The Emerald Embrace

by Briskin, Jacqueline;

“You do?” It hadn’t occurred to me that I was mysterious to him. “What?”

  “Why were you aboard the Ithaca? Wartime travel’s dangerous. Were you escaping that pompous giant?”

  “Yes. And it was more than that.” I explained how Amos Thornton had stolen my father’s reputation for himself. “I was taking some notes to a renowned Egyptologist in Paris, hoping he could corroborate Father’s theory. Does that sound foolish?”

  “It sounds like the kind of thing you would do, Liberty. I love you for it and for the way you’ve soothed our noble waif, Lady Arabella.” He took my unsplinted hand, and I was conscious only of where his warm flesh touched mine. “Sometimes when I look into those huge blue eyes of yours, I feel I could drown happily.”

  He lifted my hand, kissing each fingertip in turn. Something vital surged within me, and my whole body inclined toward his until only inches separated our cheeks. I remembered the shaking passion of our first kiss as his lips moved to my wrist, and I knew he must feel the leap of my pulse.

  “You’re as lovely and free as your name,” he whispered.

  “Stephen.…”

  His arms circled me and he kissed me. My body melted against his, and the world was filled with him, the hardness of his chest, his clean smell of manly sweat and sea salt, the demanding heat of his lips.

  When we drew apart, we were both shaking.

  “I’ve thought of little else since our last kiss,” he said against my ear. “Sweetheart, a knife cut through me when you told me you believed I’d harm you.”

  “My heart always denied it,” I murmured, caressing the strong tendons in the back of his neck.

  The honeyed pleasure of contact was too intense after the days of denial, and the fierce love I bore him asserted itself. I forgot the constraints of my world, forgot the modesty in which I had been reared, forgot my every doubt of him.

  We stretched on the gently rocking deck, breast to breast, hip to hip, our mouths joined in a kiss that was measured by the violent beat of our hearts.

  He pulled away with a low murmur, and his lips traveled down my throat. My breasts swelled with a rich yearning, and I pulled his face to their softness, cradling his head. His kisses burned through layers of fabric, and I ached to feel his lips on my naked flesh.

  “Sweetest,” he breathed.

  He undid the jet buttons of my bodice, untying the narrow ribbon that threaded through my chemise. When my breasts were bared, and the warm night air on them, he kissed the taut nipples, rousing a melting sweetness within me.

  What followed seemed as inevitable as the waves breaking against the timbers, as preordained as the stars moving above our heads.

  Poplin rustled as he drew down my dress, taking care with the sleeve over my splint. He knelt in the darkness at my feet, untying my half-slippers, kissing down my bare legs as he drew off my underlinen and stockings. He paused to shed his shirt and breeches, and when the moonlight showed his silhouette, I knew that the spear of flesh, ugly and obscene in my corsair attacker, could be brave and beautiful.

  He lay at my side, his embrace bringing my naked, pliant flesh in contact with the length of his lean, hard body. He pulled away to kiss my nipples again while his caressing hand moved down my stomach. I was drenched with a wild, tingling madness.

  The ship’s bell sounded, and I heard the notes through the pounding blood in my ears, a muffled, faraway warning of reality: How can I make love with a man about whom I know so little?

  His mouth met mine.

  The kiss was like the soldering heat that joins metals. We were completing the embrace that had started halfway around the world, in a burning city. The last vestiges of my doubts left me forever.

  His kiss grew harder and more demanding, and he raised up, bending a knee between my quivering legs. His fingers flowered an indescribably passionate need in my waiting flesh. I gave a moan, and he whispered, “Sweetheart, sweetheart.” As he reached the barrier, I tensed involuntarily, bucking like a startled fawn, but he continued to dominate me. There was a sharp, voluptuous pain, and I gripped his shoulders, my nails digging into his hard muscles. And then the heat of him was filling me.

  His breath jagged against my ear, he murmured, “I’ll love you forever.”

  And in that instant, joined to him in body and spirit, I accepted that for me, too, love was a fixed, immutable thing and would last forever.

  He moved within me. At the sweet torment, I gasped aloud, but he rained kisses on my open mouth and the pain melted into an ungovernable tide of passion and I moved my hips, urging him to move, too, but he resisted whispering wordless endearments, stroking my silken inner thighs. And all at once I was soaring in the black velvet sky, my ears, my fingers, my toes, every extremity alive, waiting, waiting, in the heights of that lovely, motionless darkness, and then everything became turbulent and he pressed harder and faster and I was swept by exquisite spasms that made me clutch at him as I fell from the still darkness, falling, falling, breaking into silvery bits of moonlight.…

  We clung together long minutes until our senses returned. I became conscious of the hard planking and of hot, African breeze.

  Stephen pressed back my sweat-dampened hair. “I meant it about forever,” he whispered huskily. “Liberty, will you share your life with me?”

  His low voice was a trifle awkward and his embarrassed sincerity caught at my heartstrings and I loved him far more than if he had proposed glibly.

  “I want to,” I whispered. “Oh, Stephen, yes.”

  He kissed my forehead. “Mijnheer Van Leyden is empowered to perform weddings,” he said. “We’ll be married as soon as I return.”

  “When will that be?”

  “A month.”

  “That’s not so long,” I lied. A month without him seemed an eternity.

  “More than anything I wish I could explain where I’ll be.”

  “None of that’s important now,” I replied truthfully. “Where will I stay?”

  “The Dutch consulate,” he said. “There are always people staying there, some Christian visitors and some Islamic fugitives. In the East the law of sanctuary is strong, and those who are pursued—for whatever reason—are safe in mosques and consulates. You’ll be welcome.”

  We clung to one another, and while the moon-whitened sails flapped overhead, he began to make love to me again.

  We stayed together until the spice-odored night rang with seven tinkling chimes. In a half hour the few men amid the yards and spars would go below to sling their hammocks in the hold while others came above to perform their duties.

  Stephen released me, sighing. “I’m to be rowed ashore when the watch changes,” he said. “The Hassam’s got the breeze in her face. She won’t dock until late tomorrow.”

  In the pitch dark outside my cabin door, Stephen kissed me. Holding me close, he promised again that Mijnheer Van Leyden would be waiting to pay Rais Guzman whatever he demanded.

  “And in a month I’ll come for you and we’ll be married.”

  As he kissed me one final time, “I’ll send you a betrothal gift,” he promised.

  Six

  The eunuch, his expression impassive, held up the magnificent gold satin court gown. Intricate jeweled embroidery stiffened the bodice and hem, and the same rich work edged the long train, which was attached by a tiny, sleeveless bolero.

  It was barely light. Lady Arabella, who was terrified at being awakened at this unusual hour, pulled the coverlet to her small, trembling chin. “Liberty, ’tis gorgeous … but … why has he brought it?”

  “Stephen promised me a gift. Last night, while you slept, we … uhh … met on deck.…” I stammered, blushing crimson.

  After the eunuch folded the gown and placed it on Lady Arabella’s high-arched trunk, he left. The gleaming spill of satin baffled me.

  I said slowly, “But Stephen’s taste is very American. Why would he choose something so elaborate?”

  “’Tis you he thought of, not himself.” Lady Arabella had re
covered from her fright and was sitting up, her small hands clasped about her upraised knees. “There’s not a duchess in England who could wear it half so well. Oh, Liberty, do put it on!”

  Buttoning on the gown, I twisted in front of the small mirror to catch various reflections of a lush, golden stranger. The fluid satin skirt hinted at my narrow waist and the short, tight, bejeweled bodice with its very low neckline revealed too much of my full breasts. I was attempting to pull the satin higher when the door opened.

  Rais Guzman stared through tenebrous dawn light at me.

  My first fear was for Stephen. Wouldn’t the pirate captain guess whose gift this was? And then I realized, with relief, Stephen was already on shore. The worst Rais Guzman could do was punish me.

  “As I expected,” he said. “You’re a vision of pleasure.”

  I gasped. “You … you chose this?” In my shock I used Spanish.

  His narrow grandee’s face showed his surprise, but he recovered quickly, bowing as if my knowledge of his tongue had earned me his respect. “Among our bounty was an azure silk that matches your eyes, but this is better. It sets off your hair and body to perfection.” He stepped into the cabin.

  Lady Arabella edged into the corner. I stood more defiantly erect.

  He took my old cloak from its hook. “Come,” he said. “The dory’s already lowered.”

  “But …” I floundered. Stephen had told me Mijnheer Van Leyden would arrange for my ransom when the Hassam docked. “Why a dory?”

  “We’re becalmed.”

  Lady Arabella wasn’t sobbing, yet tears flowed down her small, pinched face. “Liberty, what is he saying?”

  I forced a cheerful tone. “He’s taking me ashore.”

  “Dearest, dearest friend. If you leave … I shall die.”

  I was more terrified than she, yet I pressed my cheek to her cold, tear-wet cheek, managing to say with assurance, “You’ll be in the British consulate before nightfall.”

  Rais Guzman settled my old cloak about my bared and icy shoulders. As I stared around, my panicked gaze rested on the sea chest that Mrs. Yarby had packed.

  Rais Guzman said, “You won’t need that.”

  “But it’s got my papers—all I have of my father—”

  His bony hand clamped like iron on my upper arm and he propelled me from the cabin. I heard Lady Arabella whimper softly before the door slammed shut.

  And soon the dory’s oars were splashing as we moved toward dawnstruck Tripoli. The ancient gray stone castle extended long gray sea arms to embrace white, flat-roofed houses and gardens that fulminated with vivid greenery. Tall palms stood motionless. Lacy minarets spired above domed mosques, and the sound of a hundred calls to the morning prayers drifted across the flat blue sea.

  For me, however, the exotic beauty was obliterated by fear.

  “You stare at Tripoli as though the city mesmerizes you,” said Rais Guzman, who sat next to me in the stern.

  “Why are you bringing me ashore so early?” I burst out.

  “Sunday mornings there’s a slave auction,” he said. “Why do you look so surprised? You understand Spanish. You must have overheard what’s been planned for you.”

  “I … hoped to be ransomed.”

  “Who’d pay the fortune you’re worth? Your country is poor and new. You have no consul here.” His tone was devoid of malice. “You’re the most tantalizing wench I’ve ever laid eyes on, and if it wasn’t necessary to amass so much gold to buy back the Guzman lands my ancestors lost, I’d tame you for myself.”

  Tame me … I shivered.

  He went on, “I suppose it was my first mate who told you about the ransoming. He’s your countryman, and you were fading away in captivity. I gave him orders to cheer you. He went ashore last night to make arrangements at the slave souk.”

  For what was surely the cruelest moment of my life, I doubted Stephen. My fingers dug into the splintery seat. But recalling the previous night, I knew the imponderables surrounding Stephen had nothing to do with his sincerity—or his love.

  We slid into the harbor, passing anchored ships and feluccas that towered above us. Through the open Marine Gate, I could see houses built in the Turkish fashion with only one or two barred upper windows facing the narrow street. Atop a balustraded rooftop waved a British Union Jack.

  On another roof, another ensign was being hoisted with a fluttering of orange, blue and white striped bunting. The flag of Holland!

  Hope leaped within me. Perhaps the person raising that flag would see us and report our arrival. Yes, I thought, of course he will. I smiled.

  “That’s better,” Rais Guzman said. “If you’re glowing, you’ll get a higher price and your owner’ll cherish you the more, showering you with fine clothes and jewels. Believe me, one day you’ll thank me.”

  The dory jolted against the wharf. He handed me ashore.

  The crowd that had been lounging on the dock converged on us. Their rags were caked with filth, the skin stretched on their bones, yet despite their emaciated condition, they were a cheerful lot, deafening us with laughter and shouts as they jostled close to me.

  I jumped at a sharp pinch.

  Rais Guzman signaled his crew. Aiming their oars outward like spears, they surrounded us.

  “Come,” Rais Guzman said to me.

  To my horror, we headed directly away from the consulates, crossing wharves to a marble triumphal arch on which seagulls perched. Once Tripoli had been part of the Roman Empire, and as we neared the arch, I thought how, under other circumstances, I would have been ablaze with excitement at seeing this relic of the past. But now I peered back toward the consulate flags. They were small and remote.

  Then I could no longer see the bright colors, for we had passed under the Roman arch and were in a narrow alley. As we wound through the maze of smelly pathways, the starvelings following us were joined by swarms of half-naked children.

  I picked my way around a heap of fly-buzzing offal.

  Rais Guzman gripped my arm. “It would be best to hold up your train,” he said politely, as if he were escorting me to a social function.

  Just ahead a door opened. A woman slipped out. She was, I realized, the first female I’d seen in Tripoli. Her black robe and veil concealed her so utterly that it was impossible to gauge her size, her age or her worldly position, but as she peered at me, her eyes between hood and veil were outraged.

  And then I understood the crowd. My uncovered face attracted the same lecherous attention as if I were walking half naked on Pennsylvania Avenue. Clutching my cloak high above my chin, I felt more of my hopes evaporate. Still, I told myself firmly, if Western women are such an unusual sight, then surely the Dutch consul will hear of me.

  A tall man in European attire came toward us.

  Again my volatile spirits soared. Pale, delicate of features, he had the look of Northern lands. A spasm of joy gripped my chest. Maybe, I thought, he’s Dutch.

  I spoke no Dutch. French, however, is the language that the greatest number of civilized people comprehend, and as he neared I called above the din, “Monsieur, s’il vous plaît—”

  Gazing at me, baffled, he lifted his high beaver hat, replying in some incomprehensible tongue, and he moved on.

  Rais Guzman’s grip on my arm tightened. “I don’t know what words you said,” he growled. “But they were futile. Nobody’s going to ransom you.”

  We entered a vast, covered bazaar. I raised up on the toes of my satin slippers, searching through the dimness, hoping to see other Westerners.

  “This is Tripoli’s main souk,” he said.

  Stout merchants in turbans jostled by staring at me. Veiled women sat cross-legged vending small mounds of alien fruits and vegetables: above their veils they watched me pass. We edged by stalls that gave off vibrant aromas of sugar and bubbling oils, and the cooks paused, wiping their foreheads as they gaped. Purveyors of jewelry and perfumes emerged from their narrow recesses to look at me.

  Rais Guzman and
I, alone, wore Western garb.

  Leaving the covered market, we entered a brick archway. The corsair sailors as well as our ragged, lecherous Tripolitanian followers held back, as if they were afraid.

  This smaller bazaar was empty. It had no booths, no stalls. Low marble benches lined the walls, and along the central space were round platforms of cracking blue tile.

  I knew we had arrived at our destination—the slave souk.

  A rosy-cheeked man emerged from a corridor to greet us. “Rais Guzman, welcome back to Tripoli,” the man said in heavily accented Spanish, bending in a deep bow before assessing me. “Ahh, what wondrous merchandise.”

  “Didn’t my first mate inform you of her?”

  “No.” The rosy-cheeked slave dealer continued gauging me. “But I’ll send out messengers to every worthy customer.”

  Suddenly, a sharp scream came from beyond an open door. A naked black woman was being fastened by her manacled wrists to a ring. A eunuch began prodding between her thighs. Her piercing screams quivered in my own private flesh.

  Rais Guzman turned to me. “He accepts my word on your virginity and lack of blemish. You aren’t to be subjected to the routine medical examination.”

  In time this would prove a monumental omission, but now I felt only a benumbed relief.

  The slave dealer thrust me through an iron door.

  I was in a long, beehive-roofed dungeon where shafts of light from high windows filtered down on the desolate groups of human merchandise.

  Near me stood a woman swathed in robes and veil. I could see no more of her than her dark eyes, which were fixed on my hair with such interest that I guessed she had never before seen a blonde.

  I knew then how utterly cut off I was from Western life. No consul would appear to help me. The moment of realization was colder than death. I leaned against slimy, greenish bricks, no longer able to hold back my tears. Stephen, I thought, Stephen. His plan had failed and I was completely alone.

  I felt a light touch on my splintered arm. The Islamic woman peered over her veil with eloquent sympathy. She made no attempt to speak, and I felt no less alien, yet the touch of her brown, competent-looking hand stopped me from breaking down entirely.