Lady Of Fire (19 page)

Determinedly, she sat erect on the dank straw she had gathered into her corner.

Naught to fear,
she told herself in an attempt to calm her fiercely beating heart.
Not yet.
The price for her virtue was too high to permit any to sample her.

Bright blue eyes and a wicked smile drew her attention to a man of good height and carriage. As his gaze lapped her curves, he smiled wider.

Alessandra struggled not to respond to his brazen regard, but it turned her anger inside out and she jumped to her feet and lunged at the bars. “Curse you!” She thrust her hands between the iron rods. “Curse you all!”

Her nails scraped air, the blood of her intended victims maddeningly out of reach.

Laughter burst from the rake’s throat. “Sweet mother of mercy,” he said in crisp English. Then, fluid as the warm waters of the Mediterranean, he stepped forward and caught her wrist before she could snatch it back. “Imagine this one in your beds!” he said, switching to lingua franca as he reeled her in until her side was pressed hard against the bars.

“Release me!” she demanded.

Ignoring the auctioneer’s scowl, her tormentor slid his other hand up her arm, brushing aside the sleeve of her chemise.

The others drew near again, faces lit with interest as the rake advanced on her body.

“English swine!” she cursed.

Fingers coming to rest on the flesh of her upper arm, he leaned in and whispered, “You will be in my bed by nightfall.”

Through her wild tumble of hair, she glared at him. “With a knife.”

His eyebrows jumped. “Promise?”

Alessandra stared. This man was dangerous, possibly more so than Lucien. Were all Englishmen the same?

She had been straining so hard against the rake’s hold that when he released her, she flew back and landed in her corner, startling the girl into wakefulness.

“Make ready, my lady,” the Englishman taunted. “The day will be long. The night longer.”

Bile burning a path from her belly to her mouth, Alessandra watched him and the others leave, their parting glances filled with lecherous imaginings. Though she wanted to cry, to scream, to pound her fists, she drew up her knees, pressed her aching forehead to them, and turned to the only one who could save her now.

Please God, send me an angel.

Alessandra would never forget the ravenous faces, nor the fear that flayed her as she looked out across the crowd. She would not forget the three hundred and seventeen steps she had counted from her cell to the platform, nor the merciless hands that had guided her there. And the remembrance of one man would be the anchor to which all was bound—Lucien de Gautier.

She did not blame him, for she was the culpable one. Had she not fled, she might be with him on a ship bound for England. Now, gone forever, was the one to whom she might have given her heart had the barriers between them not become insurmountable.

The auctioneer’s bellow startled her back to a world gone mad, and she inwardly cringed as he ticked off her qualities, somehow managing to make the word
virgin
sound foul each time he spoke it.

With a strength she had not realized she possessed, she stood with her shoulders back and waited to be divested of her clothing, as the woman before her had been. Although she longed to resist such humiliation, she knew it would be futile and would only excite the wolves flanking her.

Breaking her fixed stare, she searched the crowd for the Englishman who had earlier taunted her.

As if reading her thoughts, he moved into her line of sight and smiled his wicked smile. Then, answering the auctioneer’s summons to bid, he yelled out a staggering sum that must have made the others rethink their desire to have her.

Amazed to find herself still clothed, she sent thanks heavenward, then once more broached the subject of an angel.

A rotund Turk dressed in gilt-edged garments stepped forward and topped the Englishman’s price. No angel he.

An Arab raised the price higher. The farthest thing from an angel, his eyes ravishing her where she stood.

The Englishman countered. Certainly no angel, more likely a henchman of the devil.

Alessandra feared she would lose the bile in her otherwise empty stomach. Then, on second thought, she prayed she would. If that did not curb the lust of these men, nothing would.

The bidding continued, creeping and jumping higher with each shout until Alessandra’s nerves jangled. Squeezing her eyes closed, she forced deep breaths into her lungs.

It was then something warm enveloped her. She lifted her lids. Violet. That was the color of the eyes into which she looked.

“Lucien,” she whispered.

Mouth a thin, hard line, the man who should be long gone stared back at her from the shadowed folds of his head cloth. Still wearing Arab dress, he would have melded with the others if not that his proportions set him apart. But even if he had been on a level with those around him, Alessandra would have known of his presence.

She offered him a tentative smile—of apology, regret, gratitude.

His face remained impassive, showing no evidence of the emotions beneath it. For certain, he was still angry with her for running from him.

Refusing to look away for fear he would disappear, she felt the ashes of her soul smolder with hope, then turn to glowing embers.

She would not have believed angels capable of assuming flesh, but in Lucien, one had found a way.

Heart lightened, she waited for him to offer a sizable portion of what her mother had given him. She had seen the coin, as well as pouches of Sabine’s jewelry. Though Alessandra had rarely had dealings with money, it had appeared Lucien had been given a king’s ransom. More than enough to assume the role of savior.

When would he? she wondered after some minutes passed, during which he did not bid. And why did he persist in maintaining a blank expression, offering no reassurance even by way of a turning of the lips?

“To Captain Giraud!” the auctioneer announced.

The warmth surrounding Alessandra turned chill. She tore her gaze from Lucien and landed it upon the other man—the rake who had vowed to make her his. Was it possible she belonged to this one whose mocking eyes held terrible promise of the night to come?

It was not. In spite of Lucien’s hate for the Brevilles, he would not forsake her. Would not have attended the auction unless he meant to free her.

She looked back to where he stood.
Had
stood, that space now horribly vacant.

“Lucien,” she gasped, searching the crowd for a glimpse of him. That was all she had before he went from sight.

“Lucien!” She lunged forward.

As hands dragged her back from the edge of the platform, she struck out, her knuckles contacting soft flesh, then bone that shot pain up her arm.

A slap jerked her head back, and she was flipped over a shoulder. As she was carried down the steps, she pummeled the man’s back and told herself Lucien would not be so cold and unfeeling, that he would not leave her to ravishment when it was within his means to deliver her.

But he had turned his back on her. Had revenge against her father hardened him to her plight? Had he only come to see her off to the hell she had dug for herself?

Tears scalded her eyes. To have been so close, only to discover how far she truly was, shook the adult foundation she had done her best to lay over that of a child. Vowing she would not succumb to its crumbling, she fought down the evidence of her misery.

Dropped to her feet, she saw Captain Giraud striding toward her, wearing the same smile that had first fired her anger.

Soon he will discover the poor bargain he has made,
she told herself
. He will regret every gold piece paid for me.

He halted before her. Eyes gleaming, he taunted, “’Tis as I said, hmm?”

Needing no reminder of his threat to bed her, Alessandra launched herself forward, causing him to stagger beneath the thrust of her weight. Quickly regaining his footing, he grasped her arms and started to set her back from him—providing all the space she needed to land a nasty blow.

Too late, the man who had carried her from the platform interceded. Though he clearly tried to contain his expression, his lips quivered as he held her and waited on the Englishman who bent over his pained anatomy.

 
Slowly, Captain Giraud straightened. When his gaze met Alessandra’s, she hissed, “It is also as I said.”

“Once you are on my ship,” he growled, “you will learn the folly of your actions, wench.”

His threat leaving its imprint on her closeted fears, she tossed back, “As shall you.”

Jacques stared at the boat that grew smaller as it was rowed toward an impressive merchant ship bearing the name
Jezebel.

As he continued to watch, Alessandra rose up and hurled herself to the side. Expecting her to plunge into the waters of the Mediterranean, he held his breath, but the English captain caught her around the waist and hauled her down and onto his lap.

Though they were too distant for Jacques to make out their exchange, he was certain Alessandra spewed curses. The boat rocked, but continued on as if nothing untoward had occurred.

In spite of the ache inside him, Jacques smiled. Though Alessandra would find herself the mistress of
Jezebel
’s captain, she would be fine. Indeed, she was bound for England where her mother had said she belonged.

Assuring himself his conscience was eased, he turned and stepped into the waiting carriage.

Footsteps. His.

Gripping the stool she had determined was the best weapon available to her, Alessandra pressed herself against the cabin wall and spread her legs for balance. And just in time, for the ship pitched again.

Were they leaving port? She knew nothing of the captain’s plans, for he had not spoken to her since they had exchanged threats following the humiliation she had dealt him in that most private of places. His silence had suited her, for her mind had been awhirl with plans and devices by which she might thwart his efforts to take what she had only ever been tempted to yield to one man—one treacherous, vengeful man.

Her unwelcome visitor paused outside the cabin door, and she heard the sound of keys being sorted. Then one rasped in the lock, and the mechanism released with a soft click.

For the dozenth time, Alessandra calculated where the blow must land to assure the man was incapacitated long enough for her to flee.

The moment that light, shadowed by the one who pushed the door inward, reached into the darkened cabin, she pushed off the wall and swung her weapon.

It struck the man hard, the force of the blow causing her to lose her grip and sending the stool crashing to the floor. The captain’s body did not follow as anticipated. Rather, the arm with which she had wielded her weapon was snatched and she was yanked forward.

“I am grateful for my height,” drawled a heart-stoppingly familiar voice.

Alessandra jerked her chin up, picked out familiar features and bronze hair. Even his facial scar was visible in the muted light. Was she dreaming? Or had her mind twisted on her?

Aching to know for certain he was flesh, she reached with her free hand and traced the crescent.

Believe the warmth beneath your fingers,
she told herself.
Believe he did not abandon you. Believe there is a place in this angry giant that yearns for you as you yearn for him.

She cried out and collapsed against Lucien’s chest, and when he released her arm, wrapped both of them around him. Sobbing, she grabbed handfuls of the back of his tunic and held tight for fear he might vanish again. Angels had a way of doing that.

She did not know how long she shuddered and reveled in the hands that stroked her arms, back, and head as if she were a child—a child she would not mind being named providing he never let go—but finally she quieted.

“Alessandra.”

She tilted her head back and met eyes she had thought never to see again. “You did not—” She gulped. “You did not forsake me.”

“I could not, though God knows I was tempted.”

Refusing to be offended, she beseeched, “Forgive me,” then rose onto her toes and set her mouth upon his. She breathed in his wonderfully solid body, filled her nostrils with his masculinity and the scent of the sea upon his skin, sought a response.

He did not give one, and she knew it was anger that held him from her—anger for who she was and what she had done.

He pulled back, and when she opened her eyes, said, “You were expecting the good captain, eh?”

She startled, grabbed his arm. “We must hurry, else he will discover us. He is evil and—”

“Is that right?” Amusement softened his voice.

She frowned. Why was he so calm? Should he not be spiriting her away from the ship? Had he overwhelmed Giraud? If so, what of the crew?

“You do not understand,” she said.

“But I do.” He released her and turned away. “You have naught to fear. All is as it should be.”

 
Frowning, she watched him cross to the lantern she had earlier put out. His large hands, which should have been graceless, easily lit it.

Lucien wore tunic and hose that showed him to be more of a man than any caftan or robe could, and his hair was pulled back from his face and secured at his nape with a leather thong.

It was the European mode of dress. Jacques LeBrec had dressed similarly, though his clothes had been finer and more embellished.

Lucien moved to the chest whose contents she had failed to discover, but only for lack of a key, which he now inserted in the lock. He lifted the lid, removed a gown of purplish red and an under gown of dark green, and returned to her.

“Change your clothes.” He lifted one of her arms and turned the garments over it. “Then we will go above deck.”

“I do not understand.”

He turned away. “You will.”

Something creeping forward from the back of her mind, Alessandra said, “Lucien, why did you bring me all the way to Tangier? Oran was less than half the distance.” She spoke of the coastal city they had skirted partway into their journey. When Lucien had insisted on continuing to Tangier, she had thought he chose to go farther west to throw off Rashid’s pursuit. It had suited her, giving her that much more time to devise an escape. Now she did not think she had guessed right.