Jennifer Horseman (32 page)

She hesitated still. Was this innocent? As innocent as a child's pact whispered in a secret place in the garden? Or more? If she refused would he refuse to let her go with him?

"Yes and yes and yes. It's the only way, love."

As if he knew her thoughts!

The warmth intensified abruptly and became compelling, until, like jumping off a cliff into oblivion, she repeated the words. Nothing happened, which surprised her, for she was expecting a miracle. Yet he smiled at her with such tenderness and affection that she found herself smiling back, as if they shared a delicious secret.

He turned away, stepping into the dressing room, where he searched through a jeweled box until he found the ring. Returning to her, he took her right hand and slipped it on her ring finger.

"With this ring I do wed."

For an indeterminate amount of time, an eternity or two, she lost herself in his gaze, held and mesmerized by the poetry there. Somehow and somewhere, she found the strength to look down at the ring. A large diamond sat in an antique platinum filigree setting. It was the most beautiful ring she had ever seen. She started to shake her head but he stopped her.

"You can believe I will not present you as a mistress."

She looked back at the ring. Like Tonali's eyes, the diamond caught the light and the reflection momentarily blinded her. A warmth curled around her finger, as if it were being fitted. Ridiculous of course. She tried to slip it back off.

"Oh it won't come off!"

"You don't want to take it off, love."

A curious softness echoed in his tone. Of course he was right, she realized. She would easier die than have people think she was his mistress. . . .

The next surprise arrived on LeiPs arm. Tangiers was not Paris, but with the large French presence they had more than one shop offering the latest fashions. The dozen dresses he ordered for Juliet wouldn't be ready for two weeks, but as his luck was more than enough to make anything happen, when he had stepped back inside to select materials, he happened to see this gown. A gown made for Juliet, the exact blue-green color of her eyes set against the Mediterranean sea this morning. The shop owner insisted the gown had been made for the mistress of a French lieutenant, but a chuckle thrown against a hundred francs said differently, convincing the woman to make the slightest alterations in the slippers and the length.

Garrett had the pleasure of watching Juliet attempt to comprehend it. Wide-eyed, she tried to swallow. She shook her head as her hand reached out to touch the silk, then the matching reticule and slippers in Leif s free hand. ". . . For me?"

"Somehow I don't think it will fit anyone else on board."

She stared with plain apprehension and in a whisper told him, "I never . . . never had anything so pretty. . . ."

"Hurry up, love, we are already late."

Hurry, Garrett's command echoed curiously through her mind. Like a sleepwalker, she took the silk gown and disappeared into the dressing room, wondering how he had known, where he had gotten it, would it fit?

The small jar of potion fell from her pocket as she undressed. She quickly picked it up, searching for a hiding place. Oh, the reticule . . . She slipped the potion inside the beaded, white-silk purse and pulled the strings, turning then to dressing.

As they waited, Garrett and Leif furiously debated the issue of the arms. Garrett simply could not let the situation rest, and listening, Juliet came to see how the issue reflected the larger issue of being trapped in port. Yet the thought of one of those guns being raised to shoot Tomas brought her the same desperate feeling, released in a small gasp. She slowly pulled up the gown, her mind far from her task. "Garrett, why can't you just keep the arms a secret from them?"

"Unless I have something to sell to the French ambassador here, there would be no way of explaining our timely presence. Suspicions, love, this game is about confirming suspicions."

"Couldn't you just say you wanted to visit the king? Gayle said you've known him for years—"

"Ah, the old tried-but-true alibi. I don't think so."

Suspicions and guesses, all this guessing and so much depending on making the right guess, or discovering guarded secrets. Still, if the point was the arms . . . she turned her attention back to her hair: "Garrett, do you have another hair pin?"

Garrett stepped into the dressing room. He stopped and stared, his eyes filling with a strange light as they played over the innocently seductive picture. Her arms were raised to hold up her hair. His gaze left the delicate lines of her face to the long lines of her neck, the slender arch of her bare shoulders and the full thrust of her breasts straining against the silk fabric.

Under Josephine's guidance, French fashions had taken a dramatic turn. Delicate white silk made the gown, this draped in a sheer layer of aqua-green gossamer and trimmed with exquisite gold embroidery. Slit sleeves fell off her slender shoulders, leaving her thin arms bare, while the bodice barely covered the round fullness of her bosom before falling in swirls of silk and color to the floor.

He never said anything. Words were inadequate and quite unnecessary, for his eyes spoke his impression loud and clear. He turned around to the chest of drawers and from the gold gilt box on top he withdrew a diamond-studded hairpin, which he expertly put in her hair. Still wordlessly he reached behind her and withdrew from the hanger the matching pale aqua-green overdress. He would not willingly share her beauty.

Self-conscious and flushed because of it, she slipped into the overdress and buttoned the two gold buttons at top. "Garrett," she mused out loud, "why can't you just ruin the guns somehow? A convenient accident, like a bilge leak?" Her knowledge of ships and sailing was astonishing now. "Wouldn't salt water ruin them? Then you could still use them as your alibi and make a fine show of pretending you're just so sorry. Ho, Ho, Ho!—" she imitated a deep male voice, "don't know how that could have happened, chap! A darn shame, I say! And," she reverted back to her natural voice, "while you'd lose the guns, at least they wouldn't fall into their hands." She set about lifting the skirt to pull up her stockings, then smoothed it again. "Why can't you do something like that?"

She first heard no response to her suggestion, but then, she never expected one. A ridiculous idea, no doubt . . . "Why," she almost smiled, "are you staring at me like that?"

Garrett was incredulously searching the pretty innocent face. "My God," was all he said, all he could say. "My dear God . . . Leif-"

Another cry for help and Leif laughed; already he was laughing. Garrett's laughter joined the hearty sound as he took Juliet by the shoulders and lightly kissed her mouth. A different kind of kiss, chaste and warm, a revelation of his soaring affection.

Then he rushed out of the room.

Leif still laughed, a low, soft laugh that somehow managed to convey his disbelief. "Leif," she came shyly out of the dressing room, yet she knew, her smile said everything, "how do I look?"

"How do you look? Like an angel of salvation and the princess of hope, a warrior at battle and a witch full of tricks." He laughed, "Magnificent, Juliet."

Garrett and Leif rode alongside the carriage, maneuvering through the crowded streets. Juliet watched from the carriage window. It was like stepping through the centuries; the city seemed taken from biblical times. Wearing long beige cotton turbans, bearded men carried belongings in baskets or in huge earthen jars. Some had a donkey or camel in tow, with wares piled sky-high on the beast of burden. The crowd slowed the carriage's passage to a snail's pace. Shouts in a strange language, the squawks of chickens and the cries of beasts, taken with the dizzying scents, exotic spices, the moist, salty sea and far too many animals—all this transported her to another time, a mysterious place of adventure. The carriage stopped as a small herd of goats crossed the way in front. Impatient, Garrett pointed to another, less crowded byway leading up to the palace.

Three-story buildings rose on either side of the narrow street. Little sunlight reached the passage and it was dark. The windows and doorways of these homes were small. They passed two veiled women talking to themselves, and like mice in a maze, wide-eyed children popped out to watch the carriage pass. Not far along the carriage came to a halt. Garrett's laughter followed Leifs curse, the carriage driver shouting ahead in Arabic. Juliet stuck her head out. Going the opposite direction, a shepherd herded a dozen sheep ahead of his small caravan pulled by a donkey.

Garrett dismounted and came to the carriage door. "Juliet, you wouldn't mind riding with me, would you? I can't seem to find the patience it will take to wait the hour or two this mess is going to take."

Juliet shook her head, smiling as he opened the door and took her hand. Leif handed him the reins of his horse as he mounted. Leaning over, his gloved hands came around her waist, and as if she weighed no more than air he lifted her to the saddle, positioning her in front between his arms.

Garrett maneuvered easily around the sheep and caravan. "What's wrong, love?" he asked, smiling as he let his hand trace the curve of her hairline over her ear.

Tiny shivers rushed from the spot. She drew a small sharp breath, nervous and confused. The sensual warmth of his body sparked a tumult inside—her heart, pulse, every nerve straining to greet him. She just couldn't be this close to him . . .

"Love, you're flushed. Is it my closeness?"

"No . . . no," she stared straight ahead, trying to control this sweep of confused feelings. "I've . . . I've just never been on a horse before. Except — " She stopped, staring at the sight first with confusion, then horror.

"Garrett ..."

Leif positioned his horse between her and the woman laying in the alleyway, crouched against the wall, but it was too late. The woman wore only a transparent sari, worse than naked as every ounce of her worn flesh lay bare for the few passersby. The hopelessness in her dark eyes was enough to question creation itself.

"An opium addict, love. Tragic and sad, there's naught to be done for her."

"But she was naked in the street ..." Juliet turned to look behind her as they passed, unable to believe what she saw.

"She does not care about anything. Opium steals each and every human concern, finally burning out even the desire to live."

"Oh, but how could that happen?"

"Who knows? A sad life to start, slavery or prostitution, until finally even that wretched existence was taken from her. All she knows now is hell's own unquenched desire."

"But if she stopped?"

"She can't, love. I've never known an addict who could stop. Mercy comes only with death."

A terrible sadness washed over her. "Oh, Garrett, how sad . . ."

With sympathy, he whispered into her ear, "You will forget you saw her Juliet."

Juliet froze, alarmed by something she didn't understand when, as if by magic, the woman vanished from her consciousness and suddenly Garrett began her first riding lesson. Leif watched from the side, teasing her about her newfound horsemanship. All cares were forgotten with laughter as they finally made their way out of the city and up to the mountains.

The sun was setting over the dry, arid landscape, nothing but burnt grass and scattered bushes. Garrett explained that the passersby stared because she was unveiled, that many had probably never seen a European woman before.

"Look up there, love."

Like the tales of the Arabian nights, the Moroccan palace rose at the very height of the mountain. The sun fell over the gold-plated tip of the tallest tower, a round ball with a point on top. "That can't be real gold?"

"Guess again," Garrett laughed.

"Oh, my ..."

At last they reached the top, and Juliet found herself staring at an enormous rectangular fort. Two dozen tur-baned guards stood in line-perfect formation on the outside. Shiny dueling sabers hung from the belts of the dark-skinned men. More guards walked the towers.

The horses stopped at a heavy wood gate the size of a house. Four men labored to open it. Once it had been opened, they rode into a square courtyard filled with carriages and horses and a half-dozen servants. The surrounding palace appeared to be an intricate maze of different sized and shaped walls: cornices and towers, angles, staircases disappearing into corridors and alcoves, all white-trimmed with heavy gold lines. A palace of exotic mystery . . .

Tomas would hardly believe when she told him!

Three servants rushed to greet them. Garrett swung down before lifting her to the ground and taking her hand to lead her up the stairs. The front doors all but disappeared in intricate gold lattice work. She clasped his hand tightly, excited and nervous in turns, and as the doors opened they ascended the stairs to step into a great entrance hall.

Darkness made the hall cooler, almost chilly. The rounded ceiling rose two stories high. Juliet could barely make out an intricate tile mural in the darkness. There were no furnishings other than two gold gilt chairs set against either side of a long narrow window. Five different corridors led from the circular room. The square-cut marble of the floor felt hard and cold beneath her slippers as they crossed the room and entered a corridor.

The corridor looked similar to the round room, minus the ancient murals. They passed long narrow windows made of lattice ironwork. Through one, she saw onto another corridor. It was a maze! They stopped at heavy double doors. A servant jumped to open them and they were ushered into an outer room. The sound of strange music, laughter, and boisterous noise spilled from the court as the servant told them in French they were being announced to the king.

"They are speaking French," she whispered in that language, teasing, "Do you think I'll pass?"

Hearing this, Garrett and Leif exchanged approval in a glance. The only thing in the entire world more lovely than her English, Garrett thought, was her French. Absolutely flawless, save for the barest trace of an English accent, which would be explained with the mention of her English mother. Hopefully the French would forgive her.