Taming Charlotte (22 page)

Khalif folded, unconscious, and Rashad rushed to help. Between the two of them, Patrick and the eunuch supported the sultan.

“Ahmed will be in the sultan’s private chambers,” Rashad said, his voice harsh with bitterness. “Every night he beds another of his brother’s wives.”

Ahmed was indeed in Khalif’s room, and there was a woman sharing his couch. He sat up, blinking in amazement and terror, when he saw Patrick and Rashad carry his brother into the room.

While the eunuch settled the insensate sultan gently on another couch, Patrick pulled his knife, which was bloody from the earlier confrontation in the chamber near the harem, and approached the larger bed.

“Get out,” he said to the woman, who immediately bounded from beneath the sheets. Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick saw her snatch her robes from the floor, wrap them around her naked torso, and flee.

Ahmed had recovered his aplomb somewhat, and he
glared up at Patrick in defiance. “This does not concern you. You have no right to interfere.”

Patrick pressed the sharp edge of the blade against Ahmed’s throat. “Nonetheless,” he replied, “I’m interfering. In fact, if your brother hadn’t asked me to save you for him, I would be cutting you into thin slices right now.”

Ahmed glanced at his senseless half brother, and a gray pallor appeared under his bronze skin. “It would be kinder if you cut my throat!” he gasped.

Patrick smiled. “I know,” he answered.

Within an hour, Ahmed and all his surviving henchmen were locked away in the small cell where Khalif had been imprisoned earlier.

Charlotte slept for a while, there in that cramped space, and when she awakened, her energy was restored, and so was her outrage. The bindings on her wrists and ankles were too tight, and she needed to pass water.

When the closet door suddenly opened, filling the closet with light, however, it occurred to her that Patrick might be dead, along with all his men and Rashad, too. She looked up to see Alev’s face.

“There you are,” the other woman said, squatting to remove the handkerchief that had silenced Charlotte all this time. “Rashad said you were in a closet, but he didn’t say which one, and there must be twenty of them in this part of the palace alone—”

“Did you see Captain Trevarren?” Charlotte blurted. As angry as she was with that man, she couldn’t take another breath until she knew whether he was alive or dead.

Alev smiled, though the sadness and fear of recent events showed plainly in her eyes. “He is with Khalif. The Englishman, Cochran, is tending the sultan’s wounds.” She untied Charlotte and helped her to her feet.

Charlotte was amazed at how unsteady she was. “What about Ahmed? Is he running loose somewhere?”

Alev shook her head and slipped an arm around Charlotte to steady her. “Ahmed and his men are in the cellar, according to the servants.”

A horrible thought came to Charlotte, and she stopped,
feeling the chill of the marble floor rise up inside her. “The princes—” she began, and was able to go no further.

The other woman embraced her and smiled, not quite so sadly as before. “They are all alive and well, thanks to the
sultana valide. “
Alev looked somber again. “It is she, the sultan’s mother, who is dead. Ahmed strangled her, in front of all of us, when she refused to tell where the princes had been hidden.”

Charlotte was ashamed to recall how actively she’d disliked the old woman. She marveled over the sultana’s courage now, and her eyes filled with tears as she imagined what it must have been like to stand by helplessly while another human being was murdered.

“You’ve been through so much, Alev,” she said softly. “How did you bear it?”

“Khalif is alive, and so are my fine sons. I try to be grateful for what is good and not dwell too long on what is evil.”

Alev took Charlotte to the harem, where the other women were abuzz with excitement over the morning’s adventures and the news that Khalif still lived. Charlotte took off her stolen robe and stepped into one of the huge tile-lined baths, letting the water, which was heated by braziers beneath the floor, soothe her aching muscles.

The others pelted her with questions, most of which had to be translated by the patient Alev, and Charlotte gave a thorough and slightly embellished account of her travels over the water to Riz and across the desert. She told as much as she knew about the actual rescue operation, and added a little that was only speculation.

Towels and a clean robe were provided when she was finished with her bath, and Charlotte dried off and got dressed. While she ate a large breakfast of fruit, sherbet, coffee, and cheese, Alev brushed the tangles from her hair.

“Where will you go after you leave here?” Alev asked, and there was a certain wistfulness in her voice.

“Back to Spain, I’m sure,” Charlotte answered confidently. Although she still wasn’t certain of Patrick’s feelings for her, she knew he would never abandon the
Enchantress.
“We were attacked by pirates when we left here, you know, and Patrick’s ship was damaged. It’s being repaired now.”

Alev repeated the words in Arabic, her tone tremulous with excitement, and soon Charlotte was telling another story—how the pirates had boarded the
Enchantress
at sea and all about the battle that had ensued. By the time she was finished, she felt as weary as if she’d actually relived the entire experience.

She yawned, and Alev pointed her gently toward one of the couches. Soon Charlotte was stretched out, sound asleep.

It was Rashad who awakened her, sometime later.

“Captain Trevarren is asking for you,” he said. He made it sound as though God had just issued an eleventh commandment.

Charlotte flushed and sat up. “Is he?” she asked sweetly. “Well, far be it from me to keep my master waiting.”

Rashad narrowed his eyes, studying her suspiciously, but he didn’t question her behavior. He simply led the way out of the harem and through familiar hallways, finally stopping in the doorway of Khalif’s quarters.

He bowed slightly, then turned and walked away.

Charlotte lingered in the hall for a few moments, marshaling her fury. She had several bones to pick with Patrick Trevarren, and she would start with the fact that he’d tied her up and thrown her into a closet. Shoulders squared, chin high, she marched over the threshold.

Khalif lay on an enormous round couch, naked except for the sheet that covered him to the waist. His bare chest was covered with welts and burn marks, and Cochran had bandaged each of his fingers individually. There were deep shadows under his closed eyes, and even from across the room, Charlotte could see that it was a struggle for him to breathe.

Patrick stood at one of the windows, his back to the room, his shoulders stiff beneath his torn and blood-spattered shirt.

Between Khalif’s visible injuries and Patrick’s hidden ones, Charlotte forgot all about her personal grievances.

She went to Patrick first, standing at his side, looking up into his face. His expression was stony and rigid.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, and he flinched when she touched his arm. Clearly he hadn’t realized she was there.

His face was bruised and there was blood in his hair as well as on the front of his shirt. He shook his head. “I lost two men in the fight,” he said. “One of them was only nineteen years old.”

Charlotte rested her forehead against his shoulder and put her arms around his waist. “I’m sorry, Patrick,” she said gently. She held him for a long time after that, without speaking, trying to absorb some of his grief into her own spirit, so that the burden could be shared. “Will Khalif live?” she asked, much later.

Patrick looked back at his friend. “Yes, I think so,” he replied gruffly. “God in heaven, Charlotte, what that bastard did to him…”

Charlotte had drawn conclusions of her own from the bandages on Khalif’s fingers and the burns on his midsection, but she let Patrick tell her what had happened because she knew he had to give voice to the knowledge or be driven insane by it. She wept as she listened, but she didn’t speak until Patrick was finished.

“You need to rest,” she said, reaching up to place her hands on either side of his wan face. “You’re exhausted.”

Patrick’s gaze sliced to Khalif. “No,” he said simply. “Someone has to keep watch.”

“Cochran is someone,” Charlotte reasoned gently, taking Patrick’s hand and gently leading him toward a nearby couch. “And I’ll stay, too.” She began unbuttoning his ruined shirt. “If Khalif needs you for any reason, I promise to wake you immediately.”

Patrick’s blue eyes darkened with pain and a profound weariness. His smile was so fragile, and so fleeting, that just a glimpse of it nearly broke Charlotte’s heart.

“Why does it always surprise me to see what a man will do to someone he calls ‘brother’?” he asked.

Charlotte wanted to weep, but she kept up a brave front for Patrick’s sake. She pressed gently on his shoulders and he sank to a sitting position on the edge of the couch.

“You’re forgetting the blessings,” she said, kneeling to pull off one of his boots, then the other.

His voice was ragged. “What blessings?”

“The princes are safe,” Charlotte said, thinking fast and speaking somewhat recklessly. “And Khalif will recover and rule over his kingdom once more. When we get back to Spain, the
Enchantress
will surely be herself again, and we’ll sail off to your island. Besides that, I think I’m going to have a baby.”

Patrick sat there for a long time, immobile, and then suddenly clutched her shoulders with his old strength. “What did you say?”

Charlotte smiled into his battered face. “I said Khalif will recover,” she teased. “I said—”

He shook her, albeit good-naturedly. “You’re carrying my child?”

Having nothing else to do while confined in the palace closet, Charlotte had fumed and cried, prayed and cursed, slept and dreamed, and still had plenty of time to think. It was during that quiet interval that she did some counting.

“It would seem so,” she said. “Lie down, Patrick.”

Amazingly enough, he obeyed, but he still clasped her arm with one hand, so that she couldn’t pull away. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as one can ever be,” Charlotte replied. “I’m…well…” She paused and glanced toward Cochran, who was sitting by Khalif’s bed. “I’m very late.”

Patrick’s eyes drifted closed, but there was a smile on his lips. “A baby,” he said. He fell into an exhausted sleep soon after, but some time passed before his hold on Charlotte’s arm slackened enough for her to pull away.

She went to stand next to the bed, opposite Mr. Cochran. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked softly.

The first mate looked up at her, glanced in Patrick’s direction, and then smiled at Charlotte. “Plenty, I think. It would do the captain’s soul good if you sat by him, Mrs. Trevarren. He’s a fine man, and the treachery he’s seen today left its mark on him.”

Charlotte looked at her tattered, sleeping husband and thought she would surely die if she came to love him even a
little more than she already did. Then she found a hassock, dragged it close to Patrick’s couch, and sat down beside him, holding one of his hands in both of hers.

He stirred in his sleep, and Charlotte bent to brush her lips lightly over his knuckles. Looking down at Patrick, she marveled at the complexities of the man. He was so strong, so arrogant and bullheaded, and during their lovemaking he was nearly always dominant. Now, however, he was like a child, needing nothing more than the comfort of her presence.

P
ATRICK SAT IDLY ON A LOW WALL IN THE COURTYARD OUTSIDE
the bedchamber he and Charlotte had been sharing since their return to the palace two weeks before. His manner was easy—he was peeling an orange with a small fruit knife—but his words were earnest and quietly forceful.

“For once in your life, Charlotte, listen to reason. You’re in a delicate condition, and I would be a fool to let you cross the desert on horseback. It’s a miracle, in fact, that you didn’t miscarry the first time.”

Charlotte sighed. Khalif had a long way to go before he was fully recovered from his ordeal, but he seemed to be on the mend. Patrick was eager to get back to Spain and take command of the
Enchantress,
since the repairs were surely finished by then. “I don’t suppose it would do any good if I promised to be careful?” she ventured.

Patrick folded the knife blade and then popped a section of juicy orange into his mouth. “You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Trevarren,” he said, after a chewing and swallowing process that proved to have a disturbingly sensual effect on Charlotte. “It would do no good at all. For one thing, you
don’t have the faintest conception of what it means to ‘be careful.’ For another, your promises are worth two to the penny.”

Indignation pulsed in Charlotte’s cheeks. “I may be tricky, but I’m not dishonest,” she protested.

Her husband grinned and enjoyed another piece of sweet, succulent fruit. “Oh, I’m not denying that your heart’s generally in the right place,” he replied. “It’s your judgment that leaves something to be desired.”

Charlotte was not used to giving in on any point she felt strongly about, and she wanted to go to Spain with Patrick in the worst way, but she sensed that it would be futile to press the point. He would make sure she stayed behind even if he had to lock her up to do it, and Charlotte had no desire to spend the next fortnight as a prisoner.