Lady Of Fire AKA Pagan Bride

by Tamara Leigh

  Wide-eyed, she whispered, “Do you mean to kiss me?”

  He lowered his head and covered her mouth with his.

  Alessandra sighed and pushed fingers through his hair.

  Feeling as if he were falling into her, knowing it might be impossible to extricate himself if he let it go further, Lucien ended the kiss and pulled her into another dance.

  She laughed and, uninhibited, floated in his arms.

  As night descended, Lucien silently vowed he would no longer think of her as a spawn of James Breville. From this day forward, she would simply be Alessandra—not that there was anything simple about her. Indeed, the thought came unbidden to him, she could be the key to peaceably settling the dispute between the Brevilles and the De Gautiers.

  Danced out, weary, belly full of strange foodstuffs that politeness had prevented her from refusing, Alessandra stepped into the dimly lit cabin and halted. “There are two cots now. Before, there was only one.”

  Behind her, Lucien closed the door. “The second is mine.”

  She looked around. “I did not know you intended to share the cabin with me.”

  “Do you object?”

  More than anything, she wished him near. “I do not, but is it proper? It would not be were I yet under Jabbar’s protection, and from what I know of England, I cannot imagine it is acceptable there.”

  “You are right. However, space is limited, and there is no other whom I trust to keep you safe from the crew.”

  “But what will they think?”

  “Most improper thoughts, but you will less likely suffer their attentions if they believe you belong to me.”

  The silence between them grew thick with longing. Hoping it was not hers alone, Alessandra wished she did belong to Lucien. And he to her.

  “Worry not what crusty men of the sea think,” he finally said. “Once we reach England, you will not see them again. It is only the English nobles you must needs impress.”

  Mouth gone dry, Alessandra crossed to the cot that would be hers. “I do not know that I will be able to sleep in such a contraption. It looks uncomfortable.”

  “It is not. Shall I show you how to mount it?”

  “Would you?”

  “Aye, but first you should remove your gown.”

  She looked over her shoulder.

  He raised his eyebrows. “If you sleep in it, it will be a mass of wrinkles.” Then, rather than offer to assist her as he had done when she had donned it, he turned aside.

  Meaning she was not the only one to feel the longing? That now, alone with her and with night upon them, he thought better of the intimacy inherent in undressing her?

  Telling herself it was good he played the gentleman the same as he had done before Nicholas during their meal, she set about freeing button after button from its bothersome loop and dragged the gown off. Clad in under gown and chemise, she folded the gown and placed it atop the trunk.

  “I am ready,” she said.

  Lucien crossed to her cot. “One hand here.” He took it and placed it on the far rail, “the other here.” He closed her other hand over the side rail she stood alongside. “Then a knee up and roll your body into it. Simple.”

  “Or humiliating,” she said as she lifted a leg over the side of the shifting cot.

  Lucien placed one hand on the back of her knee, the other on her hip, and gave her a boost.

  Landing facedown on the soft mattress, she held tight, certain the swinging cot would dump her on the cabin floor.

  Blessedly, he steadied the cot. “Now turn over.”

  She released her handholds and slowly made her way onto her back.

  “As I said, simple.” Lucien grinned.

  She grimaced. “Only because you make it so. I do not think I shall ever become accustomed to it.”

  “You will.” He reached for the folded blanket at her feet. “The voyage will be long, and sleep is more easily had on a bed that adjusts to the ship’s movement, especially when it lists heavily.” He shook out the blanket and spread it over her. “I take your leave now.”

  She sat up, caught her breath when the cot lurched. “You said you were sharing the cabin with me.”

  “I am.” He steadied the cot. “But now I must speak with Nicholas.”

  “You spoke with him this eve.”

  His gaze turned serious. “There are some things which are not discussed in front of ladies. Remember that.”

  “Cannot my being a lady wait until we reach England?”

  “You cannot simply act the lady, Alessandra, you must feel the lady. And so we begin now.”

  She sighed, gingerly settled back on the mattress.

  “I will not be long,” he said. “Dream well.” Then he was gone.

  Though this early in the voyage, Lucien knew it was likely safe to leave Alessandra alone in the cabin at night, he locked her inside. Until he took good measure of the crew—and they took good measure of him—it was best to exercise caution. And, of course, there was Alessandra’s penchant for getting herself into trouble. If she determined to explore the ship and a seaman caught her alone…

  Lucien did not wish another death on his conscience.

  He located Nicholas aft, where he was overseeing the setting of a sail.

  “Marvelous, is she not?” Nicholas said as Lucien approached. “So calm, so placid.”

  Lucien knew better than to think his cousin referred to a woman of flesh. It was the ocean he spoke of.

  “She is pouting, you know,” Nicholas added.

  Lucien halted before him, spread his legs to counter the ship’s sway. “Pouting?”

  His cousin grinned. “She only puffs at my sails, and all because I dared place my hull upon another’s waters.”

  “The Mediterranean.”

  Nicholas nodded. “As if this ocean were true only to me.” He laughed, flashing white teeth in the dim. “Imagine that, a harlot with a jealous streak.”

  “Perhaps you ought to find another mistress,” Lucien suggested.

  Nicholas scowled. “Like your Alessandra? She who will bleed your heart from you until you are less than a woman, then flit into another’s arms? Vincent’s, perhaps?”

  Lucien’s humor fell away so abruptly that only great restraint kept him from landing a blow to the other man.

  It had never bothered him that his brother’s handsome looks and brilliant smile drew women like bees to flowers—at least, until those looks and Vincent’s shameless flirting twice ended Lucien’s betrothals. To wed a woman who openly yearned for another was a humiliation to which he would not subject himself, especially when the other man was his own brother.

  Lucien breathed deep. “For all your obsession with this accursed ocean, you are more wise than I.”

  Nicholas clapped him on the shoulder. “For a moment, I thought you meant to do me harm.”

  “I did.”

  “Then I am glad you rethought it.”

  Deciding it was time for a change of subject, Lucien turned his thoughts to his reason for seeking out his cousin. Since meeting up with him in Tangier, he had not had time to address the concerns that now badgered him, his worry over Alessandra having consumed him entirely.

  “I would hear what you know of Falstaff,” he said. “What changes have been wrought in my home since I left?”

  Nicholas pushed a hand through his hair, kneaded his neck muscles. “I have been no farther than London for more than a year now, Lucien. As you know, I do not dare venture too far from my ship lest the Church clap me in irons for turning renegade.”

  “A fool thing to do.”

  Nicholas looked not the least remorseful. “At the time, it served its purpose.”

  “I am not going to ask what that was.”

  “Wise,” Nicholas said, then turned serious. “When last I was at Falstaff, all was as it should be—except you were thought dead. Your father was heartbroken that you had gone to France with his angry words ringing in your ears. Indeed, it was his greatest sorro
w he could not make it right between you.”

  Lucien nodded. For weeks, they had argued over Falstaff’s heir journeying to France to fight a war his sire regarded as futile and witless. Harsh words were exchanged, and Lucien had ridden away angry and resentful. In the end, his father had proven right, and Lucien intended to bend his knee to him and admit it once they were reunited.

  “I will make amends when I return,” he murmured.

  After a long silence, Nicholas continued, “As for the disagreement between the Brevilles and your family, it was yet being seeded and, on occasion, yielding bitter harvest. Vincent gambled away whatever he could lay hands upon, and Jervais…”

  Lucien smiled at mention of his youngest brother.

  “You would not recognize him, Lucien. He is a worthy knight. His shoulders are broad, his skill at arms exceptional, and when he speaks, one turns an ear to him.”

  “What of my mother?”

  “She is well.”

  “Giselle?”

  Nicholas grinned. “What can I say? Your little sister has a mouth on her that may rival Alessandra’s. Though your mother tries to contain her, she is, at times, out of control. Very strong of mind for a girl child.”

  It was she whom Lucien most looked forward to seeing again. “What else?”

  “That is all I know.”

  Lucien nodded. “Though a year can change even that.”

  “It can.” Nicholas offered his wineskin.

  Lucien accepted and, shortly, passed it back.

  “Change is not always bad, Lucien. After all, it has brought you back from the dead.”

  What he was saying without saying it, Lucien knew, was that if things were different at Falstaff when its heir returned, he should be tolerant.

  And Lucien was determined he would not disappoint. He had abided in darkness too long to sow discord among his family.

  He looked out across the blue-black waters that abutted the blue-black sky. Somewhere in that unforeseeable distance lay England.

  Home, he breathed into himself. I am going home. Feeling a settling in his soul, he bid his cousin a good eve and headed back across the deck to Alessandra.

  Nicholas considered his mistress. Like the harlot she proved to be each time he came to her, she lured him, spread her arms wide, seduced him with salty kisses, was quick to betray him. And he savored every moment. Or nearly so, for at her most treacherous, she left casualties in her wake. But that was the price paid to be borne upon her.

  Lucien could have his redheaded paramour. Jezebel’s captain would make do with the occasional wench, always returning to the one who possessed his soul.

  Settling his elbows to the railing, he peered across the water to the moon’s reflection on the sweetest of curves. And laughed at himself. He took his feelings for the ocean too far, but for all that she was not and could never be, she was safer and more constant than a flesh and blood woman, like the one he had bought at auction at his cousin’s behest.

  He almost pitied Lucien—almost, for though Alessandra would surely continue to test the man who had rescued her from lifelong bondage, she was something to behold. The question was, what lay ahead for them? Of greater import, what lay ahead for Lucien?

  Nicholas worked through their conversation and, coming to the end of it, grunted. There was one thing he had neglected to mention—important, though better forgotten for the time being.

  Had he told Lucien of his father’s illness, it would be a much longer voyage than it needed to be, for Lucien’s guilt would be tenfold greater. Too, it was possible the old man had recovered—a good possibility considering what the De Gautiers were made of. But Nicholas feared not.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “It is an interesting game.” Alessandra wrinkled her nose as she considered the ivory cubes Lucien and she had been tossing this past half hour. “But not much fun.”

  He swept the cubes into his palm. “’Tis called dice, a popular game in England. My brother, Vincent, has but to hold a pair and he loses all but the clothes on his back.”

  Alessandra drew her knees up, rested her chin on them, and looked to the distant coast of Portugal. “I prefer chess.”

  “And your donkey game.”

  She hid her smile against her knees. “It makes me laugh. Were you not so English, you might see the fun of it.”

  “And were you not so Arab, you might see how ridiculous it is.”

  She returned her gaze to him. “These past days you have been merciless in reminding me I am English, instructing me in all manners of that culture, and now you call me Arab?”

  “It must be your determination to cling to your pagan ways that confuses me,” he said.

  She clicked her tongue. “Have I not been a willing pupil? I lift my skirts and measure my steps. I curtsy and use polite address though I have yet to encounter one seaman deserving of such. I eat that terrible fare with a smile on my face. And I have learned your dances and suffered these gowns.”

  “All that, and yet you refuse to wear head cover to protect your skin.” He leaned forward and tapped freckles the sun had warmed to a darker pigment.

  Alessandra lowered her lashes, not to hide embarrassment, but to mask the emotion roused by his touch. Since their departure from Tangier, he had played the gentleman well. All she had of him were kisses stolen amid laughter, frustration, and uncomfortable silence. As she had from the beginning, she longed to be nearer him, but he continued to hold himself apart.

  “I like the sun,” she said, then stood, propped her arms on the railing, and cupped her chin in a palm.

  Lucien also rose. “You will not see much of it once we reach England, especially with summer nearly past.

  “Mother said it could be a cold place.”

  “’Tis the reason so many babes are born during high summer.”

  “How is that?”

  Mischief brightened his eyes. “When the clouds are weeping rain and snow and the air is so chill it near bites you bloody, the best place to be at day’s end is abed. And not alone.”

  Holding his teasing gaze, Alessandra said, “Is that what you do? Lie abed with a lover?”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  Jealousy, with the bite of the English cold of which he had warned, sinking its teeth into her, Alessandra said, “Of course you do,” and stepped around him.

  Though she felt his presence at her back all the way to the cabin, she pretended ignorance and started to close the door behind her.

  His foot prevented it from settling in its frame. “I should not have been so forward,” he said when she looked up. “For all that I would have you behave the lady, it seems I must learn again how to behave the gentleman. Pray, forgive me.”

  She gave a curt nod, tried to close the door.

  When he resisted her effort, she gave a huff and pivoted.

  “Still, you are angry with me,” he said as he stepped inside.

  Busying herself with straightening her few possessions, she said, “I am merely tired.”

  When the silence stretched so long it became more awkward to keep her back to him than to face him, she turned.

  “What do you want from me, Alessandra?” he asked where he stood before the door.

  Though the girl tempted her toward a coy response, the woman urged her to speak true, even if it left her vulnerable, her pride trampled.

  “I feel for you, Lucien. I believe you know this. What I would know is if you feel for me.”

  His jaw shifted. “I have already said I desire you. I make no lie of it.”

  “That is not what I asked. Do you feel something beyond desire?”

  Once more, all went still between them, but just when she thought he would not answer, he strode forward. “I know you believe your feelings are those of the heart”—he halted before her—“and you would have my feelings be the same, but it is not so simple a thing.”

  She frowned. “I do not see why it should be hard.”

  “Alessandra, as I
am the only remnant of your former life—albeit recently acquired—it is natural you would attach yourself to me, especially after all you have lost and endured.”

  She caught her breath as memories kept carefully tucked away unfolded—her mother’s agonizing death, the terrible journey to Tangier, near ravishment in the tavern, the platform upon which she had been auctioned as if she were a breeding goat.

  “In England, there will be no harem to hide you from men’s eyes,” he continued, “nor to hide them from yours. Before you will be a wondrous selection, and among them will be eager suitors—men who are not your father’s adversary.”

  She stepped nearer and slid her arms around his neck. “I do not want any of them. I want—”

  “Alessandra”—he closed his hands around her wrists and pulled them down between them—“do not mistake inexperience and gratitude for something it is not. For both our sakes.”

  Heartbreak made her snatch hold of the one word that offered hope. “Both?”

  He released her and turned away.

  Frustration made her call after him, “I will not ask again what you feel for me, Lucien.”

  He looked over his shoulder. “Then you are making good progress.”

  Anger made her yank off a shoe and draw her arm back to hurl it.

  He closed the door behind him.

  The yearn to be seen as a woman made her drop the shoe to the floor and her face into her hands. But she did not cry. Would not cry.

  Though tempted to forgo the nooning meal, Alessandra gathered herself together as a woman would do and left the cabin.

  When she entered the galley, Lucien and Nicholas looked up from their meal of salted meat and fish.

  She inclined her head and came around the table to seat herself on the long bench beside Lucien.

  “Sit next to Nicholas,” he said.

  She halted. Had she so angered him that he did not wish her near?

  “A lesson,” he clarified, and she knew he had glimpsed her distress.