intend to give Russell time to be his rival, therefore direct methods
were called for. Finding out which room was hers should not be at
all difficult. And breaking into that room would hold no challenge
for the likes of Diego Moresco, now, would it?
"My lady?"
"Hmm?"
"You're humming."
Honoria turned to Huseby. "So I was. I am always as good as
my word, Maggie." She handed her maid her corset and took the
nightgown Huseby handed her.
Huseby eyed her with worried suspicion. "Are you all right?
You're flushed, and bright-eyed. You look like a cat that's been in
the cream, and a bit feverish at the same time."
Honoria adjusted her spectacles on her nose. "I do not have a
feverish nature."
"The devil you don't."
Honoria finally noticed that Huseby looked very, very
worried, and her ebullient mood dimmed somewhat. "I was
savoring a triumph. Now you're going to make me come back to
the real world, aren't you?"
"That man, my lady." She looked around as if afraid they
would be overheard here in Honoria's bedchamber, in the very
heart of the house, with no one else in the room. "Please tell me I
was mistaken about—"
"The Honorable James Marbury," Honoria supplied, "is half
Spanish, as you already know." She took an emerald silk robe from
Huseby and jerked the belt tight with one hard tug. Buoyed by a
sudden burst of elation, she had no memory of what had occurred
after she went back into the music room. No, she recalled her father
informing her that Viscount Brislay and his son had left, and telling
her she needn't look so relieved and that he wanted to talk to her
after all the guests had gone. Yes, she remembered that, but how
had she gotten from the music room to her bedroom, and when?
She suspected she might have floated there. She
had
waited a long
time to speak her mind to Derrick Russell; pity she hadn't had the
opportunity sooner. And to think she'd almost been afraid to face
the fool!
Well, however she'd gotten here, she was in her bedroom
now and dressed for bed. She might as well go to sleep. Huseby's
gaze on her was still anything but serene, though. "We will not be
bothered by any further intrusion by Captain Russell," Honoria
reassured her friend.
Huseby made an impatient gesture that dismissed Derrick
Russell. "The Spaniard?"
Honoria reached up and ran her fingers through the loosened
mass of her curly hair. The blasted stuff was altogether too thick
and difficult to manage; it fell halfway down her back. "I suppose
the Spaniard will have to be dealt with as well, Maggie."
"But how? What does he want? Why is he here? I thought
you said he must have been killed in Algiers."
"I have no answers. I suppose I'll have to find out. Why can't
those men leave me alone?"
Huseby glanced toward the bedroom door. "Your father sent
word that—"
"I'll speak to him in the morning. Get some rest, Maggie."
Huseby eyed Honoria worriedly. "Are you sure you wouldn't
like to have a tantrum now, my lady? You may not get another
chance for a while."
Honoria gave a breathless laugh. "I had a tantrum after the
ball. Another when I received Derrick's letter. I haven't had my
secretary check my engagement book, but surely two tantrums
within a week is more than the calendar can bear."
The closed cream-colored brocade curtains of the huge bed
invited her to rest inside them. The heavy carved bed had been in
this room for over a century. Though the bed might be antique, the
feather mattress was soft and new, the blankets warm and
comforting. "I'm going to sleep now, Maggie."
Huseby shook her head, then assumed the blank face of a
well-trained servant and came forward. Honoria waved her away.
She grasped two handfuls of her heavy hair. "I can plait this
myself, thank you.
Goodnight." Huseby frowned, but she didn't argue. Honoria
would have locked the door behind her maid, but there was no lock
on the door. On any of the doors leading into and out of this room.
"Foolish oversight on the architect's part, if you ask me," she
murmured.
She turned toward the bed, then away from it again. She
knew that sleep would not come just yet—or if it did, the dreams
would no doubt be of nights spent in bed in Algiers. Those sorts of
dreams were anything but restful. She had to calm down before she
attempted to sleep, or her passionate nature would slip its leash and
cavort with salacious memories of Diego Moresco while she slept.
She crossed the room but could not bring herself to sit down
before the mirror when she reached the dressing table. She did not
want to face herself. That was the point of avoiding closing her
eyes. She could always take her spectacles off, but having clear
vision was too precious a thing to lose so soon after an evening of
confronting her worst enemies at such a great disadvantage. Or
perhaps being unable to see their faces had made her less
vulnerable to them. She didn't know.
She restlessly walked to the window and pulled back the
heavy curtains. She looked outward, up at the moon, the stars that
showed bravely but faintly above the sooty city lights. Oh, Lord,
what a day! What a night!
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. As much as
she wanted to avoid it, her thoughts began repeating every word,
gesture, nuance, and possible meaning of the last several hours.
"You could not bear the public humiliation."
She had sounded so confident in her reply to Derrick's threat.
She laughed faintly, and pressed her hands against the glass, palms
damp with remembered fear, sweat making them slippery on the
smooth surface. Several shudders went through her, cold, then hot.
"Could not bear… ?" She made some faint sound, something that
was between laughter and a sob.
She was being looked at, but no one was actually looking at
her.
She was being talked about, pointed at, touched, and examined
—
at least, her body was
. She
was in no way involved in what was
happening to her. She was as much alone here, where the slave
dealers exhibited their wares, as she had been in the bagnio cell.
More alone, because the personality that made her who she was
had no meaning here, no place. She was fully dressed in the black
mourning dress she'd been wearing when she was captured, yet
Honoria felt naked and exposed. She had walked up a few steps,
been turned to face the front of the square, and lost all identity.
They had taken off the veils and enveloping robes and she'd wished
desperately to have their safe concealment back. They had unbound
her hair, which was considered a good selling point. Her freckles
were not. Someone had hefted her bosoms in his hands and
pronounced them favorable, as well. Her hips had been equally
squeezed and pronounced fit for childbearing. Her height was not
going to help her price, the men agreed. Her pale complexion was
something they couldn't agree on: one thought it interesting,
another could not see why anyone would be interested in a
European woman. He did think she might make a good enough
domestic servant, maybe even a field hand. At least they had left
her with her spectacles. Not because she needed them to see
—she
had no needs
—
but because one of the slave dealers thought the
lenses might add to her value as a European curiosity. The dealers
had agreed to snatch the spectacles off her face if someone didn't
make a bid soon
.
She should have been grateful that the sparse crowd gathered
in the barren square was so indifferent. The sun was too bright,
hurting her eyes as it threw heat and light off the pale stones of the
surrounding buildings. It had been dark inside her cell. It had also
been hot, but she now thought of the isolated bare room as a cool
haven. Dust stirred in a hot wind, and the dust stuck on her tear-
damp face. Water vendors moved through the square shouting their
wares with more effectiveness than the bored slave dealers up here
on the platform.
Someone pushed her from behind, forcing her to stumble to
the edge of the platform. A hand twisted in her hair and her head
was yanked back. Something was said about her throat being long
and beautiful. A hand stroked it as if proving the point. The dealer
shouted out a price, lower than the last one he had suggested as an
opening bid. Several people in the thin crowd glanced at each
other. A few comments were made. Someone shrugged. No one
cared.
Then, after a long, hot silence, someone in the back of the
crowd finally called out a price.
James had always been able to move silently, though as he
approached Honoria he knew he didn't have to. She was looking
out at the stars, but he could tell from her reflection in the glass that
her thoughts were turned inward. She looked vulnerable, all her
formidable pride stripped away.
He knew that she would not like to be caught this way, that
she would not be forgiving of anyone who saw her without the
shield of her sharp wit and intelligence. She wasn't likely to be
forgiving of him, anyway, but why make things worse than they
already were?
He smiled, though pain twisted his mouth into a grimace.
Why was he here? Why was he bothering? Because of a promise
made to his father?
Promises and honor were for fools. His father lived by a
quaint notion of chivalry. So did his mother. What had it brought
them but decades of anguish? Anguish they claimed had tempered
and refined them like Toledo blades. Perhaps they did have the
strength of steel, but James feared he was a creature of much cruder
iron. His parents had been unwillingly separated because of fate.
His and Honoria's separation had been a deliberate act of will. Still,
he had made a vow. He had no more to lose now than he had eight
years ago, and this time he was determined to claim and keep
something that was his, whether she wanted it or not.
He paused halfway between the bed, where he had hidden
behind the concealing damask curtains, and the woman who
clutched a matching window curtain tightly in her hand. Tendons
stood out starkly on those long fingers, the skin pale and bloodless.
Was she holding onto a lifeline? Was she even aware when her
hand had moved to grasp the sturdy material? He remembered her
hands, soft and long-fingered and skilled. He shook his head a
little, forcing memory to go back further. She had been clumsy and
fumbling and shy once upon a night long ago. And furious. And
proud.
The night had been so much warmer than this thin English
summer. She hadn't needed a heavy nightdress or a quilted robe. He
remembered the outline of her long, lush body in the glow of a
colored glass lamp. She'd worn a gown of gossamer thin cotton,
embroidered white on white. The gown revealed as much as it hid
in shadows and curves, the effect mysterious and seductive. He
recalled bare flesh in moonlight, hers and his, brown and pale limbs
twined together. But for the long fall of her thick hair he barely
recognized the woman in the shapeless satin robe and the
nightgown buttoned up to her neck.
She hid too much. Time for it to stop. He moved silently
forward again, crossing the physical gap between them. The first
thing he touched was her hair. It was spread out before him like a
river of molten copper, heavy in his hands, scented with prosaic
English lavender when he remembered sultry spice. The bright
curling strands were softer against his fingers, and more clinging
than memory, but then, his hands were not so hard now as they had
been then. If he burned at the touch of copper hair, he told himself
that it was a stirring of ashes, not some new spark in his blood.