Lady Of Fire AKA Pagan Bride

by Tamara Leigh

  She sucked air, fell sideways, and fought him no more.

  Unable to sleep for fear of the terrible punishment awaiting her on the morrow, Leila gripped the lattice of the window and stared into the night.

  These were her final hours. Although she was the mother of Jabbar’s heir, which had saved her from banishment once, nothing could save her now. There had been a chance Jabbar would have sent her away had it been the daughter, not the mother, but his lust for Sabine was too great. Even without the poisoned date Khalid had produced, the end would likely have been the same.

  Leila drew a hand down her face and winced at the scrapes Alessandra’s nails had raked into her skin. Worse were the blows the brat had driven into her sides, making it painful to draw deep breaths.

  Hatred that Leila had not believed could grow stronger swelled through her. If only it had been Alessandra’s young body that had shuddered and gasped. Then, even had Leila’s sentence been death, it would have been worth it. But Rashid would still wed Alessandra.

  Though Leila had tried to convince her son otherwise, he was determined to have the flame-headed whore for a wife. He shared his father’s same perverse desires.

  Head throbbing, she pressed fingers to her temples and reflected on the victory that had nearly been hers four nights past. Hoping to discover what pleasure the English eunuch could give her, despite his rejection of her attempts to seduce him, she had sought him out.

  She had gone by way of the garden, as she always did when she desired a tryst. But as she had slipped past the open gate, she had seen Alessandra climbing through the window of the eunuch’s room. At first, Leila had been outraged, jealous that another enjoyed what she was denied, but sanity prevailed.

  Realizing here was the way to ensure Rashid did not marry Sabine’s daughter, she had given the two sufficient time to compromise themselves, then gone for her son. Unfortunately, Sabine and Khalid had arrived ahead of them.

  Still, Leila had been certain the physician would give testimony to Alessandra’s loss of chastity, and she had nearly gone mad when the old man had refuted it. Then Jabbar had ordered that the wedding go forward.

  It would have been so easy had Alessandra lost her virtue. Rashid could not have forgiven that, for he was the same as most Arab men. The purity of his bride was all-important. So much that, had it been any but Sabine’s daughter, merely being alone with another man at night, even a eunuch, would have been sufficient cause to reject Alessandra. But Rashid had been adamant, leaving Leila no choice but to use poison to achieve her end.

  A sound in the night, so slight she thought she might have imagined it, had her searching the garden. There—movement. She peered closer. Though there was little moonlight, she picked out the shadowy figure of a large man.

  It was not a guard, for none were that size. It had to be Khalid. Or the Englishman. As he slipped through the trees, a sliver of moonlight fell upon something in his arms before he was once more enveloped in shadow.

  Red hair.

  Leila had thought she would not smile again. But here was the Englishman. And Alessandra. Where would they consummate their desire? His quarters? The stables? There in the garden?

  She began to tremble at the realization she was being given another chance to expose the lovers and free her son from wedding the whore.

  She sank to her knees and thanked Allah for smiling upon her in her last hours. Perhaps he might even deliver her from Jabbar’s sentence of death.

  Though she burned to raise the alarm, she quelled the impulse, telling herself she must be patient. This time she wanted no question as to what transpired between the two. Whether or not Alessandra remained virtuous, her behavior would not be overlooked a second time.

  “I have won,” she whispered into the dark, tears rolling down her face. “Won.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  As arranged, horses had been waiting beyond the walls. Though Lucien and Alessandra had only to travel as far as Algiers, where a ship waited to take them up the coast, through the Strait of Gibraltar, and on to England, Khalid had left nothing to chance. Both animals were well provisioned should the plan go awry.

  It had been a thin hope Alessandra would remain unconscious throughout the ride, and they were not even halfway into it when she began to rouse.

  Pushing his mount harder, the second horse following close behind on a length of rope, Lucien held tight to Alessandra in anticipation of the fight she would give him. Though it would be easier to knock her senseless a second time, there was no immediate danger. Thus, he would not do again that which he found so repugnant.

  Before Alessandra opened her eyes, she knew who held her, and his purpose. Worse, she knew wrenching pain as the events that had led to this moment rushed at her.

  Lucien had not lied. No dream had stolen away her mother. That honor belonged to the vicious woman who was to have been her mother-in-law.

  The desire for vengeance lending her strength to fight the grief threatening to break open her emotions, she promised herself that later she would indulge in the tears burning her eyes, the sobs straining her throat. Now she must focus on escaping her deceitful, unwanted savior.

  Swallowing hard, she winced as ache shot through her jaw where Lucien had struck her, then pushed aside the fold of robe that had been drawn over her and peered up at the figure silhouetted against the night sky.

  How far had he taken her from her home? Was Algiers his destination?

  Not caring that she might tumble from the horse, she thrust her hands against Lucien’s chest, but he merely tightened his arm around her waist until it became so difficult to breathe that she ceased struggling.

  He made her wait several moments before easing his hold, and when he did, she cursed him in Arabic, raising her voice to be heard over the air rushing past them and the pounding of hooves. Whether or not he reacted to her obscenities, it was too dark to know, but she hurled insults until her throat was so raw she could issue no more.

  It was then she noticed the discomfort of the ride. Cradled against Lucien, her rear end wedged between his thighs, legs dangling over one side, she had no defense against the horse’s jarring movements—unlike Lucien who was able to move with the animal.

  Her resentment grew, and she silently vowed he would rue the day he had made a pact with her mother.

  On the final approach to the city, when Lucien slowed the horses and proceeded with caution, she spat, “How dare you take me from my home! You are nothing but a—”

  “Quiet!” His arm tightened again.

  She strained against it. “I will not be quiet. If it will gain me my freedom, I will awaken the entire city.”

  He reined the horse in, grasped her shoulders, and pulled her around to face him. “Would you prefer I strike you again?”

  She opened her mouth to challenge him, closed it, shifted her sore jaw. He would do it. “You are the lowliest cur,” she muttered.

  He snorted. “You do not know the half of it. Now behave.”

  He guided the horses behind the covering of trees not far from a row of buildings that marked the farthest reaches of the city.

  “We will leave our mounts here,” he said, then dismounted and lifted Alessandra down.

  It was still too dark to see well, but she felt his regard and knew he questioned whether she could be trusted to stay put.

  “I have given you warning,” he said, then turned his attention to the packs strapped to the horse and began searching their contents. He unfastened two of the four packs and dropped them to the ground, then crossed to the second horse.

  Alessandra did not care what his reason was for choosing only those packs, but thinking it might cause him to lower his guard if she pretended interest, she asked, “What of these other ones?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “They were provisioned in the event of a land journey. If all goes as planned, we need only those required for a sea journey.”

  The moment he returned his attention to the other pa
cks, Alessandra unfastened her robe that would prove a hindrance and let it fall to her feet. Then she ran toward the buildings. The soft ground slowed her, but neither would it benefit the man who would soon be after her. Fortunately, she stood a good chance of escape, for the soles of his feet could not have fully healed from the bastinado.

  She thought she heard him behind her, but told herself it was only imagined. His best chance of overtaking her was astride a horse, and that would be too great a risk for the amount of noise it would make.

  Thus, she was unprepared when his body slammed her to the ground. Dirt tearing into her palms and grazing her face, breath emptying in a rush, she cried out.

  “Little fool!” Lucien raised himself from her, flipped her over, and dragged her up onto her knees.

  Breathing hard, she stared into his shadowed face. "Fool? Because I refuse to allow you to take me to a place I do not wish to go?”

  “I made a bargain with your mother, and I intend to keep it. Fight me all the way, but you are going to England.”

  “I am not!”

  His own anger pulsed between them, but then he drew a deep breath and slowly released it. “Why are you so frightened of change for the better, Alessandra?”

  “It is not change I fear,” she lied to herself and to him, though not entirely, for she was also driven by revenge. “I will not allow Leila to go unpunished.”

  “Khalid will make certain she suffers like for like. Why can you not leave it to him?”

  She was grateful he could not see her eyes turn to tears. “I will myself witness that evil woman drawing her last breath.”

  “Then what? Will you wed Rashid and spend the remainder of your days in this godforsaken place? What of the children you will raise under the constant threat of intrigues such as that which killed your mother?”

  She forced grief down. “It is none of your concern. If you want to escape, go, but leave me. I do not wish to ever set foot on English soil.”

  Lucien caught her chin and raised it.

  “Release me!” she hissed. “I loathe your touch.”

  “You lie. You desire me as much as I desire you.”

  “Desire?” Why did it pain her that he named her feelings for him something so lascivious? “Is that all you feel for me, Lucien? Lust of the flesh?”

  His thumb brushed her lower lip. “What would you have me call it? Love?”

  She closed her eyes, and in her struggle to not be moved by his touch, remembered her mother’s suggestion that it might be love Alessandra felt for him. Though he could not possibly feel such for her, was that what drew her to him? He was correct in believing she desired him, but it was more than that. Indeed, whatever it was, it made this yearn of the flesh seem more like a symptom.

  “I would not believe you if you called it that,” she said.

  He slid his thumb across her upper lip. “Then I will not. Desire it is, the same as you feel.”

  “You conceited—”

  “Surely you have not forgotten this?” He lowered his mouth to hers.

  Alessandra commanded herself to remain unresponsive, to feel nothing, but her body moved to betray her. Battling the fluttering in her chest and stomach, she forced her thoughts back in time. And as she sifted through memories, she paused upon the first day Lucien had come to her in the harem.

  She heard again her conversation with her mother regarding the new eunuch. Sabine had said allowances were to be made for him, then revealed his real name and that he was an enemy of the Brevilles.

  Lucien lifted his head. “Deny it you may,” he said, “but Rashid will never make you feel what you do in my arms.”

  She could just make out the sparkle of his eyes. “I doubt you even desire me. Every word, every look, every touch was but a means of gaining my trust to lure me into accompanying you to England.”

  He drew the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “I do not think there is anything I would not have done to gain my freedom, but desire is not something one can force, Alessandra. It is there, or it is not.”

  “You expect me to believe you?”

  “I do.”

  She did not. Determined to remain in Algiers, she embraced the only thing that might convince him to leave her behind. Disregarding her mother’s warning, she said, “Then it must pain you to feel anything but hate, even if only desire, for a Breville.”

  He jerked so violently, it was as if she had slapped him. “What game do you play, Alessandra?”

  “No game. I but reveal what my mother feared to disclose. Before she was stolen from her home and sold into slavery, Sabine was Lady Catherine Breville of Corburry—wife of Lord James Breville. I am their daughter.”

  In the silence, she felt his struggle. Hoping to push him nearer the edge of leaving her, she said, “We are enemies. Thus, as it would not be unseemly for the bargain struck with my mother to go unfulfilled, I release you from it.”

  He loosed her, thrust to his feet. “Blind,” he growled. “It was there all along—her reaction to my papers, her secretiveness, your lack of resemblance to Jabbar. Almighty! I could have been on my way to England long before now. Instead, I risked all to help a stinking Breville.”

  Now it was Alessandra who felt slapped. But this was what she wanted, his contempt the key to gaining her freedom.

  He shoved a hand through his hair. “Though I was still a boy, well I remember when Lady Catherine disappeared. How could I forget? It was the De Gautiers who were accused of taking her. Do you know our people nearly starved the following winter?”

  “How could I know anything of what transpired after my mother’s abduction?”

  Bitter laughter sounded from him. “Then I will tell you of that dark time.”

  “I do not wish to—”

  “James Breville set fire to half our harvest. And he would have burned all had the other half not been gathered in. Then he led raids against our villages and took what little the people had, leaving them hungrier than before.”

  Alessandra shuddered, told herself her father had surely believed the De Gautiers had taken her mother, for Sabine had said James was a good man. “Was it not your family who abducted my mother?” she asked.

  “Upon my word,” he barked, “we had naught to do with her disappearance.”

  Curiously, she believed him. She stood and touched Lucien’s arm. “Then it is just as well I will not be accompanying you. God speed your journey.”

  He grabbed her wrist. “Our journey.”

  He still intended to force her to England? “But I am a Breville. Why would you wish to help me?”

  “I assure you, help no longer has anything to do with it.” His tone was chill. “Your mother was wise to keep your identity hidden. And you are a fool to divulge it.” He began pulling her toward the horses.

  “What do you intend?” she asked, suddenly fearful of this man who had become a stranger in the space of minutes, and whose ominous emotions were more than a match for her anger and indignation. Gone was the one who had moved her so deeply with his caring when she had been injured, later with his mouth and hands…

  Lucien halted, rifled through a pack on the ground, and thrust garments at her. “Don these.”

  Alessandra did not require the light of day to know he held the traditional costume Arab women wore in public—a heavy caftan, a cloak, a concealing veil.

  She gripped his arm. “Lucien, please, do not—”

  He thrust her hand aside. “I will gag, bind, and carry you over my shoulder if need be. Now put these on, or I will do it for you.”

  She accepted the garments, murmured, “You know not what you do.”

  “In that you are wrong.” He retrieved a length of cloth from a pack and began to fashion a turban around his head.

  How was she to escape him? Alessandra wondered as she pulled on the caftan. Only when its warmth settled over her did she realize how chill she had become. Grateful, she positioned the veil and draped the cloak from the crown of her head.


  With the packs secured beneath his robes, Lucien took her arm and steered her in the direction of the buildings.

  “Not a word,” he said as they neared. “Do you understand?”

  “Lucien, can you not see how foolish—?”

  He halted and pulled her in front of him. “I have no more patience. All I ask for is a yes or a no. Which is it?”

  Her whole world having turned upside down—anger, grief, and fear tearing up her insides—she wanted to cry. “I understand,” she choked.

  “Good.” He guided her forward again.

  The steep, narrow streets they negotiated were nearly deserted, and when they chanced to cross another’s path, they were afforded no more than a cursory glance.

  Alessandra had never seen Algiers at night. For a few minutes, she arose from her misery and allowed the silhouetted city to fill her senses. It was almost beautiful. Unlike during the day when it was a dirty, teeming, exciting place begging to be explored, it radiated magic beneath the stars.

  Shortly, she was forced back to her present circumstances by the smell of the sea and the clamor of a lit harbor that merely rested while the city slept. Here there were people about, mostly drunken seamen in search of another drink or a woman. They were loud and coarse, staggering and spouting vulgarities.

  Slipping in and out of shadows, Lucien pulled Alessandra after him. “Where is she?” he muttered as he searched the calm waters of the harbor.

  She? Was it a ship he spoke of?

  “There,” he said. “The Sea Scourge.”

  Alessandra followed his gaze. Unlike the others ships anchored nearby, The Sea Scourge was not wide of beam or long of reach, but it appeared solid.

  “It is the one that will take you to England?” she whispered.

  “Do not exclude yourself, Alessandra. You will accompany me.”

  She had not meant to provoke him. It was simply that she had not accepted she would, indeed, leave Algiers. And still she would not abandon her hope of escape.