The drums began to roll out a steady beat, heralding the final seconds of his life.
He squeezed his eyes shut beneath the blindfold. Even in darkness she was there, laughing up at him with her mischievous smile and her dancing green eyes.
He held his breath, waiting to hear the command that would bring his ribald joke of a life to an end.
What he heard instead were raised voices, a brief but savage scuffle, and what sounded like an entire regiment of boots pouring into the courtyard where he was about to be shot.
He tensed. There were shouted words, the majority of them denouncing the interruption in a furious Arabic he understood only too well, but a handful in a language he hadn’t heard for a long time. A language that should have been utterly impossible in this most unlikely of places—the King’s English. Sensing that he was no longer the center of attention, he began to work at the ropes binding his hands behind his back. As the sounds of discord mounted, he felt a flare of something he’d surrendered long before this moment.
Hope
.
The guttural Arabic erupted in a snarled curse before lapsing into the heavily accented English of an outraged husband. “And who are you that you would invade my home with your infidel dogs and dishonor me in this disgraceful manner?”
Finally responding to his desperate efforts to wiggle himself free, the ropes fell away from Ash’s wrists. Just as he reached up to tug off the blindfold, he heard a voice he would have recognized anywhere. It was every bit as resolute as it had been when ordering him to surrender his toy battleships or risk having them sunk in the bathtub.
Ash snatched off the blindfold, stunned to find himself gazing into cool gray eyes that were as familiar as his own amber ones.
His savior’s clipped words fell like shards of ice into the sweltering Moroccan heat. “I. Am. His. Brother.”
“Lord Dravenwood will see you now.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Ash murmured as he rose from where he had been lounging on a pile of sandbags to follow the pinch-cheeked young corporal. It was impossible to tell if the man’s rigidly formal manner was due to military training or disapproval. Ash suspected the latter.
As he ducked beneath the open flap of the spacious tent, escaping the ruthless rays of the desert sun, it was all he could do not to let out an appreciative whistle. Leave it to his brother to create an oasis of impeccably preserved English culture in the wild heart of the Moroccan desert just outside Marrakech. If not for the billowing canvas walls and the fine layer of grit overlaying every surface, Ash might have been strolling into the elegantly appointed study of any London town house.
A Turkish rug added a rich splash of emerald and garnet to the interior of the tent. The carpet had no doubt been rolled up and transported all of the way from England when its twin might just as easily have been purchased in a local bazaar for a few pounds. A single place setting of porcelain, crystal, and silver adorned a square table draped in white linen. There was even a wheeled tea cart topped by a gold-rimmed Worcester tea service to allow his brother and his top commanders to indulge in that most civilized of English rituals—afternoon tea.
The scrolled foot of a Grecian chaise longue peeped out from behind the lacquered privacy screen in the corner. The mahogany shelf next to it held a perfectly arranged row of leatherbound books. This time Ash couldn’t quite muffle his snort. They were probably in alphabetical order as well. Even as a boy, his brother had preferred weighty tomes detailing obscure military battles and the musings of Greek philosophers, while Ash thrilled to the derring-do exploits of the heroes springing from the fertile imaginations of novelists such as Sir Walter Scott and Daniel Defoe. That is, when he wasn’t perusing a book of naughty etchings slipped into the house by one of his father’s bolder footmen.
On the west wall of the tent a pastoral landscape in a gilded frame hung from a thin strand of rope. Ash blinked at the painting, recognizing the Romantic style of John Constable. He was almost certain it was an original.
He shook his head in bemusement, wondering how many wagons, horses, and camels it had taken to accommodate his brother’s private retinue. Ash had always prided himself on traveling light. He had learned the hard way how to beat a hasty exit with nothing but the shirt on his back. And sometimes not even that.
His brother had always preferred the comforts of home and hearth. Unfortunately, being appointed one of the chief directors in the East India Company’s famed Court of Directors forced him to travel to some of the most uncivilized spots on the globe. Once he rose to the vaunted position of chairman, as he would undoubtedly do given how fast his political star was rising, he would be able to conduct most of his business without ever leaving the cozy drawing room of Dryden Hall, the family’s Surrey estate.
His brother looked right at home behind the teakwood writing desk, scrawling notes in a leatherbound ledger. His handwriting had always been the only thing about him that was less than perfect. As Ash advanced, the silver tip of the pen continued to scratch its way across the paper. He didn’t look up, not even when Ash halted directly in front of the desk.
Ash felt an old but all-too-familiar flare of annoyance. His brother’s ability to concentrate on the task at hand was nearly legendary. But all it did was remind Ash that there had been a time in their lives when he hadn’t had to settle for whatever crumb of attention Max deigned to toss his way.
Leaning down to plant both palms on the desk, he drawled, “Hello, Max.”
The pen froze in midword, leaving an ugly blot of ink on the page. Max wouldn’t care for that, Ash thought with a mean-spirited twinge of satisfaction. His brother had never had any tolerance for imperfection. Especially his own.
Max slowly lifted his head to give Ash the sort of frosty look that might have resulted in fisticuffs were they both still in short pants. “You know I never cared for that nickname.”
He was lying. It was their father who had hated it when they addressed each other by anything other than their given names. Their father had always insisted
Max
and
Ash
were common names more suited to street urchins or chimney sweeps than the sons of a duke.
Ash straightened, confident his mocking smile would only infuriate his brother further. “Would you prefer I address you as Lord Dravenwood?”
“You may address me by my name—Maximillian.” Max snapped the ledger shut and returned his pen to its inkwell.
They hadn’t come face-to-face in nearly a decade. Other brothers might have shaken hands, clapped one another on the shoulders, or even exchanged a warm embrace. They simply studied one another, each taking the other’s measure for a long, silent moment.
Despite their long estrangement, Ash was still caught off guard by the changes in his brother. Max was only eighteen months older than him, but the dark hair at his temples was already shot through with threads of silver. The weight of responsibility had etched deep grooves around his mouth and shallow lines at the corners of his eyes. Ash could tell by the look in those eyes that Max wasn’t particularly pleased with what he was seeing.
While awaiting his brother’s summons, Ash had bathed and slipped into the clean clothes provided for him. Since they were the only two men he’d seen in the makeshift camp who were both broad of shoulder and over six feet tall, he suspected the clothes belonged to Max. That might explain the mild distaste Ash had felt while donning them. He’d worn enough of his brother’s castoffs as a child.
He’d modified the garments to suit himself, tossing aside the starched collar and leaving the white lawn shirt open at the throat. He’d refused to fasten the cloth-covered buttons of the coat and left off the waistcoat altogether. He ruefully stroked his freshly shaven jaw. He rather missed the close-cropped beard he usually wore. It protected his face against the harsh abrasion of the blowing sand as well as providing disguise in situations where blending into a crowd might very well decide the difference between life and death. At least there hadn’t been time for Max to send in a barber to trim the shaggy mane of caramel-colored hair brushing his shoulders.
“Sit,” Max said curtly, nodding toward the camp chair placed at a precise angle to the desk.
Max, of course, was sitting in a leather wing chair that probably cost nearly as much as it weighed. Ash gingerly sank into the creaky wood-and-canvas sling, hoping it wouldn’t collapse beneath his weight and send him sprawling to the floor.
Stretching his long legs out in front of him, he fished a thin Turkish cigar out of his pocket. He had charmed it out of an amiable young lieutenant while waiting for Max’s summons.
He struck a match on the sole of his boot and touched its flame to the tip of the cigar. It ignited with a sizzle, sending a curl of aromatic smoke into the air.
Max’s slight grimace of distaste was unmistakable. “I’ve always believed brandy and cigars to be habits best relegated to the drawing room after supper.”
Ash took a deep drag on the cigar, barely resisting the childish urge to blow a smoke ring at his brother’s nose. “I don’t see a drawing room and I wasn’t anticipating being invited to stay for supper. Although I wouldn’t turn down that brandy if you were to offer it.”
Without a word, Max rose and stalked over to the cut-glass decanter resting on the table. He poured a precise three fingers of the amber liquid into a squat glass and handed it to Ash before returning to his chair.
Ash tossed back a swallow of the expensive brandy, relishing its smooth burn, then lowered the glass, sighing his satisfaction. “You have my undying gratitude. Whatever your other failings, I can’t fault your taste in liquor.”
Max settled back in his chair, shooting Ash a reproving look. “I should think you’d be thanking me for something a bit more substantial. Like saving your … hide.”
Max’s nearly imperceptible hesitation had come at the precise point where their father had always inserted the word
worthless
. Despite the sooty hue of his hair, Max had always been the golden boy, the son who could do no wrong, while Ash could do no right. From the moment of his birth, their father had made it clear that Max was the heir and Ash was the spare. And a poor excuse for a spare at that. Once Ash had finally realized it would be impossible for him to please their father, he had stopped trying.
He shrugged. “I just gave you my undying gratitude. I haven’t much else to offer except the clothes on my back. And I strongly suspect those are already yours.”
Max shook his head in disgust. “I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised me that there was a woman involved in your latest little contretemps.”
“Isn’t there always?” Propping one boot on the opposite knee, Ash gave his brother a lazy smile.
“Would you care to explain what possessed you to seduce the wife of a powerful—and extremely hotheaded—tribal potentate in a part of the world where even the slightest perceived insult can cost a man his head? Especially if it happens to be attached to an Englishman’s body?”
“
One
of his wives,” Ash gently corrected. “And what usually possesses a man to seduce a woman? A sidelong glance from beneath a pair of silky lashes? Soft lips perfectly designed for kissing? An inviting swish of the hip? I doubt even a man of your legendary moral fortitude would be immune to such charms.”
Ash wasn’t about to waste his breath explaining to Max that Fatima had come to him. Her furtive knock had sounded on the door of his lodgings after a chance encounter in the marketplace. She had drawn aside the gossamer silk that veiled her ripe breasts not to tempt him with her nakedness but to show him the fresh bruises dealt by her husband’s fists. Judging by the faded scars, those bruises were only the most recent in a long string of insults to her perfect flesh. Nor did Ash explain that his original intention in tenderly touching his lips to them was not to give pleasure but to obliterate pain. Or that after she had flung her arms around him and tumbled them both back into his bed, he had been the one to come to his senses and gently ease her out of his embrace. She had spent a restful night in his bed while he spent a sleepless night on the hard, dusty floor, cursing himself as a fool.
He didn’t waste his breath telling Max any of that. He knew his brother would never believe him. Hell, he hardly believed it himself.
“As if cuckolding the man wasn’t insult enough,” Max said, “you had to add injury to the slight by putting her on a ship and helping her run away. Was that all part of your harebrained scheme? To meet up with her in the next port and stay holed up in some seedy inn until you grew tired of her and went off chasing the next beauty or treasure that caught your wandering eye?”
Actually, Ash hadn’t planned on ever seeing Fatima again. Before her ship had sailed, he’d shoved a purse in her hand stuffed with so much gold she need never again trust herself to the mercy of any man, including him. If one of Mustafa’s men hadn’t witnessed the grateful kiss she’d pressed upon his lips before boarding the ship, Ash would have ended up on the next ship bound for anywhere in the world that wasn’t Morocco instead of standing in front of a firing squad in Mustafa’s courtyard.
He swirled the last of the brandy around the bottom of the glass before downing it in a single swallow. “I’m surprised you didn’t just let Mustafa’s men shoot me.”
“Don’t think I wasn’t tempted,” Max said grimly. “I might have done just that if I didn’t have a job for you myself.”
Ash leaned forward and set the empty glass on the desk. “Perhaps you didn’t hear the news. I resigned my commission. I don’t work for the Company anymore. Or for you. I squandered several years of my youth serving king, country, and the Company. Now I serve only myself.”
“I’m well aware of your mercenary exploits. As are our parents. They provide ample gossip fodder for the London papers and have been known to send our father into apoplectic fits over his kippers and coddled eggs.”
“Now you’re just trying to charm me.”