by Tamara Leigh
Alessandra knew the face, but it made no sense. Closing her lids, she whispered, “I always could outrun you,” then yielded to unconsciousness.
“She did not come?”
Lucien dragged his gaze from Corburry’s darkened keep, took up the reins, and looked over his shoulder to Jervais. “She stayed true to her word,” he said.
Jervais urged his horse near. “She will change her mind. Within a sennight, you will have word from her.”
Lucien tapped heels to his destrier and maneuvered to the head of the De Gautier procession. As it had been nearly impossible to sleep through the night, they would be the first to depart Corburry. It suited him, leaving ahead of the dawn and ensuring their arrival at Falstaff before the noon hour.
“Even so,” Lucien said when Jervais sidled near, “’tis probably best Alessandra remain a Breville.”
“For whom?”
“Both of us.”
“But—”
“She has made her decision, Jervais. Leave it be.” Lucien jabbed his heels into his mount’s sides and left his brother and the others behind.
Falstaff, he told himself as the cool air ran through his hair. His former holdings restored, it was there he would find peace. In time, Alessandra would fade from memory until all that remained would be the occasional encounter that was bound to happen as long as there was peace between the De Gautiers and the Brevilles.
However long that might be.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“She is awake, my friend.”
The accented voice drifted into Alessandra’s consciousness. She groaned, blinked against the light of a sun muted by cloud cover, and turned her head toward the man who rose from beside a campfire. Not until he knelt beside her and pushed the hair out of her eyes was she able to bring him into focus.
Thinking she must be dreaming, she closed her eyes in hopes of awakening in her warm chamber at Corburry.
“Alessandra,” he gave her a shake.
Funny that his voice is so clear, she thought.
“Do you hear me?” His warm breath caressed her cheek.
She lifted her eyes again, peered into familiar black orbs. “Go away,” she breathed. “You do not belong in England.” Rubbing her hands up and down her chilled arms, she curled into a ball to try to warm herself.
“Neither do you belong here,” he said and shook her harder.
She returned her gaze to him and found his features undeniably distinct. His black eyebrows drawn together, mouth a tight line, he looked more real than any dream she had ever had. And the four lines scoring his right cheek…
“Rashid?”
His mouth softened. “Yes, Rashid.”
She sat up so abruptly, her head clipped his chin. “It cannot be,” she switched to her native language with an awkwardness that surprised her. Though she continued to think in Arabic, more and more she spoke the English language without conscious effort.
Rashid caught her hand. “It is me,” he said and placed her palm against his jaw.
“What are you doing in England?”
“I came to take you home.”
The events of the night past rushed at her. It was Rashid who had abducted her from the camp. He who had stolen the breath from her when she had fought him. But what of the other two? She had known one of them—or thought she had—but could not recall who it was.
“Why did you come for me?” she asked.
His nostrils flared with a hint of the anger she had glimpsed the night he had beat Lucien. “Algiers is where you belong. As my bride.”
His bride, not Lucien’s. Realizing Lucien had likely departed Corburry by now, she closed her eyes. He would have gone believing she had spurned him.
“Alessandra?” Rashid jogged her. “We are returning to Algiers.”
That was what she had wanted when Lucien had forced her to accompany him to Tangier, but now she wanted something different. She could not return to the life she would have as Rashid’s wife. She needed freedom, not to be cosseted and locked away without consideration of her own feelings.
Even though women were also regarded as chattel in England, their lives seemed fuller—running the household, checking the accounts, enjoying outings where they were not required to hide their faces, and all other manner of independence she was not permitted in a harem. Despite England’s cold weather, strange food, and primitive means of men proving their valor, she belonged here. More, she belonged with Lucien, even if he would not have her.
“I cannot,” she said and pulled her hand away. “Algiers is no longer my home, Rashid.”
Abruptly, he stood. Coloring suffusing his face, he said, “You think you belong in this godforsaken country of little sun and accursed cold?”
She deserved this. After all, he had come across an ocean to return her to Algiers.
He reached down and yanked her upright. “Are you still mine, Alessandra?”
“Yours?” Had she ever truly been his? Regardless, now she was not, for he was not Lucien. Wishing there were an easier way to tell him, she said, “I am sorry, Rashid, but England is my home.”
He thrust his face near hers. “I have asked if you are still mine!”
“I am not.”
“Then it is true you lust after De Gautier. Have lain with him.”
The truth would hurt him, but it would be worse to lie. “I am still chaste, but ’tis Lucien I love.”
Only the fury that leaped in his eyes and her quick reflexes saved her from the hand he raised to her. Gripping his wrist, she stared into his eyes and tried not to tremble with fear.
“I will not allow you to strike me, Rashid,” she said as evenly as she could manage.
His nostrils flared, then he thrust her back so that she dropped to the blanket she had been lying on. “You are a witch and a whore, just as my mother tried to tell me.” He gripped his forehead. “I should have listened.”
Alessandra pushed to her feet. “You know that is not so.”
“What I know is that you betrayed me. And for that, I would not be faulted for ending your life.”
His words frightened her, but she calmed herself with the reminder of who he was to her and put a hand on his shoulder. “You could not do that to me. We are friends, and shall always be.”
“Friends!” He threw off her hand and lurched away.
It was then Alessandra saw who had accompanied Rashid to England. Perched on a rock, a knee drawn up, an arm draped over it, Jacques LeBrec gave her a slow smile.
Once more, she considered this must be a dream, for what else would bring together these two men?
Jacques stood. “Cherie!” He sauntered to her, caught up her hands, and brushed his lips over the backs of her fingers. “You are surprised, no?”
“This is not possible,” Alessandra whispered.
“But it is! I am here.” He laughed. “The same as your betrothed.”
She glanced at Rashid, felt his anger, then returned her gaze to the very real person of Jacques LeBrec and snatched her hands from his. “You sold me into slavery!”
He shrugged, said, “Pardon,” then attempted to coax understanding from her with the same smile he had used to gain her trust in Tangier. “But now I am redeemed, eh? Soon you will be back in Algiers, as was your wish.”
Drenched anew in memories of the slave auction, she spat, “Redeemed? Never!” and launched herself at him.
It was Rashid who saved him from her fists. He grabbed her from behind, forced her to the ground, and straddled her. “I demand your obedience, woman!”
“You demand?” she gasped. “I am not your wife, nor am I of your faith that I must obey your every word.”
“You are not my wife yet, but you shall be.”
“I am not leaving England!”
“Indeed, you are,” he said, then covered her mouth with his.
Alessandra was too stunned to move, but when he began to grind his mouth against hers as if that might evoke a response, she jerked her head aside. “Cease
, Rashid!”
“You wanted it once.”
When she had kissed him on the rooftop to prove she was not attracted to Lucien. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Not like this.”
“How?” he demanded. “Tell me how De Gautier pleasured you, and I will do better.”
When she did not answer, he put his mouth to her ear and nipped her lobe.
Alessandra would have protested anew, but Jacques dropped to his haunches beside them and said in lingua franca, “Rashid, my friend, this is not the time or place to tame her.”
Although Alessandra expected Rashid to turn his anger on Jacques, he stood and stalked away.
“Heathen,” Jacques muttered as he helped Alessandra up to sitting. Then he put an arm around her as if to offer solace.
She pulled free and scooted away.
With a rueful smile, he gained his feet. “Eventually, cherie, you will have to forgive me.”
“Never!”
He tsked. “That is a very long time.”
“It is forever.”
He sighed, returned to the fire, and picked a piece of dried meat from the platter beside it. “I thought I was making amends by leading your betrothed to you,” he mused, then held up the meat.
She shook her head, asked, “How did you come to be with Rashid?”
He popped the meat in his mouth, chewed. “You must know I suffered terrible guilt selling you at auction.”
“I know nothing of the sort.”
“I did, cherie. But when I saw the English captain had bought you, I knew you would be fine. You had family in England, and I thought it likely you would escape once you reached its shores.”
“And Rashid?”
“Two days after you set sail, he came to me—quite angry.” He glanced at the other man who had distanced himself and was now at prayer. “Talk was still fresh of the fiery woman sold at auction. Thus, he learned I had offered you for sale.”
He grimaced, rubbed a hand over his throat. “There was a moment, cherie, when I feared my life was over. Then, Blessed Virgin, I remembered something.”
“What?”
He crossed to where a pack sat beside the rock he had earlier perched upon. Shortly, he returned to her and dropped a folded letter in her lap.
Alessandra knew it was the one her mother had written her that she had been forced to leave behind upon being sold into slavery.
“Read it.” He jerked his chin.
“I know what it says.”
“Then you also know it is how Rashid and I discovered your whereabouts. It was—”
Rashid’s wail rent the air.
Jacques rolled his eyes. “It was not so difficult.”
“But the letter said I was to be taken to my aunt and uncle. How did you find me at Corburry?”
He sank to his haunches. “I am not at liberty to say.”
“What do you mean, ‘not at liberty’?”
“Alessandra, you are an intelligent woman. You can figure it out.”
“I would prefer you save me the trouble.”
“My word I have given. I cannot.”
Glowering, she dragged the blanket around her shoulders to ward off the morning cold.
Glasbrook, she thought. Her mother had instructed Lucien to deliver her there, where Sabine’s aunt and uncle—Agnes and Gavin’s parents—lived. Thus, it was to Glasbrook that Rashid and Jacques would have gone first. But who had sent two strangers on to Corburry? The aunt and uncle? Sir Gavin?
Not Sir Gavin. He was too wise to be duped by two of obvious foreign descent. It must have been his unsuspecting parents. Still, it made little sense.
A memory niggled at the back of Alessandra’s mind, but though she tried to pry it free, she lost hold of it.
“I cannot think now,” she said.
“It will come to you.”
She would have pressed him further, but Rashid returned.
“Arise, Alessandra.”
Taking the blanket with her, she stood and was surprised to see his eyes were filled with tears.
“It has been difficult these last months,” he said. “Forgive me.” Then he put his arms around her.
Would he allow her to return to Corburry, then?
“Everything I knew has changed,” he said. “You are all I have left of what was good in my life. I need you.”
His sorrow tugged at her heart, made her wish she could love him as he loved her, but there was Lucien. Only Lucien.
Rashid pulled back. “We will wed as soon as we reach Algiers, then you will become my first wife as you were always meant to be.”
If he was set on returning her to Algiers and she had any hope of escape, she must allow him to believe she would go willingly. Only then might she catch him off guard.
She nodded, leaned in, and over his shoulder, met Jacques’s bewildered gaze.
“We must go.” Rashid set her back from him. “There is a ship that leaves for the Mediterranean in four days. We shall be on it.”
She summoned a smile she hoped revealed none of her true feelings.
Placated, his face once more boyishly handsome, Rashid turned to Jacques. “Clear the camp. I will bring the horses.”
A half hour later, they rode east.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“My lord, the Brevilles ride on Falstaff.”
Lucien’s first thought was that Alessandra had come, but the captain of the guard’s brow was too furrowed. He pushed away the ledger he had been examining. “In peace?”
“Armored, my lord, with knights abounding.”
Lucien surged to his feet. Despite Breville’s talk of goodwill, he intended to continue their feud. Indeed, Lucien would not be surprised if it had been in his mind even as he had signed over the De Gautier lands two days past. And for what? The knave now possessed Dewmoor Pass, and without contest.
“Secure the castle,” Lucien ordered.
“’Tis being done now,” the man said.
Throwing off his fur-lined robe, Lucien called for his squire.
The young man came running. “You would have me arm you, my lord?”
“For now, I require only mail tunic, boots, and sword.”
The squire disappeared and quickly returned. In the center of the great hall, amid knights and family members, Lucien donned the mail, shoved his feet into leather boots, and secured his sword.
“I thought ’twas finally over,” Dorothea said, placing a hand on her eldest son’s arm.
Lucien shifted his jaw to ease its tension. “You are not the only one who was duped, Mother.”
She lowered her head, whispered, “It will never end.”
He tilted her face up, pressed a kiss to her pale cheek, and called for his knights to follow.
On the roof of the gatehouse, Lucien and his brothers stared out at the assembled Breville knights. There was no question they did not come in peace.
“Are the cannons ready?” he asked the captain of the guard.
“They are being loaded now.”
Lucien turned back to contemplate Breville’s first move.
“I cannot believe it,” Vincent said. “It must be a misunderstanding.”
Jervais grunted. “No misunderstanding. Typical Breville trickery.”
James Breville, a knight on either side of him, broke formation and urged his horse forward. “Lucien de Gautier! Where are you, man?”
Lucien moved to the center of the embrasure. “I am here!”
James lifted his visor. “I want her back!”
Lucien narrowed his gaze on him. “Of what do you speak, Breville?”
After some silence, James called, “Very well, I will play your game, but know that you will die on your knees.”
Though Lucien was tempted to return threat for threat, he knew he must not give in to anger—at least, not until it was time to take sword in hand. “I play no game. That I leave to you who professed to want peace and now rides against me without provocation.”
“Without provocation! You De Gautiers steal my daughter as you stole my wife and dare say I am unjustified in seeking your deaths?”
Struck with fear as vicious that felt when he had lost Alessandra to the streets of Tangier, it took Lucien a moment to respond, and when he did, he did not care that his voice was strained as of one not fully in control of his emotions. “She is missing?”
“Missing?” James spat. “Just as your father took Catherine, you took Alessandra, you milk-livered wretch.”
Overlooking the insult, for which he would have once made the man pay dearly, Lucien said, “Your accusation is false, Breville. I am coming down.” He turned and found Jervais in his path, a bow with a nocked arrow at his side.
“Do not trust him, Brother. It may be a trap.”
Realizing he preferred it be that than the jagged-edged truth, Lucien said, “If it is, you need not worry as to whose blood will spill.”
Jervais raised the bow. “I will watch your back.”
Pain at the center of his chest, Lucien descended to the bailey and motioned for the portcullis to be raised. When it was waist high, he ducked beneath it and strode the length of the drawbridge.
“Tell me all of it,” he demanded, halting before James who had the look of a man teetering on an edge he should not go near.
Sword before him, James leaned forward in the saddle. “Where is my daughter?”
Lucien flexed his hand on his sword hilt. Even with Jervais and others on the wall ready to defend him, there was much danger in leaving the blade sheathed where he stood alone before his lifelong enemy, but this time was different from others. This time, there was Alessandra to consider, she who would benefit none from another De Gautier-Breville clash. Indeed, such a delay would surely be to her detriment.
Easing the tension from his jaw, Lucien said, “I did not take Lady Alessandra.”
“You deny sending her a message ere you left Corburry?”
“The message was sent, but that is all.”
“She did not come to you that night?”
“She did not.”
James arced his sword, stopped its point a foot from Lucien’s chest.
Struggling against warrior senses that urged him to return aggression for aggression, Lucien told himself the timing must be right, else all would turn bloody before the walls of Falstaff. And if that happened, Alessandra could as easily be lost to her family—to him—as those whose lives would stain the soil beneath his feet.
