Nicole Jordan (27 page)

Max ran a hand roughly through his hair. “That is exactly what I’m suggesting. I want you to remain behind with Hawk tomorrow where you’ll be safe, and allow me to conduct the mission alone.”

Caro stared at him in disbelief. “That would never work! You likely would never even be allowed near Isabella. You couldn’t ascertain if she was well enough to travel, let alone arrange for her to escape. When Hawk visited the fortress last week, he never laid eyes on Isabella, only heard her name mentioned once. And he found no one who would discuss the rumors about the Spanish lady who had caught their chieftain’s eye. I
must
go, Max. I am the only one who can enter the women’s quarters.”

He shot her a savage glance. “You seem to have little notion of the risks involved. You could be killed if you go.”

“I am quite aware of the risks!” Caro retorted, feeling a smoldering knot of emotions crowd her chest.

Max comprehended better than most what they would be facing during their mission. He was a former soldier, a man intimately familiar with danger. She also knew why he felt responsible for her, why he didn’t want her death or injury on his conscience. But she couldn’t excuse him for demanding she forsake all her principles or abandon her closest friend so she could remain safely behind out of harm’s way.

“Damn you, Max,” she said in a furious, shaking undertone. “You of all people should understand. I have trained for this for
years
—this is my life’s calling. My duty is to keep others safe, and that requires taking risks. Certainly I have no intention of putting my safety above the freedom of my dearest friend.”

His angry gaze seared her, but he remained grimly silent.

She went on. “You would never put your safety first, either, I know it. If your positions had been reversed, you would have given your life for your friend Philip.”

“That is entirely beside the point.”

“That is exactly the point! Why is it acceptable for you to sacrifice for others, but they aren’t allowed to make the same sacrifice?”

“I won’t let you die, Caro!”

His fierce tone matched his blazing eyes as he spun around, reaching for her. His fingers clamped like bands of steel on her wrists, as if he could compel her to do his bidding with sheer physical power.

With a violent jerk, Caro pulled her arms free of his grasp and clenched her teeth. “Stop this! I won’t listen to you!” She was trembling with rage. “You blame yourself for your friend’s death, I know that. But I doubt he would have wanted you to punish yourself forever. More likely he would have told you to stop letting tragedy rule you and to move on with your life.”

Max snapped his head as if she’d slapped him.

Ignoring the raw pain she saw fill his eyes, Caro continued, seething. “You can’t control fate, Max! No one can. I love Isabella more than my own life. If I am killed trying to rescue her, then so be it. The risk is mine to take.
My
choice, not yours. You had best learn to accept that, because I am
not
remaining behind.”

Simmering, she turned on her heel and stalked away, leaving Max to stare grimly after her, his angry, despairing gaze boring a hole in her back.

Chapter

Fifteen

The dawn sky flushed rose and blue as a score of riders set out from the oasis the next morning.

Nursing her grievance, Caro avoided Max, who merely gave her attire a sharp glance from a distance. She had dressed carefully in a costume designed to fool the Berber chieftain, wearing rich robes and jewelry and cosmetics as befitted her role as slave and concubine to a wealthy lord.

But at Max’s grim look, she felt his reservations even more strongly now that she understood the cause. She also realized, to her regret, that their argument last night had only increased the strain and tension between them.

Her heart felt raw and painful, even though her temper still simmered. As they traversed the arid, gloomy waste, however, Caro kept her eyes on the blue mountains that beckoned in the distance and tried to concentrate on the mission ahead.

By noon they reached the first jagged ridge of the Biban mountains. Gaunt masses of cliff rose steeply before them and dipped away to the south, and it was with great care that their little caravan negotiated the entrance.

The going became easier as the day wore on, and less arid as well. By mid-afternoon they were riding through an evergreen forest of holm oak. By the time they reached the treacherous pass that marked the lands of Saful il Taib’s tribe, the sun had sunk low in the sky, blanketing the rugged mountains in a golden light.

Hawk remained behind there at the entrance with a half-dozen other Guardians and most of the extra horses, while Max led the rest of the party through the pass and began the descent to the Berber stronghold.

They paused at the last rocky slope to take in the view. The narrow valley below was just as Hawk had described—rich, fertile land terraced with fields of barley and wheat.

Beyond, a massive citadel perched precariously on the side of a mountain. The houses Caro could see appeared to be built on ledges, but the town could be easily defended. Not only did the stronghold have thick walls, but she counted three stone watchtowers as well as massive gates that even cannon would have difficulty penetrating.

Now that they had finally reached their destination, however, a fierce sense of purpose overtook Caro and calmed her nerves. She still felt a dire urgency, but also a renewed focus and intensity, even greater than for any other mission. Isabella was in that fortress, and she would never give up until her friend was safe.

She remembered Max once explaining why he had remained to fight in the war even after losing his close friend: because he intended to defeat the French or die trying. Well, Max would just have to understand that she felt the same way about this mission, Caro thought obdurately. She would succeed or die trying.

When he turned to glance over his shoulder at her, she met his gaze without flinching. His look scorched her, but she refused to be cowed.

It was Thorne who broke the tension by grinning in anticipation. “Look hearty, me mates,” he commanded in a rallying tone. “This is where we earn our paltry pay.”

All the Guardians took a collective breath and rode forward, down into the valley.

They were barely halfway across when a horde of Berbers burst from the gates and raced toward them. Wearing black robes and turbans, they brandished swords and rifles as they surged around Max’s party.

Caro felt her stomach knot and tried to remember what Hawk had said about the fierce warriors that populated the mountains. The Berbers had lived in Barbary for centuries before the conquering Arabs swept over the face of North Africa, and were known for their vast courage, honesty, hospitality, and good nature.

At the moment they didn’t look at all hospitable or even civilized, she thought, eyeing the wicked blades of their long, curved swords. She could admire the way Max remained at ease in the face of their threatening display of athleticism.

Their leader broke from the pack then, and approached Max. Like his other warriors, he was tall, hard, and lean, with fair skin and hair and proud, almost noble features. Under less dangerous circumstances Caro would have even considered him handsome.

“Greetings, my lord Saful,” Max said in French with a brief bow.

The Berber chieftain replied in the same language, although not as fluently. “How is it that you know my name?”

“Your reputation is renowned in Barbary,
sidi
. You are Saful il Taib, leader of the Beni Abbes tribe. I have come a long way to seek you out.”

“For what purpose?”

“I hoped you might be so kind as to entertain a request of mine.”

Max introduced himself and his good friend Mr. Ryder as sportsmen in search of the famed lions of Barbary. “Perhaps you will permit us to make camp on your land for the night? We have had a long journey.”

“Of course,” Saful said graciously. “You will all be my guests.”

“It will not be necessary,” Max qualified, “to accommodate my entire party. I require only my personal servants with me.”

He beckoned to Caro and Santos Verra, singling them out. “If someone would show the remainder of my people where to camp…?”

When Saful gave orders to several of his men, Caro felt confident they had safely negotiated the first hurdle.

The Berber chieftain turned his horse then and led them to the stronghold. Max and Ryder rode bedside him, while Caro and Verra followed at a distance. As they passed through the massive gates, she felt the knots in her stomach ease a small measure. The second hurdle.

Being foreigners, they were the object of intense scrutiny in the gathering dusk as crowds of curious Berbers watched their progress through the town. Caro hid her own curiosity and surreptitiously tried to memorize the route they might possibly take for escape shortly before dawn tomorrow. Yet she couldn’t help noticing the open, friendly smiles of the women. They were all dressed in colorful tunics, girdled at the waist, and adorned with numerous silver chains and bangles. Berber women didn’t veil their faces as Arab and Turkish women did, Caro had been told, and she could clearly see the elaborate tattoos they sported.

Saful’s house was built of baked clay and hewn rock, and was quite large, as befitted his position as chieftain. Verra was left at the entrance to see to the horses, while Max and Ryder and Caro followed Saful through an arched portal and into a room that was no doubt used for the chieftain’s audiences. It was luxuriously furnished with thick carpets and cushions and several small low tables, lit with olive oil lamps, and warmed by a charcoal brazier.

Lord Saful handed his sword to a male attendant, but Caro noted that he still wore a curved dagger at his belt. When he invited his guests to sit, Caro silently settled on a cushion behind Max.

Shortly they were served small glasses of mint tea, which she found hot and sweet and delicious.

The conversation flowed politely for a time. At Saful’s courteous inquiry, Max recounted a fabricated tale of his recent travels from the coast. When finally their host probed their reason for coming to this specific area, Max explained his desire for the best hunting and his wish for a guide to help locate lions that would provide sufficient challenge for their skills. Then Ryder described the new make of rifles they had brought as inducement.

Saful’s attention was clearly caught.

“Would you care to examine a rifle?” Max asked.

“Yes, indeed.”

“If you will permit me,
sidi,
” Ryder offered, “I will fetch one from my saddle scabbard to show you.”

He left and returned a few moments later. Saful took the weapon with great interest.

After showing the rifle to several of his warriors, Saful looked up. “I should like to fire this rifle to see its accuracy for myself.”

“Of course,” Max said easily, “but night has fallen. Would you not prefer to wait until daylight when you can see your target?”

“That will not be necessary. Hitting a target in the darkness will be a good test.”

To Caro’s surprise, the men all exited the room, leaving her alone with merely the women servants.

The men were gone for the better part of half an hour, which began to raise her anxiety. When they returned, however, she could tell from the Berbers’ expressions that the test of the rifle had proved a success. But then they began the negotiations for a guide.

In the ensuing interval, Caro could scarcely contain her impatience, for she was eager to find Isabella.

Max and his host finally settled on fifteen rifles, and Saful seemed well satisfied—enough to recall his duty to his guests.

“I think perhaps you would prefer to retire to your rooms to refresh yourselves before dining, yes?”

“It would be good to wash the dust off,” Max replied. With his head, he indicated Caro behind him. “If you could find accommodations for my woman as well?”

Caro felt the speculative glance that Saful sent her, but she kept her gaze lowered and avoided giving any indication that she had understood.

“She doesn’t know much French,” Max added. “Only Portuguese.”

“My servants will see to her comfort in the women’s quarters,” Saful said, raising an imperious hand to summon one of the older Berber women.

Max kept his tone easy when he interjected, “I will want her to come to my rooms later, you understand.”

This time Saful’s perusal of Caro was purely masculine. “She has an uncommon beauty. I wonder if you would be interested in selling her?”

It was all Caro could do to keep her expression from showing her startlement. In her experience, few men had ever remarked on her beauty. Certainly none had ever offered to purchase her. She could only attribute her current appeal to the kohl she’d used to darken her eyes and the carmine that rouged her cheeks and lips.

She heard the amusement in Max’s voice when he responded. “I doubt she would please you,
sidi
. She has yet to learn proper submissiveness, and has the stinging tongue of an adder.”

“Then you would do well to sell her. I am fond of spirit in a woman and would appreciate those very qualities you decry.”

When Max turned to look over his shoulder at Caro, his smug look made her want to hit him.

“Even so,” he said regretfully, “she is not for sale. I expect you have women with whom you are loath to part.”

Giving a brief smile, Saful nodded in agreement.

Max spoke a few words of Portuguese then, and told Caro to follow the Berber woman. As she rose from the cushions, she heard Max’s query:

“If I may be permitted to ask, my lord Saful, how is it that you speak such excellent French?”

She saw Saful flash a smile that was purely male and heard his answer as she left the room. “For many years I enjoyed the pleasurable services of a French concubine….”

Caro shrugged off her exasperation with Max as she followed the servant through the house, her feeling of hope swelling with every step. With luck she would see Isabella shortly.

The women’s quarters were located at the rear of the house, and Caro could hear the pleasant sound of feminine laughter as she entered the common living area.

She spied her friend at once—reclining on a divan, chatting in low, melodious French to a group of young Berber women who sat around her on cushions.

Isabella appeared to be holding court, which wasn’t at all surprising, since she possessed an indefinable quality that drew people, especially men, to her like a magnet. Half Spanish, half English, Isabella was a sultry beauty with jet hair and sparkling black eyes, although well past her fortieth year. Her allure owed as much to her earthy vivacity and joie de vivre as her striking features and figure.

If the Berber chieftain liked spirit in a woman, Caro thought wryly, then he must be completely enamored of Isabella.

For an instant Caro paused, drinking in the sight of her beloved friend. It was all she could do not to rush across the room to embrace her, or to let her relief and jubilation show.

Just then Isabella looked up and gave a start as she spied Caro. But she covered it up well and went on with another tale that had the women laughing.

Caro forcibly tore her gaze away and followed the servant to a private chamber, where she washed and refreshed herself. With great discipline, she waited another endless few minutes before returning to the common room, where she was led to a corner and instructed by pantomime to sit.

Obeying, Caro settled upon a cushion and accepted a goblet of fruit juice, but she was so anxious to get on with her task, she could not have said what she tasted.

She sipped her drink slowly and pretended an interest in the trickling fountain in the center of the room. After a time, Isabella rose gracefully and crossed to her. Settling on an adjacent cushion, she offered Caro a wooden bowl of figs, oranges, and dates.

Accepting politely, Caro peeled an orange and tried to contain her joy as she waited for her friend to take the lead.

“It is safe to speak Spanish,” Isabella said in a tone too low to be heard over the fountain’s music and the women’s chatter. “Some of them know a little French, for I have entertained myself teaching them.”

“They won’t be suspicious to see you talking to me?”