My Angel

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My Angel Page 20

by Christine Young


  She'd never looked lovelier than she did right now.

  The messages she sent him were always mixed. The picture of innocence. Allah, but he wished...

  "You asked her?" Misha suddenly appeared beside him, his arms crossed over his chest, a half smile on his face.

  Alexi nodded. "Yes," he said, his thoughts centered on Angela. He didn't understand, but her sudden compliance disappointed him. She was, he knew, seeking all that he could give her: money, jewelry, clothes. He was willing to lavish upon her whatever she wanted, except his name. But that thought rankled. He had once thought she loved him, wanted nothing from him except the return of his feelings.

  Misha leaned against one of the lifeboats, his stance nonchalant. "She told you the truth? She told you her last name?" Misha's voice was dry and a bit strained. "You realize that your life is in danger. Knowing the man and his reputation, he might stake you out on the desert sands and ask questions later. When we reach land, I will take all precautions necessary. We'll go overland quickly. You should arrive at your ancestral home in two days."

  "Whatever you think best,'' Alexi said without emotion, not bothering to confess to Misha he still knew next to nothing about Angela.

  Stake me out on the desert sands?

  Of course he'd asked her, but she didn't tell him anything. She had a father--one who cared. She told him she'd written to him and told him not to worry, that she would marry the man she ran away with.

  What father would believe that drivel? A father who didn't have the God-given sense to protect his own daughter.

  Alexi could not marry a woman who lied about her innocence--one who continued to dally with his affections. Honor-bound to do his duty, he had no choice. Marriage for him meant that a lady equal to his station must be his bride.

  He slammed his fist on the railing, furious with himself and the fact that he cared too much. Thinking of Angela would likely drive him mad. He'd thought to be the only man to possess her. Sharing had never come easily to him. Time and again he told himself it was the future that counted, not the past. The reminding didn't temper his possessive instincts.

  "You should have listened to her," Misha said. "What did Angela tell you?"

  "Not much. She has a father who will not venture out of his snug home to find her. A man who could not possibly care about her."

  "Sweet Jesus," Misha said softly. "And you believed that bit of foolishness?"

  Alexi shrugged, unable to admit the truth. "Why wouldn't I?"

  "Because she's lying." Misha paused, struggling for a breath. "Just as she lied to you before. She's not what she seems, Alexi. Wake up before you find yourself staked out below a smoldering sun with vultures flying above you and your manly parts stuffed in your mouth." Misha's voice rose with each word.

  "Crudity does not become you, Misha. When have you ever allowed your wild imagination to overshadow common sense? Only an irate father or another lover would seek revenge in such a brutal manner."

  "Stupidity may well be the death of you. She has an irate father, one who believes he is chasing the devil himself."

  Misha turned his back on Alexi, his fists clenched at his sides, his shoulders racked with tension.

  Alexi laughed this time. "What father would go after a woman who was about to be married to a prince? You cannot expect me to believe there is really a man swearing vengeance against me. It is simply not possible. If someone is out there following the Mystic, it is to dance at the lady's wedding and smile at the fool who believed in her innocence. Perhaps he is after a share of my wealth."

  Fury and frustration still tainted Misha's thoughts and words. "Are you sure she was not a maiden? Are you absolutely positive?"

  "Allah, but your ignorance exceeds your arrogance. I know a maiden when I bed one. She was not."

  "Very well then, it seems there is naught that I can tell you that you would acknowledge as truth. You will have to learn the hard way."

  "She's agreed to be my mistress." His voice was filled with scorn and sarcasm.

  Misha eyed him critically. "You don't want her now."

  The statement surprised Alexi, but he nodded. "I find the thought appalling, her reasons abhorrent."

  "You are a hard man to please. For weeks now you've been pacing the decks, a man full of lust, unable to appease it, not wanting another woman to warm your bed, and now that she's agreed to your terms you don't want her." Misha laughed. "The irony of it all. You are a sorry case, Prince Alexi. It is too bad you cannot accept what you feel for her. Your life would be much improved--and so would mine."

  "What?" Alexi asked, still mulling over his admission. Now that he'd won the chase and her compliance, he didn't want her. That was a lie, he thought. He wanted her more this very second than he ever had.

  "You're like a snarling bear to be around. Like your western name, Devil, you've behaved atrociously. Unless you find a woman to ease your baser instincts, it doesn't appear you will change anytime soon. Bed the chit and get her out of your system. Make her your mistress, but be wary of the price you might pay. Give her the jewels and fancy clothes you promised; enjoy her so the rest of us can find some rest from your bellowing."

  Misha left on those words of wisdom. Alexi watched him stride arrogantly down the length of the ship to the steering gears. With a wave of his hand, Misha dismissed the captain and took control of the clipper ship.

  Alexi watched him, his trusted cousin. Misha braved the elements of the sea like a man born to it. Misha--his devoted friend, a man who had never lied to him.

  Misha accompanied him on this trip of his own free will, seeking adventure and an escape from the duties that would soon rule his life. Misha was a count in his own right, yet he served Alexi faithfully.

  "Bed the chit," Alexi muttered. "Get her out of my system." Perhaps he would do just that.

  ~*~

  Sam Chamberlain stood on the London docks, watching the Mystic and Angela sail out of view. In his pockets were three unopened letters from Angela. His fear for her sanity paramount now, he was almost afraid to read the letters. He'd heard the gossip on the docks. Angela slept in Alexi's cabin. By now his daughter was the devil's mistress. A man like Devil Blackmoor took whatever he pleased.

  Devil Blackmoor was in for an awakening. Devil Blackmoor would rue the day he bedded Angela Chamberlain.

  Sam fingered the letters. Giving in to his fears, he found a shaded spot and sat down. For a few long seconds he closed his eyes, letting the breeze soothe his nerves.

  Three telegrams. They burned his hand.

  Dearest Papa and Mama,

  We--Alexi and I--have boarded the train in Cheyenne. His private car was demolished in an accident, so we had to buy passage. Did you know he is a prince? We're on our way to Russia. He fills me with happiness.

  I'm sorry…. I seem to be rambling. We were slowed by several storms, but now we are on the train headed to New York City. Alexi says his ship, the Mystic, will be waiting there for us. He told me we would see London and maybe Paris on our way to his homeland. He's promised me adventure.

  Nothing more, Sam thought, his anger simmering out of control. His jaw clenched, his fingers trembling with rage.

  His father is a grand vizier in Turkey somewhere. If there is time, we 'II stop and see his father. I'm so excited.

  "Hell!"

  I've always wanted adventure, and that finishing school you planned for me would have been the death of me. I cannot envision myself eating with a dozen forks and deciding which wine to serve with fish.

  I'm so happy. Alexi says I will be his first concubine.

  "Son of a bitch!"

  Isn't that romantic? I do love him so. Please, Papa. I know you're worrying about me. Don't. I would do this all over if I had the chance. My only regret is that I lied to you. I'm sorry, Papa, but as I said before, if I had it to do over again, I would do the same thing.

  Alexi has promised to give me my heart's desire. He loves me, and I think that when we reach Russia, we
'II be married.

  Give Mother and Trey my love, and think good thoughts for me. Don't for get Jacob; he was always such a wonderful friend.

  I've been selfish, thinking only of myself. How is Emma? Did everything turn out all right?

  I Love you, Papa and Mama.

  Angela.

  "She can't be that naive."

  Sam crumpled the paper into a hard ball and tossed it into the Thames. Tears slid down his cheeks, and his shoulders slumped. He thought his heart had broken in two.

  "Concubine."

  Dear God, he'd kill the bastard. If he had to storm the seraglio or the devil's palace to get her out, he would do that--and whatever else was necessary.

  Alexi kept a harem.

  Concubine.

  He paced the docks, unable to read the other letters, afraid of what Angela had gotten herself into. She was so naive in many ways, still a child at heart, even though her body was that of a grown woman. She trusted with her heart and soul.

  The sun was low on the horizon. Night would fall soon, and he had nowhere to stay, except for the ship he'd booked passage on. The captain had told him he could sleep there if he wished, even though they weren't leaving for several days.

  The merchant ship was bound for Turkey, and the captain had agreed to let him off in Constantinople. From there he'd have to find a way across the Black Sea. Once again he would be days behind Angela. By the time he reached her, she could be huge with child.

  He didn't care, though. He'd love any child of Angela's. What worried him most was Angela's heart, and how badly it would break when she discovered Blackmoor's true character.

  Giving in to his need for rest and privacy, Sam sought shelter in the cabin he'd secured aboard the Martha Rose. With a whiskey bottle on the table beside his bed and a filled glass in his hand, Sam opened the second missive.

  Dearest Mama and Papa,

  The trip across country is tiring but exciting. I've seen so many new, wonderful things. Denver is a big city, but it is nothing compared to Philadelphia and some of the other places Alexi has shown me.

  He wired ahead and he says he has a surprise for me when we reach New York City. Nothing has changed. We still haven't spoken of marriage, but I fall more in love with him every day, and I know he wants me.

  Of course he wanted her. What man wouldn't?

  The way he looks at me makes me feel so strange deep inside. Is that the way you're supposed to feel when you really love someone? Is that how you feel when you are in love?

  Sam breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Yes, little one," he whispered. "It is how you feel when you're in love. I don't doubt you love that bastard. But if he's hurt you in any way, I'm going to kill him," Sam threw back his head and downed the glass of whiskey in one swallow, relishing the burn in the back of his throat.

  He calls me his sweet concubine now. I still don't know what that is, but the way he says it makes me feel cherished from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

  "If you only knew, darling. I'm praying for you. When you find out what he really wants, don't give in to him. Whatever you do, sweetheart, don't bless him with your virtue. Hold on to it. I pray every day you see Devil Blackmoor for what he is: a cad and a reprobate."

  Sam hurled another shot of whiskey down his throat. Unable to read further, he rolled a cigarette then stepped outside.

  The night was clear and bathed in stars. Big Ben chimed the hour. The Martha Rose lay at anchor, waiting for her cargo to be loaded. Sam supposed he should be pleased that the captain had given him passage.

  He flicked glowing hot embers into the air, watching as they floated lazily down to the river. His thoughts went out to Angela. He'd die for her. He wondered if Devil would do the same.

  Inadvertently, he slipped his hand into his coat pocket. The third telegram still lay there, its tale untold. Icy fear gripped his heart. A deep foreboding swept through him. This letter needed reading, yet he'd prolonged the inevitable.

  It would begin the same, but it wouldn't end on the same positive note as the others. Somehow he felt some of Angela's fear.

  / love him so...

  He had to force himself to read it. Sam reached into his pocket and opened it. Darkness shadowed the ink on the paper, and he couldn't easily see the words, but he could almost feel them.

  "Chamberlain," he berated himself. "It's all in your head. You have no reason to be thinking the way you are. Angela loves the man. That won't change."

  But Sam sensed it had.

  Slowly he walked back to the cabin, facing the ordeal in front of him.

  Dearest Papa and Mama,

  I'm so confused and unhappy. I left this letter at the hotel. The clerk at the desk promised to send it. Alexi thinks I've lied to him. He walked out of the hotel and he hasn't come back in the longest time. I don't know what I did wrong but I've never seen him so angry.

  I've decided to leave him. I won't stay with a man who thinks the worst of me. If you could meet me somewhere. Kansas City, maybe. Then I wouldn't have to go so far by myself.

  I'm afraid, Papa.

  Sam set the letter on the table. He'd never felt so helpless in his entire life. His little girl was out there somewhere with a man who couldn't see the treasure he held in the palm of his hand. Blackmoor must have made love to her, and when he didn't get what he expected he must have pushed her aside.

  What Sam didn't understand was why the man didn't let her go. Why Angela had to run from him. Well, she didn't get to Kansas City. And if his fears held any merit, she might be on her way to a Turkish harem.

  "Son of a bitch!" He rose, toppling the table and the chairs. "Son of a bitch!" A chair crashed against one wall and shattered into a hundred pieces.

  Sam didn't want to read on, but he knew he had to finish.

  You have every right to be angry with me. I've been foolish and selfish. I've put my own wants and desires ahead of what is reasonable. I didn't think beyond my own wishes.

  If you still want me to attend the finishing school, I will. I'll walk around with a book on my head all day, and learn which fork I'm supposed to eat oysters with and which wine to serve with the chicken.

  Papa, I hate him. I hate him every bit as much as I said I loved him before. He's a despicable man. Papa, I love you. Take me home, please. Angela.

  He would take her home if it was the last thing he did.

  Chapter Twelve

  The intelligent, logical thing to do would be to make love to Angela until she was out of his system, just as Misha had told him he should. But Alexi couldn't do that. He chose not to take her to his bed, not until she could learn to trust his affections, learn to believe in him. Not only would that clear the air- between them, it would cleanse him of the guilt he'd been harboring ever since he kidnapped her from New York City and set her on the Mystic.

  He could no longer deny that he'd abducted her, forced her against her will to travel with him across the ocean. All that after he'd seduced her then ignored her.

  No wonder she acted confused one minute, furious the next. He'd hurt her. She had every right to those emotions.

  He paused outside the door to his cabin. Without knocking, frustrated beyond endurance, he pushed open the door. She sat by the window, looking out, a pensive expression on her delicate features. She was dressed in a light blue gown, an off-the-shoulder affair that made her look almost ethereal. The bodice was cut daringly low, provocatively revealing the tops of her ivory breasts. She wore no petticoats, no corset--not even shoes. He reflected that in his homeland they'd both be quite indecent--he was barefoot, wearing breeches, and his shirt hung unbuttoned from his shoulders, revealing his chest. A bead of sweat ran down his back. Yes, his grandmother would find him hard to swallow if she were to see him now. And Angela appeared far too fetching in her natural beauty, as delicate and angelic as the mythical sirens who lured sailors to their deaths with the magic of their voices.

 

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