She rushed to him. “Adam, please!” She took his arm in both hands and he froze.
“Unhand me, madam.” His quiet voice was like a razor.
She dropped her hands and he left without looking back, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
* * *
Adam was pitifully grateful nobody was up and about when he reached the deck. He couldn’t imagine their argument had gone unnoticed, at least not Mia’s half of it.
He went to the foredeck and sat on one of the storage boxes.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, resting his elbows on his thighs before dropping his head into his hands. That had not gone well. Her words had hurt, but it had been her heartbroken face that had almost undone him. She had believed he was angry with her, and he’d decided in that instant to use her belief and just go—it was easier to end it that way. She would never agree with his decision, and he would never change his mind.
“That bad, eh?” a voice behind him asked in French.
Adam jolted and looked up to see Bouchard standing beside him.
“You move like a damned cat.”
Bouchard smiled and handed him a slim cigar.
“These come from a small plantation on Hispaniola. It is the only plantation that employs workers, not slaves.”
Adam paused and then took it. What was the point in sitting here and reliving the disturbing confrontation with Mia? He might as well smoke.
The two men stood by the railing and looked at the distant shore.
“Ramsay will meet us soon.”
Adam nodded. Both ships kept birds that were used to exchange messages when flags or yelling weren’t an option. He took a puff of the cigar and contemplated the burning tip before slowly exhaling. “What do you think the chances are of Ramsay’s plan working?”
“It depends on whether the old entrance to the slave quarters was ever found and if Assad is keeping the boy where we think.”
Adam snorted. If, if, if. “Does that seem likely after almost twenty years?”
“I’ve heard of no other escapes from the sultan’s palace.”
It seemed like a lot to take on faith, but Adam had no other ideas. “You will leave a boat waiting on shore for us just in case this all goes badly?”
“Oui.”
“What if you don’t hear anything from the Ghost?”
“If I hear nothing by dark, I will go to Gibraltar and wait.”
Adam eyed the other man closely. Something about his words didn’t quite ring true.
“You won’t try to rescue anyone—Ramsay or his men? You’ll leave immediately and take my wife to Gibraltar.”
“Nom d’un chien!” The Frenchman turned to glare at him. “I already say I will, eh?” he snapped in broken English.
Adam nodded. “I don’t doubt your word. It’s just that my wife can be rather ... insistent.”
Adam let the other man’s temper cool while he ran the rest of Ramsay’s plan through his head for the thousandth time. The baron had tried to prepare for all eventualities. If Adam and Ramsay didn’t return, the Ghost would get away from Oran and wait in the shallows a half-day’s journey to the west. The ship would wait there in case something prevented the landing party from reaching the Scythe after they left the sultan’s palace. Adam tried not to think about that, even though he had taken time to memorize the hand-drawn map Ramsay had sent with the note.
If he somehow lost contact with Ramsay, he did not fancy his chances of finding his way across miles of foreign countryside, where he didn’t speak the language and would stand out like a sore thumb.
He drew deeply on the cigar before blowing out a billowing cloud. “Ramsay must have friends here if he is so confident of acquiring supplies.”
“Ramsay has friends everywhere.”
“They will not disclose his plans to Assad’s men?” Adam could believe Ramsay would have friends, but so must the young sultan.
“No. He is a hero to many. Also, he is very good at disguising himself.”
Adam had a hard time believing Ramsay could disguise his six and a half feet anywhere, but he let the matter lie. “You know his crew well?”
Bouchard nodded, blowing a circle of smoke, and then blowing another inside it. Adam was impressed. “Yes, most of them were on the Ghost with me. They are good men, especially Delacroix, his captain.”
“You’ve met Lady Exley’s son, as well?” Adam couldn’t help wondering what he could expect from the son of a sultan, a young man accustomed to receiving absolute obedience from his father’s subjects.
Bouchard smirked. “Yes. He is . . . arrogant.”
Coming from Bouchard this was quite a declaration.
“He fights for his father’s empire but I think he knows that way of life is over. Even under the old sultan there were many changes. Slaving isn’t so easy anymore. Jibril is smart enough to know that.” He shrugged. “I think maybe half a year of fighting will make him more amenable to going to England.” He flicked away the butt of his cigar and turned to Adam. “What kind of life would he have in England? He is like me, eh? A half-caste.”
Adam studied the younger man, giving his question the consideration it deserved. Bouchard was certainly unusual-looking. Even with his fair hair and light eyes one would never mistake him for an Englishman. If Mia’s son were similarly exotic, there would be no hiding his background and he would need to be a strong man to endure the endless snubs.
Adam tossed away what remained of his cigar. “It won’t be easy. He may view desert warfare with fondness after his first Season in London.”
Bouchard laughed. “Ramsay is like a nagging old mother to get me to go to London. He says I must take a wife who will like my money and civilize me. He likes to”—he paused, his hand churning the air as he searched for the correct idiom—“stir the kettle?”
“Stir the pot. Yes, I can well believe that. Ramsay has an odd sense of humor.”
“Ah, milord, he is a constant tormentor and far too big a brute to thrash. I am glad he is on his own ship. No doubt he has driven Delacroix to the end of his rope.” He laughed at something he did not bother to share and turned to Adam. “Take my cabin tonight. I will keep watch and come get you when it is time to go.”
Adam nodded, grateful the man didn’t pry. He wouldn’t sleep; he would write the letter he should have written to his wife before he ever married her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Mia was not surprised when Bouchard stopped her at the top of the stairs.
“Ah, Lady Exley.” He stood in the middle of the narrow stairway, his arms crossed, blocking the way out with his big body. “What can I do for you?”
“I wish to speak to my husband.”
Bouchard moved closer, forcing her to back down the stairs until they were at the bottom, their bodies almost touching in the narrow hallway. His behavior told her Adam had left; he would never behave so familiarly while her husband was on board.
“We will talk down ’ere, eh?”
“When did he leave?”
“Just a while ago, my lady. ’E said to give you dis.” He handed her several sheets of folded paper.
She snatched them out of his hand and saw there was no seal. “You did not read them?”
He smiled, an odd twist to his lips. “No, I did not read them. Now, if you would go back to your cabin?” Mia allowed him to herd her down the hallway. He opened the door to his cabin and waited until she went inside. “I will ’ave food sent to you in an hour if that is convenable?”
Mia gave him a look she’d seen Adam use to intimidate those around him.
It didn’t work. Bouchard just smiled and shut the door in her face. She heard the scrape of a key in the lock and grabbed the handle, but the door was already locked.
“Bouchard?” There was no answer. “Bouchard!” She pounded on the door. “You bastard!” She swore like a fishwife and beat the door until her palm stung. She collapsed against the door and slid down, only recalling the note in
her hand as she landed roughly on the floor. It was crumpled. She straightened the two sheets and opened them, recognizing her husband’s neat, compact hand.
Darling:
I’m sorry to leave you after such a terrible row. I am sorry to leave you, ever.
I can’t regret my decision to make sure you had at least this much protection. You are my wife, and it is both my duty and my honor to keep you safe. As much as you wish to protect your son, I wish to protect you. Bouchard will take care of you if Assad presents us with any surprises, something both he and Ramsay have warned me about.
Stay in your cabin, darling. There is no point in risking you and our child. You know Assad will kill you if he gets the opportunity. Please don’t make my decision meaningless.
I’ve left you one of my pistols. It is loaded and it is inside the wardrobe. Point it away from you and pull the trigger if you have need of it. I hope it does not come to that.
Try not to shoot Bouchard with it, even though he is provoking.
If all goes well, we will bring your son to you in only a few hours. If not, well, know that I love you, even though I have never spoken the words. Maybe that will cause you to feel kindly toward me after you read what follows.
I should have told you this long ago—certainly before we married—but I told myself I couldn’t share the information for my daughters’ sakes. It is, after all, their secret and they do not deserve that it be shared without the certainty it would be held sacred.
But somehow, after I came to know and love you, it was even more difficult to tell you. I will not beat about the bush any longer. The truth is my first wife was not only reckless, she was mad.
It wasn’t until after her death that I learned the truth. Her only sibling, a brother named Dennis, came to the funeral and told me about his sister. He had been out of the country when we married and returned far too late to tell me the truth about her past and their family history. He apologized for not telling me after we’d married, but I cannot find it in me to blame the man. He told me their grandmother had killed herself when their own mother was just a child and that she had been mad for years before she took her life.
Dennis and his mother escaped the taint, but Veronica showed her madness from a young age.
You must see now why I can’t allow my daughters to go into society, to take spouses, to have children and spread this stain to another generation. At the same time, what if they are like their uncle or grandmother and have avoided madness? It is a situation which has, I’m ashamed to say, driven me to avoid my own children.
Eva, especially, reminds me of her mother. Her passionate outbursts, sudden rages, and violent attachments are far too like Veronica’s.
I wish I could tell you I have devised some solution, but I have not. And now I have brought you into the midst of potential tragedy, and you have formed attachments to all three girls. Three attachments that might one day yield heartache.
I deeply apologize, Mia, for not telling you sooner—for not telling you face-to-face.
That first night, as you grilled me at your father’s dinner table, you recognized my cowardice regarding my daughters and attributed it to male arrogance. The truth is, I was a bad husband out of ignorance and I’ve been an even worse father out of fear. I’ve stayed away not because I don’t love my daughters, but because I love them too much. When I am with them, I find myself watching, and watching, and watching. Ever watchful for signs of madness. Childish tantrums make my blood run cold—girlish arguments cause me to hold my breath in terror. This was not what my children needed—to be observed with the calculating eye of a jailor. What they needed was you, Mia. You and your friendship and love. You showed me how selfish I’ve been to allow my fear to paralyze me. More importantly, you showed my daughters what it is like to have a mother figure who loves them.
In a way, you gave my daughters back to me. In the weeks since we returned to Exham I have felt a joy in their presence I haven’t experienced since that day Dennis shared the secret of their heritage.
I hope to repay you the only way I can—by giving you back your son.
Yours always,
Adam
Mia stared, stunned at the horror he’d borne alone. The thought of her beloved Jibril carrying something in him that could one day turn him mad was beyond bearing. To never know, to never be sure—how could a person live with the constant threat, the dread?
As she recalled the awful things she’d flung at him before he’d left, hot tears of shame burned her face. She wept for what she had said to him but she cried even more because she might never have a chance to apologize.
* * *
It was late in the afternoon when the Ghost dropped anchor. They’d hardly been there an hour before Ramsay began getting messages hinting Assad was planning something that appeared to require a great many men.
“It’s possible Assad may attack us in the harbor—even tonight. We must act quickly and hope to be gone from here before he can carry out whatever it is he has planned.”
The enormous baron was all but unrecognizable in his disguise. His hair, normally an almost guinea gold, was a greasy brown. He wore a ragged turban and capacious cloak the locals called a djellaba. He had a crutch and when he crouched over in his limping walk he seemed no larger than most men. He’d also removed his distinctive eye patch. Adam tried not to stare as he looked into Ramsay’s mismatched eyes. The cut that had robbed his eye of sight had sliced from his forehead to his jaw, leaving a remarkably clean wound beneath his patch. The eye hardly appeared damaged except for the clearly bisected iris, which had turned a dull greenish gray.
“Should your captain take the ship farther out after we go? We could always meet them elsewhere if you fear a trap,” Adam suggested.
Ramsay shook his head. “We need the distraction. If Assad is watching the Ghost, he won’t be paying too much attention to the palace or looking elsewhere—like Quora’s Bluff. Fontine will be in charge. He is Delacroix’s first mate and knows well enough what to do if he becomes overwhelmed. I have also sent messages to several other ships that are at anchor. We have friends nearby if we need them.”
He handed Adam an old cloth bag. “Here, put these on. The quicker you do, the sooner we can be gone. Delacroix has already left for the Bluff and taken his men with him. They will locate the entrance and see to any clearing it might need. If it can’t be cleared? We will then have a look at Assad’s front door.”
Adam pulled out a white and red cloth, which Ramsay showed him how to wind and wrap. He also had a loose, dirty white shirt and a djellaba similar to Ramsay’s. When he was dressed, the bigger man had him rub ashes on his hands and face.
“Here is a piece of rope. Use it to secure your sword to your leg. As soon as we are off the pier you can scuff the polish from your boots. Until then try to stoop, keep your eyes on the ground, and be humble.” The baron’s lips twitched. “Try not to think like an English marquess. Think like . . .”
Adam snatched the piece of rope from his hands. “Thank you, Ramsay. I bloody well know how to think.” He buckled his sword beneath the robe and secured it to his thigh. When he was done he looked up. “I am ready.”
They headed west once they left the docks. Ramsay stopped a half dozen times to make sure they weren’t being followed. They took the small, winding alleys through the district known as Hai Imam El-Houari. Above their heads, perched on a rocky promontory, was the massive fort that loomed over the city, watchful and menacing.
“Fort Santa Cruz is a plum that has been passed between many hands,” Ramsay whispered, lurching beside him in the slow, painful walk he’d affected. “Beneath it are caverns running to the other two forts, as well as to the far west of the city. I have never been in them, but they are said to be extensive. I can’t help feeling the tunnel at Quora’s Bluff is somehow part of the same system.” He stopped speaking when they came to a bottleneck in the narrow road, where a man with three camels was impeding a rustic wagon, pulled by
a giant ox.
Ramsay yelled something very rude-sounding in Arabic, his big hand waving the crutch as he spoke. The man with the camels yelled something back, but grudgingly moved the animals aside. Adam followed a grumbling Ramsay through the small opening.
When they passed beyond the clutch of people, Ramsay again turned to him.
“Once we get into the slave quarters, Delacroix and I will separate as he knows the pens as well as I do. We will search our sections and then meet back at the Bluff afterward. If we get split up and one of us does not make it back by the appointed time, leave. Do not wait, do not come looking. We will either have left some other way, or you won’t be able to help. Do you understand me, Exley? You will have to make sure Delacroix obeys you. He holds me in some affection.” Ramsay gave a low chuckle.
Adam didn’t bother asking how he was supposed to strong-arm a group of hardened privateers into doing anything they did not wish to do. He would deal with that eventuality if it happened.
Once they cleared the populated part of the city, they were able to move faster on the hard-packed dirt road that led into the countryside. The odd stone houses that had been packed side by side dwindled to individual buildings, and then to the occasional hut.
“We leave the road here.” Ramsay led him down a steep embankment and into a gully that looked like a dry riverbed. They followed the riverbed for perhaps a quarter of an hour before Ramsay cut west toward a small grove of trees.
“Here we are.” He gestured to the right and Adam peered through the gloom. They were not fifty feet from the base of an impressive cliff face. “Quora’s Bluff,” Ramsay said.
Adam glanced around. “Are your men late?”
Ramsay whistled and men materialized from rock, sand, and scrub. He greeted his crew with the same forearm handshake Adam had seen many times in the past weeks. One of the men was Delacroix, Ramsay’s captain. The Frenchman was squat, thick, heavily scarred, and looked every bit as roguish and disreputable as his employer.
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