by Henke, Shirl
“Then you are not interested in winning her?” Kasseim studied the Englishman's face. Western men had strange and often fascinating ideas about women.
“I did not say that,” Derrick replied casually. He'd better tread very carefully. Kasseim or his mother could just as well have Beth killed as sold. “If she is truly so beautiful, I might be tempted. She has not been scarred?” He was terrified of what the dey's vindictive chief wife might do, since Beth had been playing her part with such zeal.
“No. We are not barbarians,” Kasseim replied stiffly. “The bastinado is painful, but it leaves no permanent injury.”
“Just very sore feet,” Derrick replied with a forced grin. “I shall agree to the wager. Even allowing for...ah, some slight exaggeration, the creature you've described must be exceptional.”
“Good. It is my understanding that European men do not require the same...er...serene qualities in female disposition that we do. Perhaps she might please you greatly, my friend,” Kasseim said with a laugh. “But first you would have to win the race—something I do not believe Prince Tarak and I will allow!”
* * * *
When Derrick returned to his quarters in the British legation, he had a surprise visitor. Alvin Francis Edward Drummond slumped petulantly on a Dante chair, fanning himself in the humid late afternoon heat.
“Drum, what the devil are you doing in Algiers?”
“Precisely the question I’ve been asking myself ever since setting foot on this accursed heathen shore. Tis a veritable viper pit. I was forced to sail from Sicily aboard one of the corsairs' ships, and the captain had the unmitigated audacity to feed me camel meat—camel meat!” He shuddered at the memory.
“Camel is considered a delicacy in some parts of the east,” Derrick replied, suppressing a grin. “But you still have not explained what compelled you to come here. I expected you'd be sipping port at White's by this time.”
“So did I,” Drum said glumly. “But fate in the form of Lord Exmouth intervened.”
Jamison knew Exmouth by reputation in the Foreign Office. “He's cunning and utterly ruthless when he wants something. What has happened to merit sending a personal messenger all the way from Europe? I received the dispatches from Brussels regarding Wellington's victory. Surely there's been no further problem with Bonaparte.”
“Old Boney's goose is cooked,” Drum replied dismis-sively. “No, this pertains to that rash American chap you so admire, Decatur.”
“The commodore has put on quite a show of force along the North African coast,” Derrick replied with some relish.
“So your dispatches indicated. That was why the Foreign Office saw fit to send me here,” Drum replied accusatorily. “It would seem Lord Exmouth is interested in mounting a British expedition to achieve the same results for jolly old England...once Decatur actually gets the old dey to sign on the dotted line. I'm to report the details of the treaty between the United States and Algiers after it's signed. Then all British subjects here are to make arrangements to depart before Exmouth's fleet comes a-calling.”
Jamison whistled low. “No small order. What am I to do then?”
Drum smiled broadly now. “A task you should relish—return to Naples and keep an eye on the Bourbon restoration to the throne now that Murat is dead.”
Derrick paced across the floor of the cluttered room. Beth was not in Naples waiting for him as Drum assumed. He looked over to Drummond and said, ”I have some disturbing news regarding Beth...”
After Derrick had finished imparting the details of Beth's capture, Drum was aghast. “And you believe you can win her freedom in a horse race? Can that heathen prince be trusted to keep his word?”
“I believe so, but if Decatur comes sailing into the harbor beforehand, matters might get a bit sticky.”
Drum huffed. ”I daresay Decatur would demand the repatriation of all American captives.”
“There are still dangers—the dey and his son are proud men. Rather than see the sanctity of their harem breached, they might have Beth killed. Our safest course would be for me to win her from Kasseim...if possible...but just in case, I have a backup plan.”
* * * *
Early the following morning the laughing, boisterous crowd of men, mostly Kasseim's brothers and friends from the court, rode with their prince and the Englishman. Having observed many such races since his arrival, Derrìck was expecting that they would head toward the flat grassy plains of the river valley where such contests were usually held.
However, Kasseim veered from that course and rode instead into the rocky hills that ringed the city to the southwest. “We are not going to the racecourse where you defeated Al-sedac last week, my friend?” Derrick asked innocently.
Kasseim chuckled. “I prefer to test Prince Tarak's mettle over a longer course. Surely you feel your English horse equal to such a challenge, do you not? ”
“As you wish, my friend.” Derrick cursed silently. The young heir was his father's son in cunning. His Thoroughbred was fast as lightning on a straightaway over a mile or so but would not be as sure-footed and long-winded on rough, uneven terrain. There the sturdy little Arabian would have the advantage.
His only hope for victory was to save Excaliber's speed for a final burst at the finish line. It was well that they had agreed to race early in the day, before the heat became oppressive and gave Prince Tarak yet another advantage.
“To show my sporting blood, I will not make the course overlong. Say from the shepherd's hut to the ridge,” Kasseim said, pointing to a rocky outcrop looming in the distance. He directed several of his guards to take positions at the opposite end of the course, which was easily two miles distant.
A dicey chance at best. Derrick nodded as they turned and retraced their path to the rude hut on the side of the hill. One of Kasseim's brothers dropped his arm, signaling the riders to begin, and they kicked their mounts into a swift gallop. As he expected, the little Arabian held to a steady ground-eating pace. He allowed him to maintain a slight lead while eyeing the stretch of rock-strewn ground coming up.
This was where Kasseim's advantage would really come into play. The desert horse picked his way effortlessly over the rough, uneven ground while the Thoroughbred stumbled, forcing Jamison to slow or risk injury to his mount. As they began to ascend the slope toward the finish line, Derrick kicked the bay hard and leaned forward, redistributing his weight as he had seen red Indians race in America.
Whispering in the stallion's ear, he crooned, “You can do it, yes, that's the way, faster now, yes!”
He pulled abreast of Kasseim's fleet Arabian...a nose after they passed the finish line. As everyone gathered around the prince, congratulating him on his splendid victory, Derrick was forced to follow suit.
“My felicitations on such splendid riding. A pity 'tis you, not I, who will ride the beauteous American as well as the English Thoroughbred.”
Everyone shared in the raucous laughter, congratulating Derrick on being such a fine sport. The group was in an exuberant mood, something on which he had counted as he proposed a time-honored English custom.
“A toast to the victory of your future ruler—and to his good health!” He produced a jug of “lion's milk,” handed to him by the groom who had accompanied him. Although Islamic law prohibited the consumption of alcoholic beverages, in North Africa the custom was often observed in the breach, especially when a group of friends gathered away from the prying eyes of religious authorities. Lion's milk was made from grapes distilled with anise and tasted rather like Greek ouzo, a potent enough drink on an empty belly in the heat of the day with a long ride back to the city ahead of them.
The celebrants quickly seized upon the idea, passing around not only Derrick's offering but several other leather jugs brought along for just such a happy occasion. Now, if only his fallback plan would work...
* * * *
Beth heard the frightened whispers of the women, many of whom eyed her with open hatred since she was one of the ac
cursed American infidels. Always fearful of being displaced by a newcomer, Maya, Kasseim's favorite odalisque, particularly detested her and had done everything in her power to make Beth’s life in the harem even more hellish than old Fatima could. Now Maya vented her spleen.
“We shall all die in our beds, buried beneath tons of rock, when the American dogs destroy the city and the palace with it. Not a stone will remain standing and it is all her fault,” the beautiful little Abkhasian blonde said, pointing a hennaed finger at Beth.
Maya spoke in Arabic, but Beth understood enough to realize that her deliverance might be at hand. Imagine, her father's old friend Stephen Decatur, here in Algiers, forcing the dey to sign a peace treaty and free all Americans held captive! The news had spread through the palace like wildfire shortly after a fleet of American warships under the command of the feared commodore sailed right into the mouth of the harbor.
From what Beth had gleaned during the past week, Decatur's brilliant tactical skills had destroyed most of the Algerian corsairs' ships and taken prisoner their surviving crews. Now he menaced their very citadel with his powerful cannon, which had already reduced the lesser pirate strongholds to little more than heaps of rubble. Even the fortress of Algiers could not stand against the assault.
The dey was negotiating for an end to his rashly declared war against the distant republic. Beth knew that the terms of any treaty would include the repatriation of all American prisoners—but she had not been taken from an American ship and no one in her country knew of her plight.
Only Derrick knows.
But where was he? It had been days since his message, and following his instructions had cost her dearly. She had refused to use depilatories and henna on her body or to wear the voluminous but translucent pantaloons of an odalisque. She would not give even lip service to Islamic prayers as the rest of the Christian slave women did, and worst of all, she would not learn the skills required to please her lord and master, such as playing the lyre, dancing and reciting Arabic poetry—not to mention a vast repertoire of erotic tricks.
For her obduracy she had been forced to go without food and clothing for days at a time, and when that did not break her spirit, Fatima had ordered her eunuchs to hold her down so the slave women could perform their cosmetic foolery on her body. But Beth had become enraged beyond the basic resistance Derrick had suggested. She fought with teeth and nails, kicking and gouging until Fatima's puny “not-men” had fair quaked in terror whenever the chief wife ordered them to approach the wild foreigner.
When all else failed, Fatima had had her dragged from the women's quarters to a dungeon where the Janissaries had applied the feared bastinado—beating the soles of her feet with a truncheon. The pain was excruciating, but she refused to give the hateful old crone or her sadistic minions the satisfaction of crying out. Twice she had passed out during the administration of punishment. But after all she endured, there had been no further word from Derrick.
Then two days ago Kasseim had returned from his journey into the interior and requested the defiant female be brought before him. Quinn had not lied about the prince's looks—at least that much was true—but Beth hated the way he studied her with his keen dark eyes. North African men had elevated male arrogance to an art form. Rather than lowering her lashes as Fatima had instructed her, Beth had met his stare boldly, which perversely seemed to amuse him.
Although his mother insisted that the infidel be educated properly first, Kasseim had decided to take his chances. Beth had been desperate that afternoon when the women were all rewarded with a few hours in the gardens—all but the disobedient one.
While left to languish indoors, she had filched some opium powders from Maya. Beth had observed the prince's favorite hiding them in a secret compartment inside the silk coverlet on her pallet when Maya believed no one was looking. Beth concealed in the lining of her caftan enough of the vile narcotic to knock down a camel.
That night Kasseim was surprised to find her compliant, even offering to pour his sherbet and serve him. She had acted just reluctant enough to hold his interest and not arouse his suspicions, sipping her own drink while he downed several goblets of the lemon-sugar drink that she'd laced with opium.
When she finished serving him the meal, he reached for her and then she turned coy, playing teasing games just long enough for the drug to take effect. As his eyes started to lose their focus and he slid down on the pile of cushions, she slipped off her caftan and went into his arms. He caressed her breast once, then fell asleep with a smile on his face.
Last night Maya had retaliated with the connivance of two of her Abkhasian friends, who attacked their American rival. Rather than fighting back and knocking the plump weaklings unconscious, Beth had allowed them to win the contest before the eunuchs dared to interfere. Scratched and bruised, Beth had been allowed to retire to the baths while Maya had been sent to the prince. Apparently that had not been sufficient to quell her jealousy. Today, with the latest news of Decatur, the favorite had begun venting her spleen until the entire harem was ready to claw out Beth's eyes.
“Perhaps if the dey were to deliver me to my father's old friend, I could intercede for your safety,” she replied to Maya's diatribe, knowing old Fatima could hear her. The chief wife sat behind the lattice screen by the pool, as was her custom, so that she might eavesdrop on her son's concubines.
The ploy did not work. The women were herded into the baths for their late-afternoon ritual. The eternally boring order of harem life was not to be disrupted, even by the threat of enemy bombardment. Beth walked proudly on her bruised feet, refusing to give her tormentors the satisfaction of limping.
Fatima had abandoned her attempts to have Beth properly groomed. She wondered if Kasseim had ordered his mother to desist, preferring the way she looked when she removed her caftan—that is, if he could remember anything at all from their first night together. What will I do if he sends for me again tonight? she thought as she stripped and dived into the tepid pool. Beth had not enough opium to drug him again and if she took any more from Maya's hiding place she risked discovery. If Kasseim ever found she had put anything in his drink, she would die.
As she cut through the water with strong clean strokes, she could think of no way to save herself. Had fate spared her from Liam Quinn only to deliver her into the bed of another heathen stranger? Derrick, where are you?
* * * *
Drum paced furiously across the quarterdeck of the American warship, cursing the sweltering heat that caused him to perspire like a common laborer, not to mention the salty humid air that had quite wilted his last fresh cravat. “No way to be presented to that colonial, no way at all,” he muttered beneath his breath.
If only Derrick's cork-brained scheme worked. What if the commodore refused to see him after he'd risked life and limb to get here? He had slipped from the fortified city and paid a ghastly cutthroat to row him out to the American position at the mouth of the harbor, a dangerous feat that had nearly gotten them blown out of the water before he was able to identify himself as a British subject.
Just then a tar motioned for Drum to follow him below-deck. Commodore Stephen Decatur was an imposing man, even for a colonial, the little dandy was forced to admit. Tall and muscular, he wore his elegant dress uniform with true dash. Wavy light brown hair faintly flecked with gray framed a handsome face whose large blue eyes were keen and penetrating as he studied the Englishman from behind a desk filled with charts and papers.
“Jorgensen tells me that you're here on a mission of some great urgency you can only divulge to me directly, Mr. Drummond—is it not?” Decatur said.
“The Honorable Alvin Francis Edward Drummond, your obedient servant, sir,” Drum replied, clicking his heels and bowing smartly.
“Then you'd best get on with it as I have a fleet waiting to attack Algiers at dawn if the dey refuses my terms,” the American officer said impatiently.
“Does the name Elizabeth Blackthorne mean anything to you, sir?�
�
Decatur's eyes narrowed. “Pray explain yourself at once, Mr. Drummond.”
Drum proceeded to do so.
* * * *
The dey sat as straight on his throne as his arthritic spine permitted, watching the big arrogant American enter his audience room. If only Kasseim were here—if only the accursed infidels had not appeared without warning scant hours ago demanding he sign a treaty that would effectively put an end to his rich Mediterranean enterprise—not to mention freeing a fortune in slaves from the bagnos, even a few men who labored in the palace itself!
Allah had indeed cursed him, he concluded as the presentation of Commodore Decatur was made. Perhaps if he stalled enough, his riders might yet locate his son. But what could Kasseim do against nine warships with their cannon trained on the city? The infidel dogs had already all but wiped out his fleet. No, he would be forced into the humiliating treaty...which would only leave the European powers sniffing the air like the greedy curs they were. All because of the Americans, Allah curse them!
He inclined his head ever so slightly, noting the mere sketch of a bow the commodore made before him. “My ministers have looked over the treaty. All is in order. I have signed it.” He motioned for his chief adviser to hand the document to Decatur.
“There is one more matter that must be resolved before I may sign for the United States, Your Majesty,” Decatur said, waiting as the interpreter translated, maintaining the fiction that the dey did not understand English, even though both men knew he did.
“And what is that?” the dey asked ingenuously.
