Lady Of Fire (15 page)

“Your people? They are no more your people than they are mine, Alessandra.”

“That is not true. I was raised among them. Though I do not share their faith, I have shared all else—have embraced their ways since childhood.”

“And soon you will embrace the ways of the Brevilles. Regretfully,
they
are your people.”

“Then you will deliver me to my father?”

She had good cause to doubt he would, for when she had revealed her identity, he had made it clear he no longer desired to help her and had said she was a fool to divulge her sire’s name. That had been anger talking.

“Perhaps not straightaway, but you will eventually come to know the man who fathered you.”

“Then you do intend to use me against him. To further your quarrel.”

It was no less than what James Breville would do under the same circumstances. Indeed, the man had attempted to use the De Gautier heir when, as a youth, Lucien had fallen into his hands.

Recalling the one time he had been at Corburry, Lucien delved his memories of the lovely, redheaded woman Breville had taken to wife. Unfortunately, during his captivity he had paid the woman little attention, intent as he had been on plotting his escape. And escape he had. A month later, Breville’s wife had disappeared. Breville could not possibly know she would reappear in the person of their daughter.

“If there is gain to be had in holding you,” he said, “I would be a fool not to avail myself of it.” She might even prove the means by which the families finally settled their dispute—in favor of the De Gautiers.

“What is your plan?” she asked, and he heard bitterness in her voice.

“I have not one, but be assured, as we have a long journey ahead, I will devise one ere we reach England.”

“
If
we reach England.”

“It is my destination, and so it is yours.”

And that was the last spoken of it before she went quiet.

What am I to do with her?
Lucien wondered when her tense body finally grew lax and her breathing deepened. By sire only was she a Breville. Could he, indeed, use her?

At an impasse, he turned his face into her hair and breathed in her scent. In spite of the long ride’s accumulation of dust and perspiration, he found her no less appealing than she had been the night of her visit to his quarters when attar of the orange blossom had revealed it was she who came to him.

Disturbed by the stirring of his body, he turned his head opposite. And tried to forget the feminine body curled against his.

“Is it much different from riding a donkey?”

Hoping Alessandra jested, Lucien turned from the setting sun and looked to where she stood with her back to him alongside her mount. “What say you?”

“A donkey.” She smoothed a hand over the stallion’s thickly corded neck. “I have only ridden donkeys by myself, never a horse.”

He groaned. Considering her unruly disposition, he had assumed she would know how to handle such an animal. Too, she had claimed she could sit a horse the same as Rashid.

“There are similarities in that if one can ride a horse,” he said as he strode toward her, “one can ride a donkey.”

“Such is not the circumstance,” she put over her shoulder.

“As well I know.” He halted alongside her, took the reins from her, and turned her to face him. However, the words he had been about to speak slipped away.

As she had not donned the cloak and veil, he saw for the first time the intricate designs that had been stained upon her skin for her marriage. More, he saw the sorrow in her eyes. He had known it would be there, had felt it each time they touched, but had not expected to feel such compassion.

“When are you going to cry?” he asked.

She lowered her chin.

He crooked a finger beneath it and lifted her gaze to his. “When, Alessandra?”

“I spilled tears the night my mother was murdered.” Her eyes glazed with evidence there were more to be shed. “And I am done, for they are of no benefit.”

“Your mother is dead, Alessandra. ‘Twould not be unseemly for you to openly grieve.”

She stepped back and came up against the stallion. “I am done,” she said again.

“You are not. Why will you not allow yourself to weep as other women—even men—would do upon losing someone they deeply love?”

She turned sideways and threaded her fingers through the horse’s mane. “Until you came, I knew little of tears. In Jabbar’s household, there was mostly happiness.”

“Crying is not something you need practice, Alessandra.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “You just cry.”

She ducked beneath his arm and swung around. “I do not wish to!”

“Then you would rather be eaten with plans of revenge against Leila than give your mother her due.”

Her face suffused with color. “You think to advise me, Lucien de Gautier, you whose life has been filled with devising means of obtaining vengeance against the Brevilles? Do not waste your breath.”

He could not argue that he was in no position to give advice while he was inclined to use her against her father. However, her cooperation was necessary to ensure they reached England safely, and if she knew the truth of her mother’s death, perhaps she might give up her foolish idea of returning to Algiers.

“I had hoped not to have to tell you this,” he said, “but it is time you knew your mother was an accomplice to her own death.”

Alessandra stared at Lucien. “What do you mean?”

“Sabine knew of the poison—that it was meant for you, not her.”

She jerked. “You lie! My mother would never submit to poison. That is suicide, and she was a good Christian.”

“I do not lie. Sabine knowingly ate the dates to prove to you the dangers of the harem. It was her greatest desire that you leave Algiers.”

Then it was the dates that had delivered the fatal poison, Alessandra realized. “Khalid,” she whispered, remembering his refusal to hand over the last date. “He knew.” Which meant he and Leila had planned her mother’s death together? It did not seem possible. Yet what other explanation?

“Aye, Khalid knew,” Lucien said. “He saw Leila poison the dates, but when he warned Sabine, still she ate them.”

Alessandra shook her head. “My mother would not have gone to such an extreme. She was still young and—”

“She was dying.”

She stumbled back. Her mother had been youthful and vibrant. True, she had suffered a bad cough, but otherwise she had been healthy.

“No,” she said, “again you lie. Is it the same with all your countrymen?”

Lucien strode to his horse, withdrew a sealed letter from one of the packs, and returned to her side. “This should explain it.” He thrust it into her hand. “Then, perhaps, you will abandon your quest to remain in this country.”

Alessandra turned over the letter and saw her name scrawled across the back in her mother’s handwriting. “Where did you get this?”

“From Khalid. I was instructed to present it when we reached England, but under the circumstances, I believe it will serve you better now.”

She broke the seal, unfolded the letter, and stared at words written in Arabic. Clearly, her mother had not trusted Lucien to not read it. Though Sabine had never fully mastered the written language of her adopted country, in this instance, she had chosen it over English.

Turning from Lucien, Alessandra crossed to an outcropping of rock weathered smooth by the sea’s spray and lowered to it. Hands quaking, she began to read.

My beloved Alessandra, I pray one day you will forgive me for a deception I would not have worked upon you had I another choice. As I have said time and again, you do not belong in Algiers. Your place is with your father in England. There is the world you should have been born into, and into which you better fit than in a harem behind a veil. I know you, dear one. You are restless and will ever be testing the bars of your beautiful cage, suffering punishment for it, and growing resentful that the man for whom you bear children will think little of swelling the bellies of other women. Now I will reveal that which I have kept hidden for two years. I am dying, and more quickly these past months. With the passing of each day, my cough worsens and the pain is sometimes so terrible I hide myself from you and others so none will learn of my illness. The physician says my suffering will be over soon, and I eagerly await the blessed day, though I know it will pain you and Jabbar. As I conclude this letter, I beseech you not to vex the Englishman overly much, nor forget it is imperative he not learn your true identity. To ensure your safety, I have given him instructions to deliver you into the care of my aunt and uncle, Harold and Bethilde Crennan of Glasbrook. They will deliver you to your father. Farewell, Daughter, and forget not that I love you above all I have ever loved.

Alessandra read the last sentence over and over until she felt her face crumple and the pressure of a sob that was determined to make it to her lips.

A hand touched her shoulder, and though she ached for whatever comfort Lucien might offer, her mind protested. In his arms lay dependency she could ill afford in her circumstances.

“Alessandra.”

The sob broke free, and despite her resolve to ignore Lucien, she turned into his arms. As he pulled her near, she buried her face against his chest, grasped fistfuls of his cloak, and clung to him.

He let her grieve until his garments were wet through, her sobs subsided into miserable hiccups, and the day sky had mostly become the night sky. Drawing back, he sought her gaze, and when she gave it to him out of painfully swollen eyes, he said, “’Tis time we were on our way.” He swept a thumb across her moist, lower lashes. “We have much ground to cover this night.”

Ground that would take her farther from revenge against Leila. It mattered not that her mother would have died from her illness had she not been more quickly ushered unto death. What mattered were the remaining days Alessandra might have spent with Sabine—days that had been stolen from her by that evil woman.

And now Lucien de Gautier was also acting the thief by denying her the satisfaction of ensuring Leila’s punishment. There had to be a way to convince him to leave her behind. But though she was certain it was compassion she had seen in eyes that had earlier shone with anger, would it be enough to turn him from his course?

It would not, she concluded. Lucien’s plans were set.

Bitterness welled. She had been sheltered from the realities of the world, and as they seemed determined to rain down upon her without cease, it was time to brace herself and prove she was no longer the child her mother had often named her. To prove she was a woman.

She pulled free of Lucien and stood. “I have cried,” she said, voice chill even to her ears. “Are you satisfied?”

Lucien was too taken aback to conceal his surprise. While they had sat in the waning of day, he had held a soft, compliant woman capable of shedding honest tears. Now, with angry words, set jaw, and flashing eyes, she had slipped back into the impetuous skin of one who was more girl than woman.

Berating himself for being a fool when he knew better than to allow a Breville to play upon his emotions, he wondered what had compelled him to offer comfort. What about her so weakened him that he fell victim to unwanted feelings?

He stood, and as he strode past her, said, “Do not be long. We ride shortly.”

“You ride, Lucien de Gautier, not I. Even if I must walk, I will return to Algiers.”

He halted. Had not the letter convinced her there was nothing left for her there? What vengeance did she think to work upon Leila? If she would only look closer upon the matter and be honest with herself, she would see the woman had actually done Sabine a favor. Gone was the wracking pain Lucien had witnessed. Finally, she was at peace.

Keeping his back to her, as he did not trust himself to face her again, he said, “I am in no mood to be tested, Alessandra. Do you not come of your own will, you shall learn the extent of my loathing for your family.”

After a silence broken only by the slapping surf, he heard the scrape of her shoes over the rocks.

“If you succeed in forcing me to England,” she said when she reached his side, “I will join with my father against you.”

He curled his fingers into his palms and peered into her face that, though the features were the same as those he had looked upon that first day in the harem when she had danced as she should not have, was much changed. The innocence that had shone from her was gone. But though he wanted to be relieved that the Alessandra he had come to care about was no more, he could not ignore the pain of her passing. It seemed she was fully Breville now.

“I cannot imagine it being any other way,” he said. “But do not forget that ere you can stand the side of the Brevilles, you must first escape me.”

She glared at him. “Escape I shall.”

“I do not doubt you will try.” As he stalked off, he flung over his shoulder, “Little girl.”

And escape Alessandra attempted several times over the next ten days of their journey.

Though it was soon apparent she was gifted with natural horsemanship, fortunately for Lucien, her mount proved less worthy than his. Thus, the chases she led him on were little more than diversions that tested his patience.

Hours of silence marked their night journeys, and when they spoke one to the other, it was often in anger. Their situation was made worse by hunger as Khalid’s provisions dwindled and fresh water became increasingly difficult to find.

Had Lucien been alone, he would have supplemented their food with wild game or stolen into merchant camps erected around fresh water and availed himself of their supplies, but he could not trust Alessandra to stay put. Days earlier, he had taken her with him in pursuit of game, but she had turned the hunt for food into an argument that had scattered their quarry.

As for their days, he would have preferred they sleep apart, but each time they bedded down he had to hold her to his side to ensure uninterrupted sleep, for though Algiers grew ever distant, she seemed just as determined to return there.

Coming back to the present, Lucien scowled at their pitiful provisions. Two more days, he estimated, before they reached Tangier and a ship that could carry them to England.