located, after all.
She put aside this fantasy and spoke to her father. "I
have an apology to write to Viscount Brislay and Mr.
Marbury, sir. So, if you will excuse me—"
"Marbury!" Her father's annoyance returned. "That's
what I called you here to discuss. I demand you
apologize, Honoria!"
"Yes, Father," she responded. She didn't remind him
that she had already mentioned apologizing. "You are
absolutely right. I behaved abominably. Completely
uncalled for."
"You'll apologize in person to Mr. Marbury."
"But—"
"He's a fine young man. In fact, if Derrick Russell
wasn't back in the picture, I could see you making a
match with my old friend's newfound son."
"But—"
"In person, Honoria. In public. At dinner this
Friday."
"But—"
"You humiliated the lad in public; making it up the
same way is only fair."
Honoria gulped, and accepted her medicine. "Fine.
Of course. As you wish, Father." She told herself it didn't
matter as she walked to the library door. Surely dealing
with Marbury was a minor irritation compared with
facing Derrick Russell after all these years. Never mind
that James Marbury strongly resembled the unlaid ghost
of Diego Moresco. Confronting Derrick would certainly
be easier than meeting Diego Moresco in the flesh once
again.
Fortunately, that wasn't likely to happen in this life.
"
I'll see you in hell, sweetheart," he'd said, just before
he'd drawn her into one last rough and desperate kiss
.
"So you will," she murmured now, and touched her
aching lips. "But in what circle, I wonder?"
A few hours of deep, dreamless sleep helped. The strong,
sweet coffee his servant Malik brought him as soon as he
woke helped even more. A hot bath, a shave, and fresh
clothes all proved refreshing. James was almost ready to
face another round of life as a peer of the realm when he
came downstairs to join his father in the dining room. The
meal laid out on the sideboard for them was dinner, not
breakfast, but James didn't mind that he'd slept all day.
He doubted he'd missed anything more important than a
visit to his tailor, or a boxing match or fencing match at
his sporting club. While he knew such functions were
necessary for appearance's sake, the whole process of
being part of respectable society was deadly dull. He
could remember too well when he'd possessed no more
than the clothes on his back, and when that back and all
the rest of him had been owned by another man. He
hadn't used a sword or his fists as a form of exercise,
either, but to defend his life.
But he'd fought his way up in the world, making
something of himself, using his brains and cunning as
much as his fighting skills.
"You look as if your thoughts are a million miles
away, James."
His father's voice brought James's attention back to
the dining room. He had to pass his hand in front of his
face as though lifting a veil before he actually saw the
dark shining wood of the furniture, the gleam of silver
serving dishes, the yellow and blue pattern of the dishes,
the cream and burgundy striped wallpaper, the botanical
paintings in their heavy gilded frames, and the slender
man sitting at the head of the table, watching him with
quiet patience.
He realized that he had paused inside the doorway,
and moved to the sideboard to pick up a plate. "Not a
million miles, sir," he said. "Only a few hundred." The
rich aroma of roast pork in wine sauce assailed him, but
he passed over the heaping platter to take a serving of
whole grilled fish. "But in a completely different world,"
he admitted. There was a certain familiarity in the spicy
scent of a dish of poached pears. The rich scents of
nutmeg and cinnamon and cumin spoke to him of the
bazaars of Algiers. He heaped on a double helping of the
warm fruit.
His father sighed as James brought his plate and
took a seat across from him. "It's a hard world to escape,
isn't it?"
James ate in thoughtful silence for a while, finished
off a fresh cup of coffee, then finally replied, "Escape was
all I could think of for eight years."
This time it would work
—
he knew it. It had to, because
time was running out. He could almost hear his fate
racing close behind him. It carried a sword, or a gun, or
a hangman's rope. That was how the French and English
punished pirates, wasn't it? By hanging them? He almost
asked the Englishwoman he'd had brought to his quarters
for a second meeting. Almost, but he was so used to
keeping discreetly silent that the impulse was caught in
time. That he had an impulse to talk to a woman at all
amazed and confused him. Diego told himself that all his
impulses concerning her were because she was so
important to his plans. He needed to know about her; that
was why he had her brought to him again
.
He should have settled matters when he'd talked to
her the day before, but something had held him back then.
He'd gotten her name from her, but had given her no
explanation of what she must do to save herself. She was
too wildly concerned about the wounded man to respond
rationally. Diego had seen the Englishman's shoulder
wound and thought it no grave matter, but had not
offered her any reassurance. In fact, he'd been annoyed
that the man she kept referring to as "Dear Derrick" was
all that occupied her mind when he'd wanted her full
attention. He'd sent her away after brief questioning.
Today he had sent for her again. He'd spent the
night thinking about her, and not just because she was
crucial to his plan. Some madness from his old life must
have invaded his thoughts, now that he'd formed an
escape plan, some fever of the mind that whispered that
he could have what he wanted. That was the only
explanation he could think of for the compelling
attraction
he
felt
toward
the
tall,
red-maned
Englishwoman who'd haunted him in his empty bed. She
was not the sort of woman he was used to at all, with her
proud carriage and bold eyes behind the horn-rimmed
lenses of her spectacles. It was a pity that her pride would
be broken before all this was over.
You have no time for pity, fool,
he reminded himself
.
"Welcome," he greeted her, and waved her to a seat
with the same courtesy he would show a guest in his
home. She stood just within the doorway after the guard
thrust her inside Diego's cabin and lifted her hands, the
silent gesture graceful and eloquent. "My apologies," he
told her in Arabic, "but you must wear restraints
whenever you are not locked in your quarters."
Her head tilted sideways and she raised an eyebrow,
small, economical gestures that spoke volumes to Diego.
"Why?" she answered him, in Arabic.
The chains were not necessary, except as a tool of
humiliation. It was a way to break the pride and will of
wealthy captives. Instilling fear was important in those
who were used to power and freedom. Fear was very
effective in coercing the largest possible ransom to be
delivered in the shortest possible time. If fear and
humiliation proved ineffective, there were other ways.
"It is as Ibrahim Rais wishes." He spoke in Turkish
this time. He was not proficient in the language of the
Ottomans, but could manage that much.
"I do not think I like your Ibrahim Rais," she
responded, in far better Turkish than Diego's.
Her facility with languages had him practically
dancing with delight, but he showed nothing. He switched
back to Spanish. After all these years among the Barbary
corsairs it was still the tongue he was most comfortable
with, the one he thought and dreamed in. The one he
prayed in, and now those prayers were close to being
answered. If he moved with caution.
"Believe me, lady," he informed her, "when I tell you
that you will know worse punishment than being chained
if you cross Ibrahim Rais. Those who cross my master
suffer for their mistakes." He laughed, a soft, dangerous
sound. "If you cross me I will make the punishment very
personal. Am I understood?"
It was the standard speech given to get prisoners to
cooperate. It was also the truth. He should have gained
satisfaction when the girl's already pale complexion
blanched a dead white with fear and she swayed forward
in reaction. Instead he rushed to her side, lifted her off
her feet before she could fall, and set her down gently in
his own deep-cushioned seat.
"I'm not afraid for myself." She seemed to be
reassuring herself as she whispered the words in her
native language. He gave no clue that he understood
English. Instead, he poured her a cup of water in a blue
porcelain cup, held it to her lips, and made her drink it
down, knowing how refreshing it would be after the
brackish ration Ibrahim Rais allowed to be doled out to
prisoners.
He touched her moistened lips once he'd put the cup
down, and found that he was kneeling in front of her. He
touched her cheek with the back of his hand, then pushed
a fall of bright hair from her face. Her skin was so soft,
as were the silky curls that clung to his fingers. She took
no notice of these liberties but stared past his shoulder,
perhaps at the illusion of freedom offered by the blue sky
and sunlit sea framed by the cabin's small window. His
impulse was to kiss her, to taste her lips to see if that
would get her attention.
He smiled. Oh, yes, if he touched her in the ways he
knew how to pleasure a woman, she would certainly be
aware of him. She might even forget the fear she told
herself was for another. He could make her feel for
herself. He could make her forget her beloved Derrick,
and he would take great pleasure in it.
He took her face gently between his hands. His
thumbs slowly stroked a long, sensuous line down her
throat. He felt her shiver, and waited until her gaze
shifted to his face and her lips parted before he leaned
forward.
Only to drop his hands to his sides as he shot
abruptly to his feet. "What I want from you is not mine to
take." He turned his back on her as he spoke. The words
came out a low, rasped whisper that he prayed she didn't
hear. The need he felt for this woman was strong and
basic, a sudden storm that threatened to overwhelm his
careful planning. Diego scrubbed his hands over his face,
fought to banish the fire from his blood, and made himself
think of Malaga, of the woman he hoped waited there,
and what he must do to get safely home to her. Duty came
first, not desire.
He stared out the window, at the sea and the sky,
and shared the Englishwoman's yearning for freedom,
multiplied by eight. "It has been so many years." He
heard the faint jingle of chains and the rustle of fine
fabric as she stood. He turned back to her. "Too many
years." Her cheeks flamed a bright pink; she would never
be able to hide her emotions with such tender, fair skin.