as that of a cat who'd gotten into that cream. "I
look forward to many opportunities to explore our common
interests, and to develop new ones with her."
"Well spoken, young man." Her father clapped the scum from
Algiers on the shoulder. "I look forward to it as well."
Honoria very nearly choked; her racing heart made an
attempt to leap from her chest; but all she could do was curl her
hands into tight fists at her side. She caught the flash of smiles on
faces she couldn't make out, and there were too many nearby faces.
Someone in the crowd giggled. Giggled—how galling! How
appalling. Didn't these people have anything better to do than stand
about eavesdropping on a private conversation? The level of
interest in her encounter with Diego was much higher, more
titillated, than when she'd spoken to Derrick.
Huseby had posted herself at the top of the stairs. Now she
came to stand like a guard at Honoria's back. "My lady?" she
whispered, in a voice full of the naked fury Honoria could not
show.
"Thank you, Maggie," she heard herself say in the most
ordinary way possible. "You may go now."
To the world she sounded as if she were dismissing her
servant; only she and Maggie Huseby knew that she was sending
away her only friend and ally. She turned her head to meet
Huseby's frantically worried gaze. "Please wait up for me," she
added. She gave Huseby the briefest of nods, the lightest brush of
her hand on the woman's arm, urging her to go. Derrick was an
irritant; Diego was disaster incarnate. But she would face him
alone, because, of course, she had no other choice.
She'd been made to wear a voluminous robe over her clothes and a
heavy veil that covered her hair and face for the journey through
the city. The coarse wool smelled of dust and someone else's sweat,
and the veiling had been terribly hot. Underneath the concealing
clothing she'd worn chains. The city was noisy, noisome, and
strange. She'd been too terrified, too bereft and confused to
understand much of what she'd seen. She would have welcomed
even the Spaniard's company, but she was not granted even that
much mercy. The guard who took her from the ship was an
indifferent stranger; the slave dealers he left her with showed only
a certain commercial interest in her. A woman examined her
intimately and declared her to be a virgin. They looked at her teeth
with the same interest. The only response she received when she
protested was someone making a note that she spoke their
language. Apparently this added to her value as property.
She was shaking and sick when they finally locked her in a
small room with stone walls and floor in a place called the Bagnio.
It was stiflingly hot inside the narrow room, without even so much
as a pallet to lie down on. There was a slop bucket, and she was
grateful to have that to throw up in. When she was under control
once more she noticed that there was only one small window in her
cell, up near the ceiling. It let in little light and little air. She tried
jumping to get a view of outside, but the window was too high up.
After a while the silence and the solitude began to prey
fiercely on her nerves. She could not remember a time when she
had ever been alone. For the first time in her eighteen years, she
realized that she had never been alone.
Honoria paced the small cell, solitary but for her thoughts
and a smattering of rats. The rats were easier to deal with than her
wild imagination, for, bold as they were, she could scare them
away. Her thoughts refused to scurry off. She was trapped, lost,
alone. No one would ever know what had happened to her. She
would never see her parents again.
"Oh, God!" she whimpered, and covered her face with her
hands, consumed by grief and guilt. Her mother was dead! Now
her poor father had lost her, as well. She could do nothing to help
Derrick or Huseby. She could not even help herself.
"
Why are you doing this to me?" she raged, her face turned
up to the ceiling as she shook her fist. It was not God she railed at,
but the Spaniard. She was going to be sold into slavery. She was
alone
—
and no one cared. And the Spaniard was to blame
.
The Spaniard was also seated next to her at the dinner table. For the
first time in years she did not feel alone in a crowd, and the
sensation was most disturbing. Her father was seated at the head of
the long table, she at the seat to his right. Normally she would have
taken the hostess's place at the opposite end of the table, but Cousin
Kate had agreed to preside tonight. Honoria had wanted to be near
her father while sharing a meal with Captain Derrick Russell. The
plan had been to demonstrate to the duke that she carried no secret
tender feelings for the man she had once been engaged to. James
Marbury had not figured into her plans for the evening—not past a
show of reasonable politeness to the man she had offended.
Assigning him the place of honor to her right had seemed like a
perfectly rational idea when the object of the exercise had been to
make up for her rudeness.
So, here she was, surrounded by the last men on earth she
wanted to be with, and there was no way to escape them. Ignoring
them was her only course. In Derrick's case this was easy enough,
as her vision, the width of the table, and a large silver centerpiece
effectively kept his golden countenance out of her sight. Derrick
was easy to forget about with the Spaniard by her side. The
Spaniard—Diego—James—the Honorable Mr. Marbury—was a
large, living, potent reality. She knew, to her disgust, that she
would be totally aware of James Marbury's vibrant presence if he
were seated across the table, across the room, possibly if he were
seated in a dining room in an entirely different house. Now that she
knew that he was alive and well and—
James watched as Honoria took a deep breath that told him
she was forcing her emotions to stay under control. She'd been
taking quite a few deep breaths since they had come face to face
earlier in the evening. The movement was subtle, but he knew what
to look for. Besides, he thoroughly enjoyed watching the swell of
her magnificent bosom. The deep blue of her dress accentuated her
fine skin and the cut of the gown showed off her womanly curves
far better than the dress she'd worn a few nights ago. He took great
pleasure in studying those curves. At least she had not slapped him,
not yet, nor had she run from him as she had in the ballroom. She
was tempted, he could tell, by the faint flush of her cheeks and the
heightened color on her throat that brought out the faint line of
freckles across her collarbone. She wore them like a necklace,
those pretty freckles, much prettier to him than the cold stones of
the necklace she wore. One could covet diamonds and sapphires,
but a man couldn't kiss them.
Did she remember his kisses? Perhaps the temptation she
fought was of a different sort. Perhaps she was fighting against
throwing herself into his arms rather than against clawing his eyes
out. He smiled at the thought. He was tempted as well, and not to
run. His moment of weakness was past. What he wanted now was
privacy. Perhaps he should suggest to her that they leave.
Conversation around them was loud. The blond man directly
across from Honoria was glaring at them—James recognized the
scoundrel but paid him no mind. If the English swine had behaved
like something that walked on two legs—not even necessarily a
man, but something above serpent in the order of creation—in
Algiers… well, the Englishman was no man. He should be fed with
the curs rather than allowed to sit at a dinner table. James did not
know why "Dear Derrick" was a guest, but at least Honoria was
ignoring her "Darling Derrick" as conspicuously as she was him.
That was good, but not good enough.
James leaned toward Honoria, and watched her stiffen. He
could almost hear her heart racing like a frightened rabbit's. Ha!
Furious lioness was more like it. Whatever the reason for her
reaction, he slipped his large hand reassuringly over hers where it
rested in her lap. Beneath the din of conversation, he whispered in
Arabic, "We have unfinished business, you and I."
Surprising him, she turned her head in his direction. While
she did not look him in the eye, her haughty gaze settled
somewhere around his chin. "Business?" she responded in the same
language.
He couldn't keep the teasing smile from his lips. He
continued the conversation in what amounted to a secret language
between them. "You remember what we were doing when we were
interrupted."
He expected bright color to rise on her cheeks and throat; she
paled instead. She lifted her head sharply, exhibiting the sort of
pride meant to quell her inferiors. It made James smile even wider,