Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy)

by Henke, Shirl

  “You are utterly without conscience,” she said, realizing that beneath his charming exterior lay a ruthless will that would be most deadly to cross. The thought of giving her body to him made her ill...but the thought of refusing him was even worse.

  “And you are utterly foolhardy,” he replied. His seeming unconcern with her insult was belied by the slightly increased pressure on her hand as he held it in his grasp.

  Beth stared straight ahead as they passed by his crew, ignoring their leering expressions. They were somewhat cleaner and more orderly than the corsairs from the schooners who had first boarded the Sea Sprite but still a very rough-looking lot.

  Dear God above, what is going to happen to me?

  “Are you virgin?”

  Quinns question startled Beth. They were dining in his cabin, a small but luxurious room appointed with the booty from his piracy—golden wall sconces, Venetian glass, silk cushions. As she picked at a hunk of mutton with her fingers—the rais dined without utensils, as was the Arab custom—she debated lying, but his next words startled and puzzled her even more.

  “Twill do no good to lie—the palace midwife is most skilled at making such determinations.”

  The palace? “No. I had a lover in Naples.” She felt it prudent not to share with Quinn that he was English.

  “Had?” He cocked his head, waiting as he toyed with the heavy silver wine goblet. “Do I detect a note of sad parting in those words?” He took a sip of the sweet port, studying her over the rim. “What was his name, this Neapolitan lover?”

  Beth felt it safer to volunteer as little as possible. Just thinking of Derrick made her ache with sadness. She searched frantically to come up with an Italian name. “Piero,” she replied, as the name of Vittoria's long-lost love flashed into her mind.

  “ A pity. The dey's son is particularly fond of deflowering virgins.” He shrugged negligently, then grinned. “But perhaps there will be some...other compensation for me...not of a monetary nature.”

  The sinister comment hung on the air while the spicy mutton pitched nastily in her stomach. “What has the dey's son to do with me—you said I was to be ransomed.” She dreaded the answer.

  “I lied.” He grinned rakishly and shoved another chunk of mutton in his mouth. “Little matter what your family so far away in America could pay. 'Twould take too long, even if the dey had not declared war against your prickly young republic for being rather...contentious on the subject of tribute.”

  “Something for your dey to think long and hard on,” she replied with building anger—and horror. “My father is a man of great power in President Madison's administration.”

  “Ah, but if he does not know where you are...there is nothing he can do. No, a rare beauty such as you will command a lavish reward from my sovereign. The old dey is too long of tooth to use a woman, but his favorite son and heir, Kasseim, will be delighted to add you to his harem. Since you are already damaged goods, he will not care if I partake of the sweetness first.”

  The dagger was still in her boot and she ached to plunge it directly into his black Irish heart, but she considered what would happen if she succeeded in killing the rais. His men would tear her apart. Think, think! she admonished herself, forcing down the red rage blurring her vision.

  He studied her with his unnerving eyes of brightest green, leaning back against the deep pile of silken cushions, rubbing his hand over his chest absently, disturbing the patterns of thick red hair. Save for their difference in coloring, he was built much like Derrick, only on a larger scale. That this renegade Musselman was the fair one and her love the dark one was an irony that did not escape her. How could the one man so utterly entrance her, the other so thoroughly repulse her?

  “I've always fancied dark women, never been interested in the pale, puling Northerners we've captured...until now.” He rolled up in one lithe motion and reached across the foot-high lacquered table upon which they had dined.

  His big hand curved around her forearm, enveloping it, but before he could pull her up, she slipped from his grasp and scooted back against the wall. “You would enjoy it far more if I were willing...” she said in a low, husky voice.

  “Ah, colleen, that might be, but I'll not bargain your freedom for your body when I can possess it without.” He sounded almost regretful.

  “No, that is not what I meant.” She knew that ploy would be hopeless. “I do not wish to conceive...or to be given the sailor's disease.” Rather than risk slow death by the pox, she would kill him or herself. She slipped one hand inside her boot, hidden beneath her skirt, and felt the tiny dagger.

  Beth never knew whether or not Quinn would have agreed to her terms, for at that very moment a loud cry sounded above deck, followed by the boom of cannon fire. The rais jumped to his feet with a snarled oath and ran from the room, not even taking time to lock the door to his cabin. She heard the babble of voices speaking excitedly in Arabic mixed with the rumble of artillery and the splintering sounds of cannonballs smashing wood. Hope seared her like a flame. If those attacking were European, she and all the other captives might be rescued! Beth climbed the small narrow stairs leading abovedeck.

  The scene that greeted her was like a painting of hell by Bosch or Brueghel. Quinn's ships were engaged in a battle to the death. The main mast of his brig had been shattered halfway and broken off, groaning in the wind as it hung by its lines,the sails shredded and blackened by gunpowder. Men lay sprawled grotesquely, some dead, others dying. Blood ran red on the planks. Beth peered through the smoke-blackened air to see the attacker's flag. Her heart sank when she recognized it as Maltese. The corsairs of Malta were bitter rivals of Algiers, but every bit as infamous for being cutthroat slavers.

  There would be no salvation if Quinn lost. Just then the Irishman ordered his port battery to fire on one of the brigs that was attempting to flank them. She watched, fascinated in spite of herself as his seamanship and daring began to turn the tide. His shots struck the flanking brig at the waterline, nearly cutting it in two. As it began to sink, he signaled his sloops to reopen fire on the remaining Maltese brig now that he had directed them into position.

  Before the crew of the sloops swarmed aboard, the Maltese ship managed to fire off one final salvo, which was enough to wreak even more havoc aboard Quinn's brig, smashing into the quarterdeck and sending men flying like bits of kindling. A jagged piece of railing struck the rais knocking him to his knees as blood began to spread across his bare chest. He continued to bark orders, then slowly crumpled to the deck. “Better the enemy I know than one I do not,” Beth muttered to herself as she raced toward the stricken rais.

  “Tell them to fetch my trunks. I need the medicines in one of them,” she said to Quinn as she began slicing off a big piece of her skirt with the dagger from her boot, then applying it as a compress to his side. Eyeing the small blade, he grinned crookedly in spite of the pain. “Would you have used it on me, colleen?”

  “We can discuss that later—if you don't bleed to death dallying.”

  He gave several commands in Arabic, and two of his men scurried to retrieve her belongings while three others carried their fallen leader below. Within a few moments he was lying in his cabin while Beth dug through her trunk for the medical supplies she always carried. “I'll need yarrow...the needle and suture...” she murmured more to herself than him as he watched from the large pallet in the center of the room.

  “I take it you've done this before,” he remarked.

  She looked up, then snapped tersely, “Altogether more often than I care to discuss.”

  He was a more obliging patient than Derrick had been, passing out halfway through the suturing. The corsair's injury was far deeper and required that she dig ugly shards of wood from his flesh before she could cleanse the area and stitch it. She hoped he would not die of blood loss or fever...at least not until she could get free of his ship.

  As she watched through the night, Quinn did grow feverish, tossing and crying out in delirium. A
ll she could do was sponge his body with cool water and wait. All the while her thoughts kept returning to Derrick. Had he fallen from his horse somewhere in the cold reaches of the Apennines...lain bleeding on the hard earth? Was he long dead?

  Shuddering, she tried to push the ghastly images from her mind. No, if he were dead, I would know. Some part of me would feel it, I am certain. Even that reassurance was cold comfort, for her love was lost to her.

  Quinn came out of his feverish stupor on the second day but remained too weak to do more than allow her to spoon broth into his mouth and issue a few brief orders to his second in command. The scowling Algerian Selim understood not a word of English, or at least pretended not to. Beth knew her safety, probably her very life, rested on Quinn's survival. An odd sort of companiate relationship developed between them over the next few days as they sailed toward his home...and her destiny.

  * * * *

  The Barbary port of Algiers was a suprisingly large place, appearing from a distance much like other European cities in the Mediterranean. But on closer inspection, Beth could see that it was indeed the bastion of an alien civilization. It extended in a crescent three miles across with two massive walls fortifying it, nearly a hundred feet high in many places. Three hundred brass cannon were positioned on those walls, facing the harbor. Crenellated towers at several points had numerous narrow windows from which the famed Janissary archers could fire a hail of arrows on any invaders fortunate enough to get past the cannon.

  From slender high minarets across the city the sounds of muezzins calling the faithful to prayer echoed eerily over the waters of the harbor as they sailed in. Beth stood beside Liam Quinn studying the largest building, a monolithic structure in the center of the walled city...the dey's palace. Will I ever leave once I enter it? She shivered in spite of the warm sun.

  As if intuiting her thoughts, Quinn said, “Twill not be so bad, colleen. A woman with your beauty and intelligence can rise far in the hierarchy of the harem.”

  “I can think of nothing more abhorrent than spending my life cloistered in some man's seraglio.”

  “Kasseim is well favored, young…once you give him children, he will be generous.”

  “Will he give my freedom?”

  “Ah, Beth, you are too single-minded for your own good,” he replied with a shaky sigh, taking a seat on the rail. This was his first time above deck since his injury and he was still weak. “Only have a care that you curb your outspoken American tongue in front of the dey. You would not like his methods of punishing insolence.”

  “So you have described in gory detail. I have not survived this far to perish at the hands of some petty tyrant.”

  He looked at her dubiously, then shrugged in regret. “If only we had been able to share one night together...”

  “It's not too late. Just turn about and sail for Naples.”

  “So single-minded,” he chided again.

  Chapter Eleven

  From the outside, the Dey of Algiers's palace was a large pile of limestone, plain and unprepossessing. However, the interior was truly amazing. In its labyrinth of open courtyards tropical birds with brilliant plumage sang from the branches of lemon and orange trees; and gardens lush with myrtle, jasmine, roses and tropical flowers of every hue surrounded burbling fountains full of brightly glistening fish. Highly polished marble floors gleamed in hues of pink and green. The slippered footsteps of servants seemed to hiss through the corridors.

  On a dais four steps above the vast hall the dey reclined on an enormous high-backed throne of beaten gold. He was a small man, his face pale and shriveled. But the hard black light of his narrowed gaze indicated that he was a wily and dangerous man.

  Derrick Jamison waited for his audience with the dey, all the while studying the undercurrents between the fish-eyed Janissaries and quick-tempered locals. He had languished for nearly two months in the opulent capital, making friends with the dey's eldest son and heir, Kasseim. This had been the last place he wished to be when Bonaparte's army took the field against the allies to decide the fate of Europe.

  But he had been dispatched to keep an eye on the war between the United States and Algiers. At the end of May, England's old nemesis Commodore Stephen Decatur had been dispatched to North Africa with a fleet of nine American warships. When Decatur's upstart nation had refused to pay the customary tribute to Algiers, the dey foolishly decided to use the young republic as an example. Having followed Decatur's career during the late war between their countries, Derrick had not been surprised by what transpired, all of which he reported in detailed dispatches to London. The commodore was wreaking even more havoc on the dey's corsairs than he had on the Royal Navy.

  Damned if he didn't admire the Yankee. Just as you admire Elizabeth Blackthorne. In spite of the hopelessness of it all, he could not help replaying their last night together and brooding over the possibility of returning one day to Naples.

  He knew he only deceived himself with wishful dreams. He had spent his life on the edge, a man without a country who could never reveal the truth of who he was. Leighton might provide him a meager stipend on the condition that he never set foot in England again, but pride forbade him from asking for that. He had few prospects if he left the Foreign Service. None of which would allow him the luxury of supporting a mistress—much less a wife. Beth's family was rich. He could have lived off her, but that was even more galling than crawling to his brother.

  The thought of marriage still gave him shudders. He would far prefer resuming the freedom of their old relationship, but at the end neither of them had been happy with that arrangement. She had tormented him by lying naked in front of lecherous old Neapolitan painters, dancing indecently close with handsome noblemen and walking about the public markets on the waterfront teasing burly young fishermen until they fair drooled. He had become increasingly jealous, an emotion no other woman had ever succeeded in arousing in him.

  But Beth had made it clear that she would never wed. Her painting would always come before home and hearth. She would allow no husband to demand attention and loyalty that she did not wish to give. She had told him she wanted no children. Since his elder brother had the duty to provide the Jamison heirs, he had never given the slightest thought to the idea of children. Yet, bizarre as it seemed, seeing Kasseim with his young sons and daughters had made him reconsider the idea of being a father.

  His melancholy reverie was interrupted by one of the Janissaries, who informed him that the dey would grant him the honor of a brief audience. Grateful to turn his mind to something productive, Jamison approached the throne.

  “What news of the great battles in Europe?” the dey inquired as a Nubian slave wafted a fan over his sovereign's turbaned head. Although he understood English, the arrogant old man refused to speak it, insisting that all court matters be handled either through translators or in Arabic. Derrick's Arabic was adequate for the task.

  Hate to disappoint you, old boy. Derrick knew all the Barbary states considered the conflict between Napoleon and the allies to be a great windfall that they hoped would not end any time soon. As long as it continued, they had free rein to loot the Mediterranean. Smiling after he made the customary bow, he replied, “Excellency, the great battle has been concluded in the Low Countries, near a place called Waterloo. The French have been defeated decisively and their emperor will be well and truly banished this time.”

  “That is good news indeed,” the dey said after a pregnant pause. His sour expression indicated that he thought it was anything but.

  Then the dey's chief of eunuchs slithered up from behind the dais and whispered something in his ruler's ear. The old man smiled slyly and dismissed the slave. Waving his ministers to silence, he said to the Englishman, ”I am informed that one of my rais has returned with captives to be ransomed...a rather large group including several of your countrymen—and women. I would, of course, be pleased to allow you to speak with the English prisoners and make arrangements for their repatriation.”


  The dey's attempt to curry favor with his government was transparent. “You are most gracious, Excellency. When might I be permitted to see the prisoners?”

  “They are being brought to the palace right now. Ham-met will escort you,” he said, indicating the burly eunuch, who bowed obsequiously.

  Derrick followed the giant from the audience room through a twisting labyrinth of corridors to the courtyard where a dozen heavily armed Janissaries stood guard over around thirty men. As was the Islamic custom, the women had been separated from the men as soon as they reached shore.

  Poor blighters. They looked starved and filthy, not to mention frightened within an inch of their sanity. As soon as he identified himself, he was assaulted by a babble of languages: Italian, French and even German, as well as English. After explaining that he himself could only assist British subjects, he assured them that their own legations would be informed and ransoms arranged.

  In the middle of the discussion, Jamison heard the sounds of an altercation echoing through the latticed partition of the courtyard. Female voices were raised in high-pitched squeals—no, he amended, not all female,at least one was a eunuch attempting unsuccessfully to restore order amid the female prisoners, who apparently had not as yet been ushered into the women's quarters.

  “I am an American and we grovel before no one—nor strip naked to be inspected like cattle! If you want my clothes, you try to take them—then try to make me press my face in the dirt!”

  Beth! Derrick could never mistake her voice. He stood frozen for a moment as the men around him stared at him uneasily. An English merchant named Binghamton volunteered, “That must be the Blackthorne baggage. American,” he sniffed. ”A hussy with a frightful reputation. Took straightaway to the pirate captain's bed without a moment's hesitation. About time she received her comeuppance.”

  “Really,” Derrick replied coldly.