Revenge of the Corsairs

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  “I have a villa and a small farm just outside of Palermo. You sound surprised.”

  “I suppose I just never thought about it.”

  Elias offered a wan smile. Laura felt a tether loosen and a sense of Elias drifting away from her. Or perhaps it was she who drifted. A frisson of fear returned.

  “I’ve also come to apologize for the conversation we had here a few days ago,” he said. “I was reminded that…” He shook his head.

  Elias drifted even further distant.

  Laura frowned. He was going to apologize? Was he sorry he had offered his friendship? Misunderstanding her silence, Elias turned away.

  “Never mind, I should go,” he said and began to descend the steps.

  Laura felt herself slip between the depths, conscious of drowning. She made one more push to the surface.

  “Do you love me, Elias Nash?”

  For a moment, there was no sound but for the wind rolling down the cliff behind them and the rhythmic boom of full waves crashing onto rocks outside of the protective arms that sheltered Catallus’ lagoon.

  Perhaps the wind had snatched the question from her lips and he didn’t hear it. Should she go after him?

  Laura made it as far as the top of the stairs before a cold tingling spread down her body. Starting from the top of her head, a wave of dizziness caused her stomach to flip-flop and her ears buzzed. Elias seemed to reappear from nowhere. She took a mouthful of air to fight the fainting spell and felt a moment’s panic as Elias picked her up and carried her down the steps, into the shade. Perspiration that beaded at her forehead turned cold.

  “Laura!”

  Laura closed her eyes at Sophia’s exclamation. The last thing she wanted was a fuss to make her feel worse than it already was. “I’m fine!” She wanted to yell the words, scream them; instead, they came out in a pathetic whisper.

  “It was my fault,” Elias’ response rumbled from his chest. She saw Sophia’s querying look at him, as if to say “How so?”. “It was too hot on the roof,” he explained, “and I kept Miss Laura talking. She was overcome by the sun.”

  Laura awoke to thunder overhead that rumbled from one side of the sky to the other. The day, which had been so unbearably hot, was now chilled, and the achingly bright sun had been completely swallowed by clouds.

  Stay. She had chosen to stay, but now the prospect was frightening. She was alone once more like when she had been delivered to Selim Omar’s palace. She breathed in deep and rose. The hint of fresh rain beckoned her outdoors. The villa was in darkness and silent.

  “Sophia?”

  Laura laced up a pair of Sophia’s shoes and entered the back courtyard via the kitchen.

  “Sophia?” Still no answer.

  The name echoed around the walls, competing with the next roll of thunder.

  “Lyda!”

  Kit’s housekeeper was nowhere to be seen.

  Leaves and other debris tumbled around the courtyard as another gust of wind buffeted the walls of the old structure. Did they all leave on the Calliope without her? Ridiculous! Childish! An island of people doesn’t just disappear.

  “Signorina!”

  Laura recognized Alfonso’s voice and her heart started beating again.

  “Capitano Hardacre,” she said. “Ou est-il?” She winced at her half-Italian, half-French question, but it was enough for Alfonso to understand.

  “È sul promontorio.”

  Promontorio, promontory – the headland. Kit was on the headland.

  The day darkened even more.

  “La tempesta sta arrivando.” The storm is on its way. Yes, yes, that she could understand. Laura nodded enthusiastically as she followed Alfonso to his cottage. He lit a candle and put it in a glass lantern.

  “You no go,” he said in heavily-accented English. “Pericoloso. Dangerous. I go. You wait for Lyda.”

  Laura shook her head. Alfonso sighed, apparently in no mood to argue. But her stubbornness was less bravado and more fear. This was her first storm on Catallus; she did not intend to weather it by herself.

  She kept her head down and trudged up the path behind the old man. By the time they had reached the top, her calves ached and she huffed in the wind.

  The headland was illuminated by a sliver of yellow-green light; the ancient Roman columns turned a vivid shade of white against a charcoal grey sky leavened with lighter hues.

  Never had she seen a sky so thick and heavy. Lightning jagged its way down from the heavens, drawing her eye to a bright white spot on the roiling sea.

  It was a ship under full sail, moving toward the monstrous storm. The Calliope. Laura closed her eyes to say a quick prayer for the crew.

  The ground rumbled under her feet in harmony with the thunder. The afternoon became darker still but, silhouetted against the sky, right on the edge of the headland, were two figures standing so close they could be one.

  “What are they doing? They’ll be soaked if they stay there too long.”

  Laura stepped forward, but Alfonso took her hand. “Wait. Don’t disturb.” He opened the shutter on the lamp and held it aloft, a little yellow beam of light, but it was enough to attract the couple’s attention.

  The impending storm had extinguished the remaining sun, stripping color from the world. Nature seemed to hold her breath, waiting.

  Then lightning flashed overhead, so close it seemed to sizzle, and so bright Laura was momentarily blinded by it.

  One-one thousand, two-one thousand – the game from her childhood came back in an instant.

  Crack!

  Thunder burst overhead. Laura reflexively squealed and threw her hands over her eyes, then protectively around her stomach.

  The distant figures approached but Laura’s attention remained out to sea where rain fell as an endless curtain and she watched the Calliope disappear behind it.

  Was it a mistake to stay?

  Chapter Twelve

  “You were wise to disappear from Al-Min, my lady.”

  Rabia leaned back as her visitor leaned forward. The man before her would have to do much more than offer mere flattery to win her trust.

  She wore a light head covering in pale green and embroidered silver that concealed her hair and the lower part of her face. Despite this, Rabia still worked to keep her face expressionless.

  “The casbah is still in disarray,” he continued. “The blast completely destroyed the warehouses and the wharves but the palace was unharmed. The wives…”

  She inclined her head and the man lowered his eyes in acknowledgement of her censure. “The lesser wives have been ordered back to Constantinople.”

  The visitor, a middle aged man, swarthy-skinned, dark hair attractively greying at the temples, wore a well-trimmed beard and moustache. He was also well dressed, but not ostentatiously so, which added to his credit.

  “Anything might happen to such a vulnerable party on a month’s journey…” he added.

  Rabia did not know the man’s name, but Toufik had vouched for him and that was good enough for her right now. The man mimicked her, sitting back as she had done, picking up his gilt tea glass and sipped, appearing to savor the drink before setting the glass on a matching gilt salver.

  He fell silent. Rabia absorbed the information.

  “What does Sultan Mehmet say of this?”

  “He mourns his cousin, of course.” He shrugged, before bringing the glass to his lips once more. “But the affairs of state have to take precedence. There are other ambitious members of the royal family who he might entrust with such an important responsibility of inheriting from Selim Omar.”

  “That privilege belongs to my son.”

  The man smiled appeasingly at the frost in Rabia’s voice.

  “Your son is lost to you. You would be wise to forget him. I am willing to keep an eye on the lad to ensure he reaches Constantinople safely but that is the best I can do, my lady. It will be up to the sultan to decide the boy’s fate.”

  “I see.” The frost became ice
.

  “But it remains for you to instruct me, my Lady Rabia.”

  She picked up a bell at her fingers and rang it. Two guards entered.

  “Await my answer. I will call for you.”

  The stranger stood and bowed before backing from the room.

  Rabia waited until the door closed before removing her head covering.

  “What think you, Toufik?”

  Her trusted retainer emerged from the shadows where he had watched the meeting unobserved.

  “I counsel caution, my lady. I trust the man, but who knows whether the information given to him is truthful. It could be a trap.”

  “It could be… but I want my son back, Toufik. Everything that belonged to his father is his by right. He is the eldest and only legitimate heir. The emperor will acknowledge him.”

  Toufik pulled open the heavy woven curtain that hid a long balcony to dissipate the odor of incense. Light and fresh air spilled in, filtered by a second row of light silk curtains.

  “I suggest you set the man a test, my lady,” he continued. “Tell him you will agree to a second meeting in Berka El Souk. If his information is from one of the lesser wives, then the lure of your presence so close will be irresistible if they have ill-intent.”

  “Then that is what I shall do.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  The eunuch bowed and left the room. Rabia stood and walked over to the gauzy curtains that cut the glare. She pulled them back and stepped out onto the balcony. Before her was the sea. On a very clear day, she fancied she could see the shoreline of Tunisia itself. To her left, the sharply rising incline of the hill wore lines and lines of grapes.

  She stepped out into the sunshine of her private sanctuary, hidden from prying eyes.

  Rabia loved her son even more than she had loved her husband. She had worked hard to keep him safe from the endless jealous machinations of the other wives. He had been raised to be a ruler, and she smiled thinking about the haughty bearing he had mastered.

  Only a few weeks ago, her son told his father he was too big to live among the women. Selim Omar had laughed and hugged the boy to his chest.

  “They order me about, and I don’t like it.”

  “Wait until you are bigger, then you will order them about.”

  The boy’s eyes lit up.

  “Even Maman?”

  Selim had looked up at her, his eyes twinkling with merriment, then smiled down to the child.

  “No, a boy must always obey his mother, even when he is bigger,” Selim had replied, then he had stage whispered into the child’s ear to be sure she could hear: “But if your maman is ever unfair, you have my permission to see me immediately, and I will decide her punishment if she is unjust.”

  The boy raised his head and gave her the same haughty stare she had seen frequently on Selim Omar’s face. Memories of it aroused her. Selim Omar was her lord and master, and a very, very accomplished lover.

  It had not taken her long to get the measure of the man. He admired beautiful, prideful women. His arousal ran hottest when he asserted himself forcefully. A woman who gave in too easily never kept his interest. That strength was also his weakness.

  How easy it was to manipulate his mood – all she had to do was the opposite of what he expected.

  She pretended to resist him until he made her cry out with pleasure, then, on their next meeting, she pretended it had never happened at all. When she could no longer deny his mastery over her, he had expected her to be jealous – but instead, she helped him find the most beautiful girls for his harem.

  But, most of all, Rabia gave him the one thing his wealth and power couldn’t purchase. She had been first to give him a son, and she worked hard to make the boy a son to be proud of. She had made her child excel physically, and ensured his academic tutors were the finest white eunuchs in the Caliphate.

  If there was any regret at all, it was she had never conceived again despite her best efforts – and his. For that alone, she might have fallen out of favor, except Selim Omar’s other wives and concubines fared worse. Few had successfully given birth, and those babes that lived beyond infancy were all female.

  Next year, at the age of seven, her son would have left her side anyway to be groomed for power, but he was still hers. He would always be hers.

  *

  Dearest sister,

  Your letter and Sophia’s arrived within days of receiving word of your rescue. No words can express the joy in knowing you are safe.

  My first desire was that you ought to return to England immediately, but on reading about your ordeal, I believe it would be better if you remained abroad until the New Year. Then you can return to society without consequences and put this nasty incident behind you completely.

  I have told Victoria, and she is in complete agreement on how we should manage your return. We will let it be known among our tightest circle that you have the good fortune to be found safe. We will say nothing about your unfortunate condition, only that you require time to recover from your ordeal.

  When you return, we shall capitalize on my wife’s family name to introduce you to a select society. Someone suitable will be found, given a proper coming out is impossible for you now.

  I have advanced £250 into an account for you at Uncle Jonas’ bank. Use it as you need. I suppose you’ll need an entire new wardrobe. Victoria has forwarded several editions of The Lady’s Journal so you can see what is currently fashionable.

  Do write me soonest, Laura, so I know how best to advise you.

  Your devoted brother,

  Samuel

  P.S. And, of course, you must make such arrangements for the care of the child as you see fit. A decent donation to an orphanage or to a local family for the child’s upkeep would be appropriate.

  Laura stood and rubbed a hand over a swollen belly. Sitting in one place for any length of time caused aches. She shook her head as she finished reading the letter.

  All well and good for him to tell me to forget what happened.

  By Laura’s reckoning, she was nearly seven months along and the baby was active – a good sign, a healthy bambino, she was told by one of the village women.

  She had settled into life on Catallus well enough. Summer had gone, and the autumn was mild and pleasant. She had ceased to jump at her own shadow or experience a momentary panic whenever any of the local men even looked at her. Laura didn’t even mind tending the chickens alongside some of the village children. She also learned how to milk a goat. The thought brought a rare grin.

  Oh, how Samuel would be appalled to see his sister getting her hands dirty for a living as their grandparents had. Perhaps that should be a secret she kept to herself after she returned home.

  The Calliope had arrived mid-morning, and Laura could see that the coming of the ship was always cause for great excitement. She had caught a glimpse of Elias just once on deck, directing the dispatch of crates and barrels from the ship. But that had been hours ago, and he had not come to see her.

  She had a lot of thinking to do. Samuel may have expressed himself unartfully, as he usually did, but his letter demanded she face an inconvenient truth – and she had been putting off making a decision about her future and that of her child.

  The more she felt the babe move inside her, the more she knew it was just as much hers as Selim Omar’s – perhaps even more so. She was the one giving this babe life. In the darkness of night, when she lay on her bed, she had even entertained the fantasy of holding the newborn, this babe that grew inside her, in her arms. But Samuel’s letter had doused her in the cold water of reality.

  What was she thinking? She could not possibly raise a child on her own. The sooner she came to terms with that the better. She could not – must not – get sentimental. Laura had seen for herself what happened to other women in the harem. They had been left utterly bereft when their infants were taken away from them. Some wept inconsolably. One had even tried to kill herself. And there were rumors that, years ago,
one of them had actually succeeded.

  She breathed in deep and laid a hand on her belly. One day at a time, one step at a time.

  From her view from the roof, the Calliope had been fully unloaded and the breeze from the lagoon brought up with it the sound of a squeeze box, hinting at another party, another feast. The island’s excitement was contagious.

  She tied up the newly-arrived letter and the parcel of unread magazines, and hurried down the steps from her rooftop sanctuary. She was about to take a shortcut to her room via the kitchen when she spotted Elias. She wasn’t sure how to greet him. He put a finger to his lips. She frowned in a mute question. He inclined his head toward the door.

  Inside, she heard two distinct voices. Elias silently gestured her to move closer with a wave of his hand. She stood at his elbow and tilted an ear to the door.

  Kit Hardacre sounded angry. Sophia was the calm voice of reason.

  “I’m waiting here until the storm is over,” Elias whispered to her.

  She dropped her voice to match. “Do you know what it’s about?”

  “I can guess,” Elias answered. “Sophia also received a letter from your brother today.”

  “I cannot believe the utter gall of Cappleman!” yelled Kit.

  Laura took half a step in surprise and bumped into Elias’ chest. He touched a hand to her shoulder to steady her. Laura had never heard Hardacre that angry before.

  “Who does he think my men are? Servants? Errand boys? That all he has to do is offer bakshish, a little backhanded payment, and that makes everything all right?”

  “I’m sure that’s not what he means at all – granted, he could have expressed it better but—”

  “It’s an insult! He’s treating me and my men like mercenaries. I don’t do this for the money, none of us do. It’s never been about the money. For God’s sake, Sophia, did he really think I expected payment to bring my wife home? Well ayreh feek, Cappleman. I don’t want your goddamned money.”

  Laura leaned back until her shoulder touched Elias’ back once again and whispered: “Did he just tell my brother to…”

  “Yes, he did,” Elias answered. Something in his voice made Laura look up at him. He was smothering a laugh. So, she hadn’t misheard the obscenity after all.