by Henke, Shirl
“We have reviewed the listing of prisoners and find one missing person.”
“The bagnos have been searched diligently, as have all households in Algiers. Every one of your countrymen taken by our corsairs has been freed,” the dey's adviser replied indignantly.
“I do not speak of an American man, but a woman...the daughter of an American senator. Elizabeth Blackthorne is being held prisoner right here in your palace.”
A murmur went up around the crowded room as De-catur's words were translated. Algerian men bristled in outrage, and the dey's advisers circled around his throne like angry hornets. This time the old man did not bother with a translator. In thickly accented but quite serviceable English, he replied, “Our religion demands that we keep the sanctity of the harem. No woman who has been placed under protection of my household may be taken from that sanctuary. The one you speak of is now a concubine of my son Kasseim. She is dead to you.”
Derrick stood in the shadow of the hallway, listening to the exchange. He had left Kasseim and his friends collapsed in celebratory inebriation after the race and ridden hard to reach the city before Decatur signed the treaty. He was determined to make certain Beth was rescued, even if it meant upsetting British diplomatic relations with Algiers, but the dey's words rocked him. The one you speak of is now a concubine of my son...
She had not been able to stave off the inevitable, he thought with bitter regret, all the while realizing that one more man could make little difference. He had been the first, but he had always known that he would not be the last. She had done what was necessary to survive. At least she would be free to pursue her life's dreams once again. But Derrick had not expected reality to hurt so much.
He watched as Decatur took a step forward, his hand on the hilt of his ceremonial sword, his expression cool and grim. The dey's Janissaries also reached for their weapons. The American was backed by several dozen heavily armed marines whose ferocity under fire had already become legend along the Barbary Coast.
He said, “The sanctity of your slave women be damned, Your Majesty. You will produce Miss Blackthorne or I shall dispatch my men to tear your harem apart silken sheet by silken sheet.”
“This is an outrage! An affront to Allah himself, may the Prophet curse you!” The cries went up from around the throne, but Decatur's words cut through the babble of protest.
“I will have Miss Blackthorne or by the Almighty, I shall order this city bombarded until it makes the Roman's treatment of Carthage seem merciful by comparison. You may choose, Your Majesty,” the commodore said with steel in his voice.
Derrick's hands rested on the pistols in his sash, praying the dey would not be so foolish as to provoke a bloodbath. The Englishman was grateful that Kasseim was not present. The young prince's pride might well have led him to act rashly.
The dey motioned for silence, his eyes never leaving those of his American adversary. Slumping back in his seat, he said, “Bring the wench. My son is well rid of the infidel baggage.”
With a huge sigh of relief, Derrick slipped his hands from his pistol butts and waited as a pair of eunuchs were dispatched to fetch Beth from the seraglio. He did not see Drum glide up to his side until the little man spoke.
“Done to a cow's thumb. That Yankee certainly came up to scratch. Now, we can spirit Beth to safety—”
“What do you mean, we?” Derrick snarled. “She'll be reunited with her countrymen. They shall see to her safety.”
“Ah, no, old chap. 'Fraid not. That task's been set for us...or rather you,” Drum replied with a beatific grin. “I arranged everything with the commodore.”
Chapter Thirteen
When the eunuchs took hold of her to drag her from the women's quarters, Beth feared she was going to her death. This is the end of it, then. Regret for the loss of her young life seared through her, for all the painting she had not done, for all the times she had not told her family how much she did love them in spite of her choice to live abroad, for not being able to tell Vittoria good-bye...but overshadowing everything was her regret over Derrick.
Derrick, whose children she would never bear, whose life she would never share. She would never again feel his hard, lean body pressed against hers, his hands caressing her, or hear his low voice teasing her. Derrick, whom she loved.
There was no longer any use denying the truth. In these last few moments of her earthly existence, Beth openly admitted to herself what she had been afraid to consider during the time they had spent together and the time after he had betrayed and deserted her. She would gladly have given up the life she'd built for herself in Naples in exchange for being his wife.
But he had not even attempted to reach her in this prison after that one mysterious note. Then the thought came unbidden—if she was being taken to her death, perhaps the same fate had already befallen him. That would explain why he had not rescued her after she did as he asked and received such painful retribution from old Fatima.
Perhaps we will be together again...in a better place. She was delivered to the two grim-looking Janissaries, who held her in their steely grip as they walked swiftly through the twists and turns of the palace, taking her to her fate.
When they reached the dey's audience chamber, Beth was stunned to see Stephen Decatur standing boldly in front of the throne, in full dress uniform, flanked by dozens of heavily armed American marines. The Janissaries released her at the doorway, giving her a rough shove toward the dey. In a daze of disbelief, she stumbled and would have fallen if the commodore had not stepped forward to assist her.
“Miss Blackthorne, are you all right?” he asked with formal solicitude.
“Yes...yes, of course I am now. I heard that your ships were in the harbor, but I never dreamed you would be here—that I was being brought to you!”
“You're safe now, my dear,” he soothed.
“How did you know that I was a prisoner?” Derrick! It had to be.
Suddenly one of the dey's advisers spoke angrily in Arabic. “Please forgive me, but I must see to this treaty. Lieutenant Granger will escort you to my flagship,” the commodore replied, motioning forward a young man with a round, florid face and pale ginger hair.
“Your servant, miss,” Granger said stiffly, offering her his arm.
Beth guessed that his high color was not entirely due to being a redhead. He thinks I’m a ruined woman debauched by Algerines, she thought with faint amusement. If only he was aware of her reputation back in Naples!
Derrick stood hidden behind a screen where he could observe Beth being led to safety. It was his duty to see that friendly diplomatic channels remained open for the time being between his government and the dey, but as a man he wanted nothing so much as to take her in his arms. He had heard the rumors about her punishment for disobedience and was relieved to see that she bore no permanent injuries.
Beth would be too proud to limp if they broke all the bones in her feet.
He smiled sadly, knowing the truth of it. What had they done to her? What had his supposed friend Kasseim done to her—not to mention the corsair Quinn? He cursed the turmoil in Europe and Napoleon for separating them, then realized how foolish that was. If not for his assignment spying on the exiled emperor, he would never have met Elizabeth Blackthorne. But he did wish mightily that he could have been her deliverer instead of Decatur.
As to what had passed between Beth and the prince, he would not think of it. She had survived. Still, the images of her locked in intimate embraces with other men ate at his guts. He felt guilty and jealous. And he did not like himself for it one bit.
* * * *
Aboard the U.S.S. Guerriere, Beth waited in the commodore's cabin, scarcely able to believe that she was free at last. Lt. Granger had politely offered to have a meal brought to her and asked if she required anything else, since his commander might be several hours finalizing the treaty arrangements in the city. She had declined the food but inquired about how Decatur had known she was being held captive.
“You'd bes
t discuss that with Commodore Decatur when he returns, miss,” was all he would volunteer.
“Did a man named Derrick Jamison come to him?” She held her breath.
“I couldn't say.”
Beth would have stamped her feet in aggravation if they had not still hurt so much from the bastinado. “He's English, tall, black-haired, arrogant, rather difficult to miss. He was the only foreigner who knew that I was there.”
Granger seemed to be weighing his answer, as if the security of the republic hinged on it. “Well...there was an Englishman.” He sniffed at the word as if it were rancid cheese. “He came aboard while the commodore was preparing to meet with the dey. An arrogant devil, but neither tall nor dark. A scrawny little runt, if you'll pardon my saying so, miss.”
“Dressed to the nines, light tan hair and cat-green eyes, about so high?” She raised one hand just above her shoulder. At his nod, she exclaimed, “Drum!” What was he doing here? For that matter, what had Derrick been doing here?
Before she could question Granger any further, he said, “This is a United States naval vessel, miss. My apologies that we have no''—his face turned brick red now as he fumbled for words—“that is, no proper accoutrements for a lady.” He eyed the bedraggled caftan that hung like a shroud over her tall frame. Although it covered her from neck to ankles and was made of heavy cotton, the indication that she wore nothing beneath it obviously disturbed his sense of propriety.
“I understand the limitations, Lieutenant. Please do not concern yourself. What I'm really interested in is—”
“I really must go, then. With your permission?” he asked. Not caring if he had it or not, he sketched a quick bow and backed out of the room.
“I might as well have some contagious disease!” His American provinciality would have been amusing if not for her concern about Derrick. Drum had been the one to approach Decatur. Did that mean that Derrick was unable to do so? Or unwilling? The longer she waited, the more she stewed.
Toward evening, the commodore returned. She watched through the porthole of his cabin as he boarded his flagship. He was followed by two civilians, both of whom she recognized immediately. By the time the cabin door opened, her aching foot was tapping impatiently on the polished walnut flooring.
“I do apologize for keeping you waiting, my dear,” Decatur said with fatherly concern after entering alone. “But the treaty is now duly signed and that thieving riffraff will never prey on innocent Americans again.”
“I quite understand. You cannot know how grateful I am that our government sent you to deal with them,” she replied, then asked, “The two Englishmen who accompanied you aboard—”
“I asked them to wait outside for a moment, my dear. As you know, I have been fast friends with your father for many years.”
Beth had an inkling of where this conversation was going and she did not like it. Men were such imbeciles when it came to their protective instincts toward women. “And my father would wish me returned safely to Savannah after my ordeal,” she supplied helpfully. Decatur appeared relieved for an instant, then took note of the look in her eyes and realized his mistake. “Although many women might wish that, I do not,” she said with gentle finality in her voice.
“I was given to understand by Mr. Drummond that you would prefer to return to Naples, where you were residing prior to your...misfortune.”
“Yes, I would. My home has been in Naples for nearly four years now. It would serve nothing and greatly distress my parents if they were to learn that I'd been a prisoner of the dey. May I beg you never to speak of this misadventure again?”
“As far as I and my crew are concerned, it has never happened, Elizabeth,” he reassured her. Decatur lost a bit of his parental composure then, as if uncertain how to proceed. “My orders are to set sail for home directly, so I cannot see you safely to Naples on any of the ships under my command.”
“I know you do not wish to leave your friend's daughter unchaperoned with two young Englishmen, but I assure you that I have known both gentlemen for some time.”
Decatur's face did not become as red as Granger's had, but he was nonetheless feeling his tight dress collar pinch as he replied, “Mr. Drummond gave me to believe that you and Mr. Jamison were affianced. Is that not so?”
Drum,matchmaking? She suppressed a smile at the unlikely behavior from the gruff little dandy. “Well, not exactly, no. Although we have spoken of marriage,” she added vaguely. “But I do trust him and he can be relied upon.” Yes, to lie and deceive you, a voice berated her.
Decatur drummed his fingers on the polished surface of his desk for a moment, then reached a decision. “Very well, if you are certain,” he said, looking at her to see if she remained adamant. When she nodded calmly, he opened the door of his cabin and asked the Englishmen to enter.
“Hello, puss,” Derrick said in that husky voice that always melted her bones. He was dressed in dusty tan riding breeches and high boots, as if he'd just spent the day in the countryside. He bowed over her hand, and that errant black lock fell across his forehead. Beth ached to brush it with her fingers and fall into his arms. Instead, she said in a cool, controlled voice, “I was fearful something had happened to you when I heard nothing after that one note.”
Ouch! It was as bad as he had feared. “Twas too risky to send another. If Nola had been intercepted, she would have been put to the torture to reveal that I had sent her—and you would have been punished severely as well.”
“Nola?” she inquired with raised eyebrows.
“I say, Miss Blackthorne, you do look quite well after such an ordeal,” Drum interjected with false cheeriness, attempting to head off an argument over Derrick's “gift” from the dey.
Beth turned to the little man with a smile. “I've learned that I have you to thank for my rescue, Drum. How shall I ever repay you for alerting Commodore Decatur?”
Derrick's expression darkened, but Drum ignored him, saying smoothly, “Twas nothing, m'dear. So glad to be of service. After all, Alex would have my head if I let anything befall his favorite cousin.”
“I think it might be best if we saw Beth safely aboard the San Marcos” Derrick said to Decatur, fighting the urge to throttle his companion.
The commodore looked at Beth. “If that is your wish, my dear.” He appeared anything but happy about the prospect.
“I take it the San Marcos is bound for Naples?” she asked.
“She sails on the morning tide under an English flag, bound for Naples, with a brief stop in Sicily,” Derrick replied.
He was standing too close. Beth could smell his scent, faint male musk combined with perspiration and horse. He had been out riding while Drum arranged her rescue and the Americans stormed the palace. But nothing mattered except that he would be taking her home to Naples. As they were rowed across the bay to the waiting English ship, Beth could not help thinking how grateful she was that her father would never learn about this episode.
As soon as they boarded the San Marcos, Drum explained that he would not be sailing with them. “Someone must remain behind to close the British legation. Now that your countrymen have so gallantly led the way, all the European powers will follow suit, driving those demned pirates out of business.”
Beth took his hand and looked into his eyes. ”I thank you, my friend, for all that you have done. Perhaps we shall meet again in Naples?”
“Possibly. Who knows what joyous event might occasion my return, hmmm?” he said mysteriously.
After Drum had departed, the captain bowed obsequiously and introduced himself as Liro Calvara. Although he and his crew were from Genoa, the old brigantine was under the protection of the English flag, headed for the Royal Navy stronghold of Palermo, heavily laden with a cargo of wool and spices.
“But we will go from Sicily to Naples?” Beth asked the rotund, beetle-browed old man, casting a suspicious glance at Derrick.
“As soon as we unload our cargo, signorina.” He shuffled about nervously for a moment
, clearing his throat, then continued, “There is little room for passengers—I only take you on because of Signore Jamison...” He looked to Derrick for support.
“What he is trying to tell you, Beth, is that there is only one cabin free—his. He has agreed to sleep with his men.”
“Oh, and pray where will you sleep?” she asked sweetly. Not so easy as that, Derrick. You cannot desert me, then reclaim me as if I were no more than a traveling trunk!
“I think we could better discuss the matter after the captain has shown us the cabin,” he replied smoothly, ushering her toward the belowdeck stairs.
The light pressure of his palm against her spine sent shivers through Beth. Rather than argue in front of Calvara, she followed his lead. Her sore feet and long caftan made negotiating the crude ladder difficult. She bunched the garment up in her hands and hobbled down, holding on as best she could.
From below her, Derrick watched the curve of her der-riere wriggle as the cotton cloth pulled tightly across its rounded contours. His mouth went dry. Small wonder, he thought wryly,since all the juices in his body were now centered much lower. When she took her foot from the last rung, he could not resist placing his arm around her waist to assist her. She looked up into his face, startled by the contact, and he almost drowned in the golden flecks floating in her eyes.
When she tried to move away, she stepped on an uneven plank and winced. “Are your feet still sore from the bastinado?” he whispered.
She pulled away without answering and walked stiff-spined down the dark narrow passageway to the door where Calvara waited. The cabin was small and the furnishings well worn but clean. There was only one bed, of course, a narrow bunk fastened to an interior wall. As if sensing the tension between the two of them, the captain bowed again and excused himself.
“There is but one cabin free and one bed in it, puss. Are you so angry at my deception in Naples that you refuse to share it with me?” he asked baldly. No use waiting. I might as well know.
