by Tamara Leigh
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.”
She turned to Khalid. “No doubt he has been long without a woman,” she spoke in her adopted language. “Make certain that when you bring him into the women’s quarters, his desires are sufficiently quenched that he will not be tempted to touch what he must not.”
“It will be done, mistress.”
She returned her attention to Lucien. “I have instructed Khalid —”
“I heard.”
Then he had learned their language. Though it would make it less difficult for him in her husband’s home, it unsettled her. “Know this,” she said, “once you enter the harem, you will not be intimate with a woman until you have fulfilled your end of the bargain by delivering my daughter to my family.”
He smiled, a mocking thing that showed his teeth had survived the ravages of life at sea.
Sabine swallowed hard. “Do not fail me, Lucien de Gautier. You are very much a man, and I would not wish to change that.”
His smile widened. “Be assured, I will be cautious.”
CHAPTER THREE
The music grew louder, its vigorous beat winding around the slender woman who swayed at the center of the large room. It pulled her head back and closed her eyes, drew her arms up and spread them to embrace the rhythm. It shook her shoulders, rotated her hips, made her fingers snap.
Slowly, the female dancers hired to entertain the women of Abd al-Jabbar’s harem drifted away, going to stand along the walls to watch the one who had claimed the dance for herself.
She was different from the others—her hair a flame amid the ashes, skin that should have been pale tanned and faintly touched with freckles, and the eyes she opened upon her captive audience were green and flashed with daring.
The tempo quickened, and the solitary dancer whose fine-boned body curved where it ought to, swept across the floor. Laughter spilling from her, she snatched the gossamer veil from her waist-length hair, scattering the pins that had held it in place, and drew it between her hands. Once more raising her arms above her head, she pivoted on the balls of her bare feet and whirled amid the diaphanous material clothing her limbs. And when the music reached its zenith, she gave a shriek of delight.
“Alessandra!” a sharp voice split the air.
The music ceased, and a din of female voices rose in its place.
Wrenched from what seemed a trancelike state, the dancer whipped around. She blinked at the woman who stood at the far end of the room. Then, obviously afflicted with lightheadedness, she staggered and stumbled, dropped to her knees, and sank back on her heels.
Standing between Sabine and Khalid, Lucien silently cursed the attraction in whose grip he had been since laying eyes upon Alessandra, whom he had assumed was a dancer—though with her mother’s hair falling down her back, he should have known otherwise.
Here was forbidden fruit. Indeed, of all who might tempt him to sins of the flesh, this lady of fire and daring and laughter could move him nearest his downfall. His task had just turned more dangerous. Indeed, it could prove deadly.
Dear Lord, Alessandra silently appealed to the one above, I did not mean to. But, yes, I have done it again.
Dizziness subsiding sufficiently to allow her to focus on her mother who stood just inside the doors, she whispered, “Worse, I am caught. Again.”
She drew a deep breath, blew it up her face, and stood. As she stepped forward, the musicians and dancers resumed their entertainment. Not that their audience would be captive, for the encounter between mother and daughter was surely of greater interest.
Alessandra was halfway to Sabine’s side when she glanced to the right. Alongside Khalid stood a man of equal girth and height—as much a giant as the chief eunuch. Though fair of skin, he was clothed the same as Khalid, head covered with a turban, a caftan falling from his shoulders, and over that a dark robe.
Most notable were his eyes, their beauty undiminished by the brown-blue smudge ringing the right. Who had blackened it? Who had dared?
The answer was found in the strange bend of Khalid’s nose, which conjured a vision of the two men locked in mortal combat. Who had come out on top? Perhaps neither.
She returned her attention to the new man whose gaze was taking a leisurely jaunt over her. At every place he lit, from her heated face to her toes, she felt singed.
Why does he stare? she wondered. Does he mock me?
Regardless, he was surely the eunuch her mother had purchased a sennight past. No others would be so forward.
“I would have an explanation for your behavior,” Sabine said when her daughter halted before her.
Hating that she had agitated her, Alessandra leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her cool cheek. “Forgive me. I could not help myself.”
Sabine’s compressed lips twitched, face softened. “You must learn to control these impulses.” She brushed Alessandra’s hair off her face. “When Jabbar hears of this, he will likely forbid you entertainment.”
And he would hear of it. Leila, the first of his three wives, was likely sending word this moment.
“It will have been worth it,” Alessandra said with an apologetic smile, “for I so enjoyed the dance.”
“Well, do not complain when you are once more left to your boredom.”
“Would I do such a thing?”
“You would.”
Alessandra laughed. “And still you will come to my defense.”
Sabine rolled her eyes, took her daughter’s hand, and turned her toward the new eunuch.
Up close, Alessandra was more disconcerted. There was none of a eunuch’s serenity in that scarred face. Indeed, his expression was hard, as if anger had engraved it. Still, there was light in his eyes. Amusement?
“Why do you stare?” she asked.
“He is from England,” Sabine said. “Thus, he has much to learn before he takes his place in our household.”
Alessandra gasped, stepped nearer him. “England? Why did you not tell me, Mother?”
“I wished to surprise you.”
Alessandra looked across her shoulder. “That you have done.”
Her mother smiled. “I thought he could help you with your English. In return, you can teach him our language.”
Alessandra winced. She was not keen on being tutored in English. Though she could converse in her mother’s native language, it felt awkward upon her tongue. Not only did it lack the richness and superb delicacy of the language she had spoken all her life, there was none of Arabic’s singsong intonation to soften it.
“I can teach him our language,” she agreed, though she had no intention of wasting time learning more of the English her mother wished her to know intimately. She returned her attention to the man and was further unsettled when his gaze once more lowered over her.
Never had she felt uncomfortable in the clothes she wore within the women’s quarters. But then, never had a man—not even her betrothed—looked at her as this one did.
Wondering what thoughts should so tug at the eunuch’s mind that they should also tug at his lips, she looked down her front. Heat rose to her face as she considered what the thinly-woven material of her garments half-heartedly concealed—the swell of her breasts and flare of her hips.
Her first thought was to cover herself. Her next was that never had she felt ashamed of her body, and she would not begin now.
She tossed her head and asked in English, “What is your name?”
“He has taken the name of Seif,” Sabine once more spoke for him.
“Seif.” Alessandra nodded. “And his Christian name?”
“Of no consequence,” Sabine said sharply. “In this household, he is Seif.”
Surprised by her mother’s vehemence, Alessandra turned to her. “Something is wrong?”
Sabine shook her head. “I am but tired.”
Understandable considering her mother had spent the past three nights with Jabbar. Though he had two other wives and a dozen concubines, there was none he loved m
ore than her mother. For this, Leila’s dislike of Sabine was unequaled.
Alessandra put a hand beneath her mother’s elbow and urged her toward the others. “Come sit.”
Sabine drew back. “I am going to rest now. Perhaps you could introduce Seif to the others?”
Alessandra looked to the women of the harem. As predicted, they showed little interest in the musicians and dancers. However, the distraction provided by Sabine and her daughter had waned. It was the new eunuch who held their attention.
Knowing what they contemplated, Alessandra scowled. They were like vultures, hungry for more than Jabbar’s passing attention. Even Leila, who usually hid her emotions well, appeared fascinated with Seif.
Sabine swept her gaze over the same faces her daughter looked upon. The ice is thin here, she warned herself. Do not venture too far out upon it. Stay as near the edge as possible.
Meaning she ought to remain here with Alessandra. And she would if not that the ice of her illness was thinner yet, threatening to make itself known to those who would use it to their benefit. But of greater concern was Jabbar. Not only would she spare him the pain of her approaching death, but she dare not provide him with an excuse to sooner see his son wed to Alessandra. Thus, Sabine paid the physician well to keep her secret and supply her with medicine of which she was very much in need at this moment.
“Go, Alessandra,” she said.
“Very well.” Her daughter turned to Lucien. “Come, Seif.”
As he stepped forward, Sabine caught his arm. “Do not forget,” she whispered. “No one is to know of my illness, especially my daughter.”
He dipped his head. “None will hear of it from me.”
Wishing she had greater confidence in his words, she dropped her hand. “Forget not our bargain.”
“How could I?”
She watched him follow Alessandra. Though one would have to be blind not to notice her daughter’s unusual beauty, never before had she seemed so provocative and sensual.
Lucien had also noticed. Though he had striven to keep his face impassive while watching Alessandra dance, Sabine had caught the light in his eyes and seen the flaring of nostrils and spasming of jaw muscles.
