Authors: Laura Kinsale
She turned the crescent over in her hands, squinting at the delicate tracery of Arabic lettering and design that flowed across the metal, interrupted only by one deep, thin scratch zigzagging over the face.
She smoothed her fingertip over the piece, feeling the ragged indentation that marred it. A vision came to her—of the deck of
Phaedra
in the torchlight, and the convict Cal showing his strong teeth as he bit down on the crescent around Sheridan's neck and then scraped his knife tip across the metal.
She pressed her lips together in thought. Mustafa knelt at her feet, looking up at her, his eyes dark and perceptive.
"He had it with him," she said slowly. "He was wearing it when we found him."
Mustafa bent his head. All she could see of the little man was the cylindrical top of his fez. "But,
Emiriyyiti
—you understand—I have told no story."
She tilted her head, looking down at him with a frown.
Mustafa spoke into his lap, his head still bowed. "I have not lied and said that he took the
teskeri hilaal
when your jewels disappeared. No, I have not—because if I had, then you might be encouraged to believe that he wasn't robbed as he claims, but intended to take the jewels and leave us, and only such a purpose would induce him to touch a thing he hates. You might even think that he planned it all, stealing your treasure and buying passage on the convict transport. I would not say those things, my princess. I have promised not to tell you stories."
Olympia put her hand to her mouth, chewing her knuckle.
"No stories, O most respected princess," Mustafa went on. "I will not say that he hid your jewels on the island where he was wrecked and then told me—in sign and my own tongue—right in front of everyone, how to find them."
"How to find them?" she murmured dubiously.
Mustafa sat up, throwing his hands wide. "That is a story that would make my pasha seem great and clever and brave, would it not? To pretend that he made it seem we were arguing over the pearls while he was giving me instructions in the very faces of our enemies—but I will not recount it, for I would be lying."
He pressed his forehead to the deck, a white huddle in the lamplight, and grasped her ankles. Olympia pulled away, tucking her legs under her on the berth. "Please," she said. "I wish you wouldn't do that."
Mustafa drew back. "Forgive me, my princess," he said humbly. "I am not fit to touch the smallest fringe of your garment. I would not build up my useless self by lies and tell you that it was I who recovered your jewels from their hiding place after you escaped the ship
Phaedra
with my pasha."
She curled her legs tighter and crossed her arms, hugging herself, staring down at him.
"I am a dog and the son of a dog. But I tell no more lies. I do not say that when the convict devils went to the island to look for the jewels, they began to kill each other and ordered me to bury the dead." He bowed deeply. "You must know,
Emiriyyiti
, that I am stupid and slow, and it would be false if I tried to make you believe that I took the chance when they were not watching to retrieve the treasure in secret."
She felt her breath begin to come with effort. She bit her lip, holding back the reaction to his words.
"And of course," he added meekly, "I never hid the jewels and kept them safe until
Phaedra
reached Buenos Aires, and my Sheridan Pasha was never the lover of your Mrs. Julia Plumb. Never did he receive her on the very day you came to him for help; never did he ask for your hand in marriage, because for her own designs she forced it upon him and made it the only way he could reach his father's fortune—I would not expect you to believe that. All lies,
Emiriyyiti
." He rocked his small body up and down in prostration. "It is all lies, and I will not tell them."
Olympia swallowed. She closed her eyes, leaning back with her hands over her face.
All lies. All, all lies.
She had no right to be furious at Sheridan. To feel a fool, yes—to grit her teeth and push at her pillow and toss in her bed in the black night, staring into darkness and reviling herself as a naive little nodcock—oh, yes, she had every right to do that.
But at first, anger had flooded out every other emotion: the passionate wrath born anew, fresh rage at the way he'd betrayed her, robbed her, stripped her of all her dreams and deserted her. How could he?
How could he?
She hated him!
How easy it was, that anger. How simple, how pure and self-righteous…how much less painful than the aching hurt that sat like a stone beneath it, immovable, gradually rising to the surface as the torrent of fury flooded past and subsided.
She lay awake, listening to Mustafa's high-pitched snores.
Dreaming
, Sheridan had said, and he'd been right. She thought she'd forgiven him for deserting her, but she'd only managed to forget. The real world had receded. Now it was back, and she'd found she was a coward again. She'd believe anything to avoid looking truth in the face. How quick she'd been to swallow that poppycock story he'd made up to cover himself, jumping at the hope he was innocent against all rational evidence.
And of course he had not contradicted her. Why should he? He knew what a fool she was, so he'd merely taken advantage of her foolishness, the same way he'd supported her on the island—because he wanted to stay alive and had needed her: the skills she had, the food she gathered, the companionship she provided. He'd been kind to her because she'd been more useful to him as a friend—as a lover—than an enemy.
Just as she was more useful to him now as a sister than a wife.
It was simple. That was the kind of man he was. A realist. A scoundrel. A liar. A shabby knight with a baby penguin asleep on his boot.
Julia…Julia…Julia…he'd had Julia as a lover.
Julia! Gorgeous, graceful, self-possessed Julia. How he must have laughed at Olympia's untutored fumbling!
Oh, she
had
been a fool, a lovesick fool, and she still was. To think that somehow he had changed and she could trust him now.
She could never trust him, or believe anything he said.
The realization brought no anger with it. Instead of bitterness, she felt only a dull despair: grief for the dream that could not survive reality, and the pain of seeing clearly when she wished she could be blind. As well stand naked in the winter and curse the wind as rage at Sheridan for lying to someone who wanted with her soul to believe in him.
She couldn't even hate herself for being twice a dupe. He was so very good at it. Even now, she knew that if she gave him a chance, he could convince her again, make her believe he loved her as he'd never loved before.
Loved her. A chubby, plain mooncalf like her. She was a mooncalf indeed if she could believe that. Simple common sense ought to have told her that she shared nothing with a man like Sheridan Drake. She'd nothing to offer, not beauty or wit or experience. She was stubborn and childish—even she could see that for herself. One of the solemn, virtuous buffoons of the world, one of the upright idiots who made an easy target for his ruthless humor.
Trust me
.
The devil would say that, in just that compelling way. While behind those silver eyes, that flawless act, he'd be laughing at the way she still clung to her ideals in spite of everything—she
would
do some good, somewhere, if she could manage it—while he held to nothing: not friendship, not truth, not even simple decency. He was worse even than Mustafa, who only took the orders of his pasha without understanding right from wrong.
Sheridan understood, but he did not care. Like a demon child, he could lie with his heart in his eyes.
Fitzhugh took afternoon tea.
That about summed the man up, in Sheridan's opinion. He answered an invitation to the state cabin the next afternoon and found a table set with lace and delicate porcelain—and a bowl of pink and white tulips, of all the damned things. Three gilded French chairs sat in a waiting semicircle overlooking the bank of stern lights. The place looked like a bloody drawing room, except for the way the flowers swayed with the motion of the moving ship and the damask drapings didn't quite obscure the shapes of the four cannon mounted at the closed gunports.
Olympia and Fitzhugh were already there. She turned at the sound of the cabin door, and Sheridan's heart seemed to take a silly and painful leap at the sight of her.
It took a savage intellectual effort to quash the emotion. He put it down to a sudden attack of seasickness and focused on Fitzhugh, who strode across the carpeted deck with his hand outstretched.
"Good afternoon! Sit down, sit down—Miss Drake was about to pour." The captain looked like a man who'd just run a footrace, breathless and red-faced as he pumped Sheridan's hand and grinned. He lowered his voice to a murmur. "And she tells me that you've spoken to her. I'm so glad, sir. Thank you. I'm the happiest man alive."
Before Sheridan could answer, he was drawn forward by the enthusiastic grip at his elbow. He kissed Olympia's hand, looking quizzically into her wide green eyes.
She smiled at him blandly.
"Perhaps you'd like to give your brother the news," Fitzhugh said.
She clasped her hands in her lap, still smiling steadily up at Sheridan. "I think he may have already guessed," she said.
"News?" Sheridan hid his consternation and tried to look paternal. Things had apparently moved faster than he'd expected—and he'd never had time to instruct her on how exactly to handle Fitzhugh, blast the luck. But she seemed to be doing all right; the fellow certainly appeared happy enough so far.
She looked modestly down at her lap. "Captain Fitzhugh has asked me to marry him."
"Ah." Sheridan nodded wisely and cursed the fellow for an impetuous puffball. Did he suppose he was such a catch he'd not even have to put in some lengthy courting first?
She looked up, meeting Sheridan's eyes again. "And I've accepted."
Sheridan felt his features freeze.
"Accepted?" The word came out a croak. He could not help it. Not by any mortal effort this side of hell could he have held a natural expression on his face in the split second after her words sank in.
"Yes," Fitzhugh said eagerly. "If it seems a bit hasty to you, sir, I beg you to remember that your sister and I have known one another for a considerable time."
Sheridan felt as if someone were sitting on his chest. Air was suddenly a scarce commodity. He looked from her flushed and smiling face to Fitzhugh's expectant one.
"Well, I—" He couldn't find words. They simply weren't there. Bewildered, he returned to Olympia's guileless green gaze. What the devil did she mean by this? Play Fitzhugh along, yes, keep him dangling and appeased—but surely Sheridan hadn't given her the notion it would he necessary to go to this length? "I suppose I—" He strove desperately for a normal voice. "I'm happy for you, of course. A formal engagement does seem a little—precipitate—to me, if you can understand."
"Certainly." Fitzhugh made a quick nod. "Quite a natural reaction, from your point of view. You can't be expected to fully realize how well we came to know one another in our months together."
Sheridan looked at him. Like sudden midnight, a veil of suspicion came down over his heart, clutching with black fingers. He had a vision of them—alone together—in this very cabin all those weeks: Fitzhugh talking to her, touching her…
"We had tea together every day," Olympia said, with a smile at Fitzhugh that seemed to Sheridan to prove his darkest forebodings.
And last night, just last night, she'd been delicious fire in his arms, begging him to take her. To marry her, the little slut! And here she was—
"We've been discussing a date," Fitzhugh said with a fatuous smile down at his bride-elect. "Of course, the sooner the better. But I want to do it right. I insist on that. I daresay a fortnight would be long enough for us to make some special preparations—perhaps a velvet canopy for the poop deck, and the cakes will take a bit of time. And Miss—" His smile broke into a grin and he took her hand. "
Olympia
must decide on a gown."
"Yes," she said faintly. "I have an ivory silk, but I'll wish to add some trim."
Fitzhugh kissed her fingers. "Of course. I thought of that. Look." He drew her quickly to the map chest and opened a drawer, lifting tissue with a careful rustle. Inside the paper was a quantity of silver lace and seed pearls.
"Oh!" She touched the airy silver and then put her hand to her lips. "Oh, dear, you didn't—"
"I bought it in Buenos Aires. I thought—I hoped that when I found you—that is…do you like it?" He laid it down and grasped both her hands. "My dear Ollie, are you crying? But you're safe now. Safe with me. I'll never let you out of my sight again."
She bowed her head. Sheridan stared stupidly at their clasped hands. He kept waiting for a withdrawal, for coyness, delay, a secret signal—anything to tell him this was not real.
"A fortnight," she said softly.
Fitzhugh's ruddy hands tightened around hers. "November third. Shall we set it then?"
Sheridan stood still, taut. Now was the time, now—she would begin to postpone and waver and prettily beg for a moment to think. He ought to open his mouth and help her, put in some foolproof excuse for delay, but his mind seemed numb.
"Yes." She looked up at Fitzhugh. "November third."
Sheridan stopped breathing. He felt sick and dazed. He turned away suddenly and walked to the table, fumbling among the tea things. Behind him, Fitzhugh called her his darling Ollie and said they should celebrate tonight with one of the chef's best specialties, and have all the wardroom officers up at the captain's table.
"And I hope you'll honor us by making the announcement, sir," he said, coming to the table as Sheridan lifted a cup.
The porcelain cup seemed to disintegrate in his hand, bouncing against the edge of the table and rolling across the Turkish carpet, the handle shattered. Sheridan swallowed, full of rage and misery and baffled despair.
"Sorry," he said.
Fitzhugh retrieved the broken cup. "For shame, old man." He put a hand on Sheridan's shoulder. "You haven't got your sea legs back yet."