Lady Of Fire AKA Pagan Bride

by Tamara Leigh

  “But I do love you, Rashid.”

  He touched his mouth to her ear, trailed it down her neck to her shoulder. “As a brother, but soon as your lover.”

  She tried to turn to him, but he gripped her firmly about the waist and drew his other hand up her ribs.

  “You think the Englishman would make you happy.” He nuzzled her nape. “But once I lie with you, you will feel different.”

  How vain, Alessandra thought, then reminded herself of the culture in which she had been raised, where a man was the supreme master. His wives, especially if there were many, magnified his self-importance with their eagerness to gain his sexual attention.

  Still, Rashid seemed in an amiable mood, and Alessandra thought it might be worth the risk of reasoning with him. She owed it to him to try one last time.

  “Rashid, your mother, my mother, even Jabbar said I would not make you a good wife. Surely you have not forgotten?”

  He let her hair fall back into place and turned her to him. “They were wrong.”

  “They were not. These English you detest—I am one of them. I always have been, always shall be, and England is where I belong.”

  His smile was indulgent, though also bitter. “With me is where you belong. You are mine—”

  “I am not a possession. I am your friend, and that is all.”

  “You will be more when we are wed. I promise you, it will be the same as what was between Jabbar and Sabine.”

  She wanted to shake him, to loosen his crazy ideal of love. Instead, she said, “Yes, Rashid, my mother did love your father, but I am not Sabine. Never will we have the great love our parents had. Friends is all we will be, and perhaps not even that if you force me to return to Algiers.”

  He pecked a kiss on her lips, then released her and returned to the bed. He removed his cloak, spread it on the mattress, and laid down. “Join me?”

  “Did you hear nothing I said?”

  He clasped his hands behind his head. “I heard, and the discussion is done.”

  “But we have only just begun.”

  “Done, Alessandra. I will speak of it no more.”

  “But—”

  “Enough!”

  Fighting tears, she swung back to the window and silently bemoaned, He leaves me no choice. None at all.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “Vincent!” Lucien dropped to his knees and turned his brother.

  Lids lowered, blood caking his face from the gash on his forehead, Vincent did not respond.

  Lucien pulled him into his arms, called again, “Vincent!”

  James and Jervais’s entrance into the tent went unnoticed until Jervais lowered beside his brothers.

  Eldest and youngest exchanged glances, then Lucien put an ear to Vincent’s mouth, watched for the rise and fall of his chest, and prayed for breath.

  Was it his imagination, or did life, indeed, flutter through his brother?

  Lucien lifted his head and found Vincent staring at him through half-hooded eyes.

  “I am sorry, Lucien,” he mumbled. “I tried…”

  Lucien clasped his brother nearer. “You are alive. That is all that matters.”

  “No time,” Vincent’s muffled voice rose from Lucien’s embrace. “You must reach her ere he does.”

  “Sir Gavin,” Lucien said as he eased Vincent to the ground.

  “Aye, ’twas he who attacked me.”

  Lucien looked to James, conveying what the man refused to believe—until now. Sir Gavin’s undoing had been the words he had spoken in the great hall at Falstaff that had festered at the back of Lucien’s mind until they finally drew near enough to be examined.

  She should not have ventured out at night, he had said of Alessandra. It is the same as when her mother was taken.

  The man could not have known how Catherine had been stolen from Corburry. Then the miscreant had thrown them off his trail with the cool logic that Alessandra’s captor would flee by way of Southampton.

  “Why did Crennan attack you?” Lucien asked.

  Vincent raised a trembling hand and touched the wound. “I found the letter.”

  “What letter?”

  “When I questioned him as to the leisure with which we rode on London, he became defensive. We argued, and when he went to bathe in the stream this night—it is still night, is it not?” At Lucien’s nod, he continued. “I stole into his tent and went through his belongings. I found the letter—” He rolled onto his side and retched.

  When he was finished, Lucien carried him to the cot and sent Jervais for a basin of water.

  Vincent shuddered, feebly hugged his arms about himself. “You waste time.”

  Lucien dragged blankets over him. “Tell me about the letter.”

  Not until Jervais returned did Vincent find the strength to comply. As Lucien mopped his brow, cleaning away blood and perspiration, Vincent said, “The letter you gave me…to have delivered to Alessandra the night ere our departure. He had it, Lucien.”

  Lucien looked around. “Now are you convinced, James?”

  Breville momentarily closed his eyes. “How could I have known? We were friends. Does this mean Agnes knew his plans?”

  Lucien turned back to Vincent. “What happened next?”

  “He discovered me here. I confronted him with the letter, and he struck me.”

  “And left you for dead,” Lucien said bitterly and thrust to his feet. “Now that Sir Gavin is found out, he has surely gone to London to make certain his plans for Alessandra do not go awry.”

  “Before I lost consciousness,” Vincent said, “I heard him mutter something about Marietta. A woman?”

  “A ship,” Lucien guessed, then motioned for Jervais to attend to Vincent. “Do you ride or stay, Breville?”

  Face hardened by fury, James said, “I ride. Crennan is mine.”

  Rather than argue as to who had first rights to the man, Lucien met Jervais’s anxious gaze. “I trust no other with Vincent,” he said. “There will be other times for us to do battle together.” Though he prayed this would be his final battle, that his family would finally know peace, he also knew it was unrealistic. If not the Brevilles, there would be others who challenged the De Gautiers.

  He turned on his heel and strode from the tent.

  Outside, Sir Gavin’s men waited to discover what had transpired while they slept. Though the arrival of Lucien and James had sent them scrambling for their weapons before they realized who rode on their camp, they remained none the wiser as to the reason for their coming.

  And Lucien had no intention of wasting time explaining it. Soon enough they would learn of their lord’s sins.

  Calling for his men to gain their saddles, Lucien mounted his destrier. It would be morning before they reached London. But, God willing, Crennan was not far ahead.

  Alessandra, he silently entreated, be impetuous, be wild, be reckless. Do not go quietly.

  Though he knew she might this moment be aboard a ship sailing south, he had to believe she was still in London, waiting for him to come to her. And if she was not…

  I will go into Algiers and bring you out again, he vowed. You are mine, as I am yours.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The blow landed.

  Remorse flooding Alessandra, she sat up and turned to Rashid who lay upon the pillow as if he still slept. In a way, he did.

  She looked to a grinning Jacques whose weapon—a rotted board—was propped upon his shoulder.

  “You hit him too hard,” she said.

  “No more than he deserved. Besides, it will assure he does not come to before he ought.”

  Alessandra rose and crossed to the window. “Soon it will be light.”

  “Thus, there is no time to waste.” Jacques tossed the board to the bed, hurried to the door, and opened it a crack. A moment later, he crept out. When he returned, he shouldered a large trunk.

  Alessandra bolted the door behind him and went to the table where quill and parchment awaited her. While Jac
ques bound and gagged Rashid and fit him into the trunk, she lit a lamp and set to writing a letter—one of apology, explanation, and reminiscing of a childhood that belonged in the past.

  “Farewell, old friend,” she whispered and signed her name.

  “I am ready,” she said after placing the letter in Rashid’s hand.

  Jacques closed the trunk lid and secured it.

  “You have punched enough holes that he will be able to breathe well?” she asked.

  “Plenty. He will not want for air.” He heaved a sigh. “Now I am forgiven, no?”

  Alessandra was jolted back to the reality of her relationship with the Frenchman. Though she was still vexed at having been sold into slavery and stolen from Corburry, he seemed truly repentant and had acted to right the wrongs.

  “Nearly so,” she said honestly.

  He pretended nonchalance. “You will let me know when it is nearly so no longer?”

  She summoned a smile. “I shall.”

  Jacques crossed to the pallet and retrieved his cloak. As he settled it about his shoulders, he glanced from her chemise to her stockinged feet. “Dress quickly. I shall return shortly and not alone.”

  A quarter hour later, he entered the room ahead of two men of great size and frightening countenance. Caps pulled down over their ears to ward off the cold of a gusty English morn, they looked with interest at Alessandra.

  Grateful she had covered her own head, she peered at them from beneath her hood and wondered where Jacques had unearthed such unsavory characters.

  “There.” Jacques nodded at the trunk. “Carry it to the dock, and you will have your reward.”

  “Who be the lady?” asked the older of the men.

  Jacques strode to her and put an arm around her. “My wife, gentlemen, Madame Felice LeBrec.”

  The younger ruffian elbowed the older. “Sooner done, the sooner we have our coin.”

  The older one grunted, lumbered to the trunk, and hefted one end. Shortly, Rashid was borne from the room and began a hazardous journey down stairs that protested loudly beneath their weight.

  Leaving their few possessions in the room since they would return before journeying to Corburry, Jacques and Alessandra followed the hired men through and around the dirt and garbage of streets beginning to awaken to morn.

  In contrast, the docks were already teeming with life. Everywhere, men made ready for the departure of the ship that would carry Rashid far from England.

  Walking beside Jacques, Alessandra marveled over the berthed vessel. Though Nicholas’s ship had been splendid, it hardly compared with this one. “Marietta,” she read the gold-lettered name.

  Jacques led her to the railing along the edge of the dock. “Wait here while I see to Rashid.”

  Huddled in her cloak, the moist air chilling her cheeks, she watched him direct the men to the area where baggage was stacked and waiting to be hauled aboard.

  Without a care for the contents, they dropped the trunk to the dock, making her wince in anticipation of the bruises Rashid would suffer from such handling.

  Jacques paid them from a pouch and started to walk away, only to find the men blocking his path. Haggling and angry words followed, but finally the Frenchman dropped more coins in their palms and the men retreated.

  After speaking briefly with one of the crew who also received payment, Jacques returned to Alessandra. “Thieves,” he muttered. “I had to pay those men twice what they agreed upon yesterday.”

  “You expected better?”

  His scowl ascended to a smile. “Foolish, no?”

  She looked to the ship. “What now?”

  “If I had my way, we would start for Corburry, but since you refuse to leave Rashid to his fate, we wait.”

  Of their plan, it was the one thing on which Alessandra had not conceded. Bound and gagged, Rashid might not make his presence known, and he would certainly not survive the long voyage in the trunk. Thus, Jacques would accompany the trunk to the cabin Rashid had reserved, extricate him from the trunk, and leave him bound and gagged on the cot. Rashid would be discovered, but not until after the Marietta sailed.

  Over the next half hour, during which the docks swarmed with passengers eager to begin their voyage, Alessandra decided it was a good thing Jacques had struck Rashid so hard. Otherwise, his awakening and subsequent commotion might have foiled their plan.

  Gripping her hood to keep it from being blown off her head, she watched as two sailors carried the trunk up the sharply inclined ramp.

  Jacques patted her hand. “I shall return shortly, cherie.” He strode the dock, mounted the ramp, and went from sight.

  Alessandra settled her elbows on the railing, cupped her chin in one hand, and looked down into the cold, murky water.

  Finally, there came the call to board, and the travelers advanced up the ramp.

  Where was Jacques? she worried as she searched the deck for sight of him. What was taking him so long? Might Rashid have regained consciousness and overpowered him?

  Then she saw him. At the top of the ramp, his progress hindered by the upward surge of passengers, he waved his arms, seemingly in a frantic manner.

  A quick check of her person revealing the hood had fallen to her shoulders, she whipped it over her hair, but he waved more vigorously and shouted something she could not catch. As she strained to make sense of what he was saying, a hand settled to her shoulder.

  She turned.

  A friendly smile awaited her. “Good day, Alessandra.”

  She gaped. What was Sir Gavin doing here? Had he and her father tracked Rashid to London? She glanced past him, but saw no other familiar faces.

  Then a piece fell into place, and she heard again the words of the man who had lifted her onto his horse after she had run from Rashid at Corburry.

  I want her gone from here. Now!

  She had known the voice, but only now did its owner register.

  Too late, she understood what Jacques had tried to tell her. More, she understood the reason Sir Gavin had never mentioned that Rashid and Jacques had come to Glasbrook in search of her.

  When Melissant had asked after her grandparents the night Alessandra had first met Sir Gavin, he had said they had been in London for more than a month. Thus, they could not have been present when Rashid and Jacques arrived at Glasbrook. But Gavin had surely been, and for reasons known only to himself, he had assisted Rashid in abducting her, which meant he had also…

  Realization striking like the back of a hand, Alessandra lunged away in hopes of losing herself among the throng, but Gavin caught her cloak. The neck of the garment cutting into her throat, she was dragged back and his arms came around her. “So you know,” he said.

  Pulling the cloak away from her neck, she searched out Jacques and saw he continued to struggle against the crowd.

  Once more pretending defeat, she stilled, and when Gavin turned her toward him, clenched a hand and punched him between the eyes.

  He released her and dropped back a step.

  Ignoring the pain cramping her hand, she thrust through the crowd, building a wall between her and the man who would soon be fast upon her heels.

  Where she was going, she did not know, but it would not be toward the ship she was to have boarded.

  Denying herself a look behind lest that moment was all it took for Sir Gavin to overtake her, she left the docks and turned onto a familiar-looking street.

  As she ran, she was reminded of Tangier and her flight from Lucien. The irony of it was she would not be running now had she not run from him then, for there would not have been a Jacques to lead Rashid to her. But there would still be Sir Gavin, he who had surely abducted her mother and sold her into slavery.

  The ramshackle inn in which she had spent a sleepless night peeking at her from between two larger buildings, she headed for it and, shortly, clambered up the stairs to the room at the end of the corridor. It was locked. As she searched the pouch upon her girdle, she looked over her shoulder and nearly cried
with relief to discover she was not followed.

  She fit the key in the lock, but as she turned it, she heard pounding on the stairs. And there was Sir Gavin, taking the last steps to the second floor.

  Alessandra lunged into the room, slammed the door, and locked it.

  Without haste, Sir Gavin advanced, as evidenced by his shadow that crept beneath the door and spread to the toes of her shoes. She jumped back.

  “Alessandra, open the door.”

  A weapon. She searched the room for one, but there was only the board with which Jacques had knocked Rashid unconscious. She snatched it up, retreated to the window, and held it behind her in hopes of once more catching Sir Gavin unawares.

  He knocked. “Alessandra, my dear, I must speak with you.”

  How harmless he sounded!

  “Please. There are things I need to explain.”

  Indeed there were.

  He put his weight to the door, but though it strained and creaked, it did not give. He tried again, this time using thrust.

  Fearing the lock would not hold, she closed her eyes. “Lord, I need another angel.” Preferably, in the form of Lucien.

  The sound of splintering wood snapped her eyes open.

  The door swung inward, hit the wall, and rebounded.

  Throwing a hand up to avoid being struck by it, Gavin pushed the door away and stepped inside. Fixing his gaze on Alessandra, he paused in the middle of the room.

  “You are afraid of me,” he said. “You should not be. I would never hurt you.”

  Though slivers pierced her where she gripped the board, she curled her hands more tightly around it. “Is that what you told my mother—that you would never hurt her? You do not think she was injured when you stole her from my father and sent her into slavery?”

  A corner of his mouth drew up into something of a smile. “You are guessing, Alessandra.”

  She shook her head. “I know it was you. Just as I know you intended to also steal me from my father.”

  His gaze shifted to the floor, and he stared at it as if considering her words, then he held out a hand. “Give it to me.”