Lady Of Fire (2 page)

Though Sabine knew he was more strongly opposed to purchasing the slave, she nodded.

Khalid looked to the auctioneer. “I will pay no more,” he said, letting his last offer stand. “Is there another who would challenge me?”

The beady-eyed auctioneer looked out across the throng. When none came forward, he accepted the eunuch's bid.

Hiding her unease behind her veil, Sabine watched as the slave was dragged from the platform.

“It is done,” Khalid growled when he rejoined her. “I hope you do not come to regret it as much as I.”

She set a hand upon his arm. “I thank you, my friend. Your loyalty will be rewarded.”

He inclined his head. “I pray I live long enough to enjoy the harvest.”

Feigning boredom amid excitement and fear that tangled her insides, Sabine levered up from the pillows. Though eyes bored into her as she rearranged her slender form amid a profusion of color, she did not acknowledge the slave until she was comfortably settled.

She sighed, focused on his manacled ankles, and began an upward perusal. When she reached his face, his indignation was evident in bunched muscles and eyes shot with rage.

Mentally, she prepared herself for flight lest he defy his chains and the guards holding him, but then she saw him sway.

She swept her gaze to Khalid. Though his expression was impassive, his sparkling eyes confirmed he had drugged the man in such a way that, though the mind remained alert, the body was severely limited in acting upon its urgings.

Relieved, she motioned for the guards to withdraw.

They bowed and slipped into the shadowed corners of the tent to keep watch. And watch was all they could do, for they knew nothing of the English language. Unlike Khalid.

Sabine lowered her feet to the carpet that covered the earthen floor, straightened, and sauntered forward.

“I am Sabine,” she said in accented English that evidenced the nineteen years she had lived among the Arab people. “By what name are you called, Englishman?”

He narrowed his lids.

Confident he could do her no harm, she placed herself before him, rose to her toes, and peered into a hard countenance divided into two distinct halves. Whereas the right was unblemished, the left was scarred by a blade that had perfectly traced the high cheekbone there.

She shifted her attention to eyes of a shade approaching amethyst. And frowned. On whom had she seen that rare color? Finding no match in her memory, she considered his hair. It was dirty, hanging almost to his shoulders, and appeared to be bronze in color. As for his face, one would not call it handsome, but neither was it unattractive.

Pity,
she thought,
he might give his life to achieve the goal I set him.

Firmly telling herself he would succeed, if for no other reason than to preserve his own life, she set herself back on her heels, causing the miniature bells about her ankle to tinkle like the laughter of children. A moment later, the sprightly sound was answered by the harsh rattle of chains.

“Harlot!” the slave rasped, shoving his great body against her.

Instantly, Khalid and the guards were upon him. The latter held him by the arms while the eunuch landed the back of a hand across the man’s face.

The slave did not flinch.

I am in no danger,
Sabine told herself as she struggled to calm her pounding heart, but not until the guards began dragging the slave toward the tent opening did she find her voice.

“Leave him!” she commanded in Arabic. When Khalid protested, she quieted him with a shake of her head. “You have made it so he can do me no harm.”

With obvious grudging, the eunuch ordered the guards forward. “Seat him there”—he motioned to a stool—“and take yourselves from the tent.”

They forced him to sit and withdrew.

“They will talk of the slave’s defiance,” Khalid warned. “If you intend to continue on this perilous course, mistress, it is best done in privacy.”

He was right. Emasculated men, deprived of desires of the flesh, lost much of their high spirit and unruliness. Indeed, some became quite gentle. But this Englishman displayed none of those qualities. Given the right incentive, could he feign them?

Once more, Sabine approached him. “You have nothing to fear from me—”

“Fear?” he growled. “’Tis I who should be feared. As lovely as your heathen neck is, I am quite taken with the thought of it between my hands.”

Sabine was further unnerved, though more by his voice than his threat. Despite its strain, his speech seemed too eloquent for a commoner. But she shrugged off the peculiarity and pulled out the pins securing her hair veil.

“You have much to learn, Englishman,” she said, and revealed tresses of a red so true no amount of henna could reproduce it.

Confusion lined his face, but he cleared it with a scowl.

“I am as English as you,” she said, lowering to her knees beside him. “Just as you are a slave, so was I when I arrived in this country.”

He swept his gaze over her Arabic dress. “What is it you call yourself now?”

Refusing to be ashamed of the lifestyle that had been forced upon her nearly twenty years past, she set her chin high. “I am the wife of a wealthy Arab merchant.” She said it with the pride warranted for having attained such a station. She could have easily met the fate suffered by most—that of a prostitute.

“An apostate,” the Englishman tossed back. “A harlot who has thrown off her religion and taken that of another so she might know greater comfort.”

Sabine lifted a chain from the neck of her caftan and held forth the crucifix suspended from it. “Is it still your wish to feel my neck between your hands?”

He stared at it, returned his gaze to hers. “What is it you want from me?”

“I have a proposal I believe you will find acceptable.” At his lack of response, she continued, “You seek your freedom, and if you do my bidding, you shall have it.”

His anger eased perceptibly, but when he spoke, defiance was in every letter formed by tongue and lips. “Whether or not I do your
bidding,
I shall have my freedom.”

Recalling what Khalid had apprised her of a short while ago, she smiled. “If that is so, why have you not escaped since you were taken? It has been over a year.”

His eyes darkened further. “Be assured, every chance given me, I have defied my captors, but flesh and bone do not easily break steel. And when a man is chained to the oar of a galley nearly all day and night, he is ever in the power of manacle and chain.”

Remembering her bonds that had been light compared to that which now fettered him, recalling her defiance that had been tolerated insomuch that her beauty was not devalued, Sabine stood and walked to the Englishman’s back. He jerked when she pushed aside the torn material of his tunic. And again when she lightly touched a scar that ran shoulder to hip.

“Certes, you rebelled,” she murmured, then came back around. “A pity there was none to ransom you. Had you a title, you would not have been made to suffer so.”

“I do have a title!”

She should not have been surprised in light of his speech, mannerisms, and carriage, but she was. She looked to Khalid who nodded.

Silently, she bemoaned that she had not listened better at the auction. At the least, she should have given Khalid time to tell her all of what was known of the man. Still, it changed nothing—certainly not for the worse, for a nobleman might better serve her purpose than a commoner.

“Why were you not ransomed?” she asked.

Silence.

She turned to Khalid who handed her the documents. Angling them toward the light, she found what she sought. And saw nothing save the name at the top—De Gautier.

Feeling light of head, she gripped the documents so tightly the edges crumpled. In all of England, there could be no poorer choice of one to whom she entrusted her most precious possession. A De Gautier—unthinkable.

The coughing came on with little warning, as it did more of late. Pressing a hand to her chest, she turned to Khalid who lifted her into his arms.

He carried her to the bed of pillows, lowered her, and pressed a square of linen into her hand. With his concerned face hovering above hers, she put the cloth to her mouth and coughed up blood.

“I shall send him away,” Khalid said when the spell passed.

She lifted a staying hand. “I am not finished with him.” Ignoring her friend’s glower, she looked to De Gautier.

Now she knew why a memory had stirred over his eyes. He had been but a child, perhaps eight years of age, when she had come face-to-face with Lucien de Gautier. Then she had been Lady Catherine, the young bride of Lord James Breville. The boy had been her husband’s captive.

Though a good man, James had not been averse to using the De Gautier heir to obtain what he and his ancestors had long desired. For generations, the Brevilles and De Gautiers had quarreled over a strip of land—Dewmoor Pass—that lay between their properties. Although kings had attempted to settle the dispute, peace had always been short-lived, for neither family was willing to permanently relinquish any portion of it. As a result, enmity was amassed and, from time to time, blood was shed.

Had the De Gautier boy not proven so clever, James might have finally secured the land for the Brevilles. As the negotiations dragged on, Lucien had bided his time. Though the boy made no attempt to mask his anger, he had been allowed to wander about the castle with few eyes upon him. Thus, he had slipped out through the portcullis one night. By the time he was spotted heading for the wood, he had enough of a lead to lose his pursuers.

But that was almost twenty years ago. A lifetime, Sabine told herself as she focused on the boy who had long since become a man. Were the families still at one another’s throats? Likely, for not even England’s war with France that finally looked to be at an end, had lasted as long as the Breville and De Gautier dispute.

As Sabine considered abandoning her plan to smuggle her daughter out of Algiers, an idea rose amidst her fatigue. Since Lucien de Gautier did not recognize her as the wife of his enemy, she could still make use of him—providing he believed her daughter was fathered by Sabine’s Arab husband.

She pushed herself into a sitting position and met his stare. “Shall we bargain?”

“First, I would know what upset you.” He nodded at the documents that lay upon the carpet.

Casually, she draped a silk robe around her shoulders. “Naught upset me. Simply, I am not well.”

“And, simply, you are a liar.”

“I am not well,” she repeated. “And for that, my coin has bought you.”

His expression revealed he did not believe her, but he said, “Speak.”

“I offer you freedom.”

Warily, he said, “What will it cost me?”

Beneath the cover of her robe, she clenched her hands. “I have family in England. Take my daughter with you when you return.”

“That is all you ask of me?”

She gave a sharp laugh. “’Twill be no easy thing. Not only will my husband not allow Alessandra to leave, but she will not go willingly.”

“For what would you send her away if she wishes to remain?”

Pained by what she must reveal, Sabine took some moments to compose her words. “Soon, my daughter is to wed one of the Islamic faith, and when I am gone—and it will not be long now—there will be none to protect her.”

“Then her safety concerns you.”

“Aye, but neither do I wish her to have the life I have lived. Were she suited to it, it would not bother me so, but she is not.”

“The life of a—”

“Life in a harem,” she interrupted before he could call her that filthy name again.

A corner of Lucien’s mouth lifted. “How do you propose I return her to England if she will not come willingly?”

“You will enter the harem,” she said as if it were the simplest thing in the world. It was not. “There you will gain her trust, and if I still cannot convince her to leave, you will force her. All will be arranged to see you safely from this land.”

Lucien’s gaze moved past Sabine to Khalid. “Even I know,” he said dryly, “unless a man is no longer a man, he is not allowed in that place of women.”

She glanced at her old friend, acutely aware of the battle waged in the silence between the two men. Obviously, Lucien de Gautier would not soon forget his humiliation at Khalid’s hands. Nor would Khalid overlook the insult just paid him.

“’Tis so,” she said. “Only members of the household and eunuchs are allowed inside the harem. Thus, you must become a eunuch to enter.”

Lucien bared his teeth. “If you are suggesting I become like him”—he indicated Khalid with a thrust of his chin—“I decline your
generous
offer. When I return home, it will be as a man.”

“In pretense only must you become a eunuch. None but Khalid and I will know.”

After a long moment, he said, “I am to trust him?”

“He is loyal to me. No word of our secret will pass his lips.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you are of no use to me. And a true eunuch you will become.”

He surprised her with laughter. “You think I do not know castration is forbidden here?”

What he said was true. The emasculating procedure was only allowed outside the Muslim nations in spite of the demand for eunuchs within it. “Laws can be broken,” Sabine said. “As I do not accept my husband’s faith, it would not weigh heavily upon my conscience to break that particular law.”

Khalid stepped forward. “I will do it myself,” he said in English. When Lucien turned his wrathful stare upon the eunuch, Khalid raised his palms heavenward. “Surely Allah will forgive so minor a transgression against a heathen.”

A muscle in Lucien’s jaw spasmed, but he did not unfurl his anger.

“Do not allow your pride to cloud your judgment,” Sabine said. “I have given you hope where you had none.”

“Then it seems I must accept your proposal.”

So relieved was she that she sank back into the pillows. “You shall remain in the city with Khalid for a sennight. He will instruct you in the ways of a eunuch, and you will answer to him in all things. Afterward, he will bring you to the home of my husband, Abd al-Jabbar, and you will enter the harem.”