Alev repeated the words in Arabic, her tone tremulous with excitement, and soon Charlotte was telling another story—how the pirates had boarded the Enchantress at sea and all about the battle that had ensued. By the time she was finished, she felt as weary as if she’d actually relived the entire experience.
She yawned, and Alev pointed her gently toward one of the couches. Soon Charlotte was stretched out, sound asleep.
It was Rashad who awakened her, sometime later.
“Captain Trevarren is asking for you,” he said. He made it sound as though God had just issued an eleventh commandment.
Charlotte flushed and sat up. “Is he?” she asked sweetly. “Well, far be it from me to keep my master waiting.”
Rashad narrowed his eyes, studying her suspiciously, but he didn’t question her behavior. He simply led the way out of the harem and through familiar hallways, finally stopping in the doorway of Khalif’s quarters.
He bowed slightly, then turned and walked away.
Charlotte lingered in the hall for a few moments, marshaling her fury. She had several bones to pick with Patrick Trevarren, and she would start with the fact that he’d tied her up and thrown her into a closet. Shoulders squared, chin high, she marched over the threshold.
Khalif lay on an enormous round couch, naked except for the sheet that covered him to the waist. His bare chest was covered with welts and burn marks, and Cochran had bandaged each of his fingers individually. There were deep shadows under his closed eyes, and even from across the room, Charlotte could see that it was a struggle for him to breathe.
Patrick stood at one of the windows, his back to the room, his shoulders stiff beneath his torn and blood-spattered shirt.
Between Khalif’s visible injuries and Patrick’s hidden ones, Charlotte forgot all about her personal grievances.
She went to Patrick first, standing at his side, looking up into his face. His expression was stony and rigid.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, and he flinched when she touched his arm. Clearly he hadn’t realized she was there.
His face was bruised and there was blood in his hair as well as on the front of his shirt. He shook his head. “I lost two men in the fight,” he said. “One of them was only nineteen years old.”
Charlotte rested her forehead against his shoulder and put her arms around his waist. “I’m sorry, Patrick,” she said gently. She held him for a long time after that, without speaking, trying to absorb some of his grief into her own spirit, so that the burden could be shared. “Will Khalif live?” she asked, much later.
Patrick looked back at his friend. “Yes, I think so,” he replied gruffly. “God in heaven, Charlotte, what that bastard did to him…”
Charlotte had drawn conclusions of her own from the bandages on Khalif’s fingers and the burns on his midsection, but she let Patrick tell her what had happened because she knew he had to give voice to the knowledge or be driven insane by it. She wept as she listened, but she didn’t speak until Patrick was finished.
“You need to rest,” she said, reaching up to place her hands on either side of his wan face. “You’re exhausted.”
Patrick’s gaze sliced to Khalif. “No,” he said simply. “Someone has to keep watch.”
“Cochran is someone,” Charlotte reasoned gently, taking Patrick’s hand and gently leading him toward a nearby couch. “And I’ll stay, too.” She began unbuttoning his ruined shirt. “If Khalif needs you for any reason, I promise to wake you immediately.”
Patrick’s blue eyes darkened with pain and a profound weariness. His smile was so fragile, and so fleeting, that just a glimpse of it nearly broke Charlotte’s heart.
“Why does it always surprise me to see what a man will do to someone he calls ‘brother’?” he asked.
Charlotte wanted to weep, but she kept up a brave front for Patrick’s sake. She pressed gently on his shoulders and he sank to a sitting position on the edge of the couch.
“You’re forgetting the blessings,” she said, kneeling to pull off one of his boots, then the other.
His voice was ragged. “What blessings?”
“The princes are safe,” Charlotte said, thinking fast and speaking somewhat recklessly. “And Khalif will recover and rule over his kingdom once more. When we get back to Spain, the Enchantress will surely be herself again, and we’ll sail off to your island. Besides that, I think I’m going to have a baby.”
Patrick sat there for a long time, immobile, and then suddenly clutched her shoulders with his old strength. “What did you say?”
Charlotte smiled into his battered face. “I said Khalif will recover,” she teased. “I said—”
He shook her, albeit good-naturedly. “You’re carrying my child?”
Having nothing else to do while confined in the palace closet, Charlotte had fumed and cried, prayed and cursed, slept and dreamed, and still had plenty of time to think. It was during that quiet interval that she did some counting.
“It would seem so,” she said. “Lie down, Patrick.”
Amazingly enough, he obeyed, but he still clasped her arm with one hand, so that she couldn’t pull away. “Are you sure?”
“As sure as one can ever be,” Charlotte replied. “I’m…well…” She paused and glanced toward Cochran, who was sitting by Khalif’s bed. “I’m very late.”
Patrick’s eyes drifted closed, but there was a smile on his lips. “A baby,” he said. He fell into an exhausted sleep soon after, but some time passed before his hold on Charlotte’s arm slackened enough for her to pull away.
She went to stand next to the bed, opposite Mr. Cochran. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked softly.
The first mate looked up at her, glanced in Patrick’s direction, and then smiled at Charlotte. “Plenty, I think. It would do the captain’s soul good if you sat by him, Mrs. Trevarren. He’s a fine man, and the treachery he’s seen today left its mark on him.”
Charlotte looked at her tattered, sleeping husband and thought she would surely die if she came to love him even a little more than she already did. Then she found a hassock, dragged it close to Patrick’s couch, and sat down beside him, holding one of his hands in both of hers.
He stirred in his sleep, and Charlotte bent to brush her lips lightly over his knuckles. Looking down at Patrick, she marveled at the complexities of the man. He was so strong, so arrogant and bullheaded, and during their lovemaking he was nearly always dominant. Now, however, he was like a child, needing nothing more than the comfort of her presence.
12
PATRICK SAT IDLY ON A LOW WALL IN THE COURTYARD OUTSIDE the bedchamber he and Charlotte had been sharing since their return to the palace two weeks before. His manner was easy—he was peeling an orange with a small fruit knife—but his words were earnest and quietly forceful.
“For once in your life, Charlotte, listen to reason. You’re in a delicate condition, and I would be a fool to let you cross the desert on horseback. It’s a miracle, in fact, that you didn’t miscarry the first time.”
Charlotte sighed. Khalif had a long way to go before he was fully recovered from his ordeal, but he seemed to be on the mend. Patrick was eager to get back to Spain and take command of the Enchantress, since the repairs were surely finished by then. “I don’t suppose it would do any good if I promised to be careful?” she ventured.
Patrick folded the knife blade and then popped a section of juicy orange into his mouth. “You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Trevarren,” he said, after a chewing and swallowing process that proved to have a disturbingly sensual effect on Charlotte. “It would do no good at all. For one thing, you don’t have the faintest conception of what it means to ‘be careful.’ For another, your promises are worth two to the penny.”
Indignation pulsed in Charlotte’s cheeks. “I may be tricky, but I’m not dishonest,” she protested.
Her husband grinned and enjoyed another piece of sweet, succulent fruit. “Oh, I’m not denying that your heart’s generally in the
right place,” he replied. “It’s your judgment that leaves something to be desired.”
Charlotte was not used to giving in on any point she felt strongly about, and she wanted to go to Spain with Patrick in the worst way, but she sensed that it would be futile to press the point. He would make sure she stayed behind even if he had to lock her up to do it, and Charlotte had no desire to spend the next fortnight as a prisoner.
“Would I have to stay in the harem, like before?” she asked. It must have been the timid note in her voice that caused Patrick to narrow his gaze and squint at her suspiciously.
“Hardly. Do you think I’ve forgotten that last time you bolted over the wall and nearly fried yourself in the desert before Khalif found you?”
She thought of Ahmed, the sultan’s vicious brother, locked up in the small cell in the ancient part of the palace, along with his compatriots, and shivered as she approached Patrick. The conditions were very different, of course, but the principle was the same. She was a captive.
“Where would you keep me, then? In a box, like a pet mouse?”
He drew her to him by holding out a morsel of fruit, touching it to her lips. It lay spicy and cool on her tongue. “As foolhardy as it sounds,” he answered, “I believe I could trust you if you had something to keep you occupied.”
Charlotte savored the tart flavor of the orange even as she fought against the odd feelings of arousal Patrick had generated by feeding her. “Something to keep me occupied,” she repeated. “Like what?”
He lifted her up to sit beside him on the wall. “Cochran will be coming with me, so he won’t be able to doctor Khalif.
I’d feel better, knowing you were here to look after my friend.”
Maybe the captain was serious, or maybe she was being hornswoggled, but Charlotte was pleased to be appointed keeper for once, instead of being the one who had to be kept. “Really?”
Patrick touched her nose, and his fingers smelled pleasantly of citrus. “Really,” he answered, somewhat hoarsely. “I’ll come back and carry you off before you’ve had time to miss me.”
Not likely, Charlotte thought. Her husband’s impending absence was already a sore spot in her heart. “I believe that a woman belongs with her husband, especially if she’s expecting,” she told him, “but since I don’t seem to have a choice this time, I’ll promise to stay here.”
He leaned close, gave her a brief, flirting kiss. “Thank you.”
His words so surprised Charlotte that she swayed slightly and nearly fell off the wall. Gratitude was the last thing she’d expected from him; after all, he’d won that skirmish and could afford to be a little smug.
He laughed at her look of wide-eyed surprise and kissed her again, this time in a more lingering fashion. They both nearly toppled to the stone floor of the courtyard when a voice sounded from the doorway of their chamber.
“Excuse me, sir,” Cochran said, in embarrassed tones, “but there’s a ship out in the harbor and she looks questionable.”
Patrick immediately jumped to the ground, and Charlotte felt the tension in his forearms as he lifted her after him.
“Did you recognize her?” he asked. He turned to fix Charlotte with a brief, quelling glare that told her plainly enough what he wanted—for her to stay out from underfoot and keep her opinions to herself.
“Couldn’t venture a guess, Captain—except that I don’t like the look of her, or the feeling in the pit of my stomach.”
Patrick strode past his first mate and disappeared, and even though Charlotte was burning with curiosity about the vessel in question, she stayed behind. It wouldn’t do to defy her husband at this juncture; he might decide to take away her freedom if she did.
Cochran touched his forehead in an affectionate salute and followed Patrick.
After a few moments of pure agitation—just because she’d complied with her husband’s terse orders didn’t mean she had to like being left behind—Charlotte decided that the best course was to make herself useful. She went into Khalif’s quarters.
Rashad was there, keeping a watchful and worried eye on the sultan. “Is there some disturbance?” the eunuch asked, having heard the commotion in the passageway. His brown fingers were curled around the pearl handle of a knife, and it was plain from his stance that he would fight to the death to defend his master if the need presented itself.
Charlotte wondered at such loyalty; it was a peculiar trait in a slave, especially one who had been emasculated by his captors. She met his gaze. “There’s a strange ship coming into port, and Mr. Cochran’s uneasy.”
Rashad set aside the blade, but he still looked troubled as he took the wet cloth from his master’s head, soaked it in a basin next to the bed and wrung out the excess, then spread it over Khalif’s brow again. “Pirates, perhaps,” he speculated, “or friends of Ahmed, expecting to pay their respects to a new leader.”
Khalif groaned in his sleep and muttered something unintelligible.
“Pirates?” Charlotte asked, after swallowing. She’d already had one dramatic encounter with a band of seagoing outlaws, and she had no desire to repeat the experience. “Surely they wouldn’t be bold enough to attack the palace—”
“I must go and see what is happening,” Rashad interrupted. He picked up the knife again, pressed the handle into Charlotte’s hand. “Please stay here with the sultan. If anyone else comes near him, kill them.”
Charlotte was chilled by the cold directness of the order. “You can’t be serious. What if Alev visits, or one of the other women?”
Rashad’s dark eyes were hard as jet. “There are traitors and spies in the whole of the palace,” he said. “The harem is not immune to treachery. No one other than myself, the captain, or Mr. Cochran is to set foot in this room.”
“And Patrick thinks this place is safe for a pregnant woman,” Charlotte muttered, once the eunuch had left her alone with the sleeping Khalif.
The sultan moaned again and stirred, and Charlotte drew up a hassock to sit beside him. “There now,” she said, as if comforting one of her younger brothers after a bad dream. “Just rest. You’re perfectly safe.” She inspected the knife, then set it aside with a shudder.
Khalif opened his eyes, looked at her in puzzlement, then smiled. “Rashad, how you have changed,” he teased.
Charlotte put on a front, not wanting the sultan to guess that his palace might be facing a siege, and touched his bare arm. She tried to smile at his joke. “How do you feel?”
The sultan sighed. “As though I’ve been lying unclothed in the desert sun for three days,” he said. “Could I please have some water?”
She poured some from a crystal carafe and held a cup to his dry lips. There was a look of confusion in his brown eyes that dismayed her. “Would you like something to eat? I could send for some nice fruit and cheese.”
Khalif shook his head, collapsed against his pillow of brightly colored, striped silk. “No,” he said grimly. “I am not hungry.” He reached for her hand.
Now that a fortnight had passed, his fingers were no longer bandaged, but there were ugly scabs and the new nails were just beginning to grow in.
“Please,” he muttered. “I do not wish to be alone.”
She smiled and shook her head to reassure him, hoping he wouldn’t end up with a lot of marauding pirates for company.
But that was silly, she thought. Even if the mysterious ship was carrying a pack of cutthroats, Patrick and the others would be able to hold them back.
Probably.
“I’m not going to leave you,” she said gently, remembering how her stepmother, who was a trained nurse, had comforted the sick and injured merely by speaking tender words and staying close by through the worst. Just then, Charlotte missed Lydia with a special keenness.
“Talk to me,” Khalif pleaded, like a fitful child. “Tell me about the place where you lived.”
Charlotte blinked back unexpected tears, waited for a sudden lump in her throat to subside before she replied, �
�I grew up in a small town called Quade’s Harbor,” she said.
“Quade’s Harbor,” Khalif repeated, clinging to her hand and emitting a long, exhausted sigh.
After a sniffle and a deep breath, Charlotte regained control of herself. When she got back to Washington Territory, she Would gather her brothers and young cousins around and tell them all about the sultan’s palace, and Patrick’s ship, and what it was like to deal with pirates. In the meantime, she would simply have to be especially brave.
“It’s such a beautiful place,” she said dreamily. “There are trees—so dense, you wonder how a squirrel could pass between them. They’re evergreen—mostly fir and cedar and pine—and in a certain light, they take on an inky cast. And the water! It’s blue as can be sometimes—Puget Sound, I mean—”
“Are there mountains?” Khalif’s voice was hoarse, and Charlotte touched his forehead with her free hand, a gesture she’d learned from Lydia. She frowned because his skin was hot beneath the backs of her fingers.
“Yes,” she said. “You can see the Olympics, out on the Peninsula. They’re covered in snow in winter, and even in summer they wear white caps. Sometimes the slopes look purple.” She paused, hearing a vague rattle in Khalif’s breathing. “When you turn inland—if it’s a fair day—you can see the mountain the Indians call Tahoma.”
“I would like to meet an Indian,” Khalif murmured. Then he drifted off into what appeared to be a shallow and restless sleep.
Charlotte went on holding his hand for a long moment, sensing a peril that had nothing to do with pirates, and when she turned she was startled to see Patrick standing in the doorway, watching her. His expression was troubled.
She placed Khalif’s hand gently on the bed before rising and crossing the large room to speak softly to her husband.
“Are we about to be invaded by pirates?”
Taming Charlotte Page 17
