No Brighter Dream: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 3 (32 page)

It was Andre’s turn to stare at her. “What?” he whispered, clearly shocked. “How do you—oh, God, Ali,” he said, truly distressed. “How did you hear?”

“By mistake,” she said, alarmed that she’d mentioned Genevieve without thinking. “No one meant for me to know. I suppose you were all trying to spare my feelings.”

“What exactly do you know?” he asked, gazing down at her hand, running his thumb over her palm.

“Only that you loved her deeply from the time you were very young, and she died before you could be married. And that her death broke your heart.”

Andre exhaled, then rubbed his forehead with one finger. “Yes. That’s true.”

“Andre,” Ali said hesitantly, grateful the subject had finally been broached and he hadn’t bitten her head off, “I don’t mind so much, not any longer. I understand better now why you can’t love me. It took giving you up and feeling my own heart break, but I do understand.” She stared down at the ground. “It’s enough being with you.”

“Ah, Ali,” he said with a groan, pulling her close, holding her tightly against him. “Surely you have to know how much I care about you?”

Ali ran her tongue over her bottom lip, determined to have truthfulness between them, now that they had come this far. “Yes, of course I know that you care about me. But I’m not a fairy-child.”

He leaned back and regarded her quizzically. “A fairy-child?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m not all golden and magical and good. I’m impossible and I enrage you sometimes and do stupid things—”

“Such as running away without consulting me first?” he asked, picking up her hand and kissing her fingers. “I’d have to agree. But, Ali, sweet, I never asked you to be a fairy-child, did I? You’ve filled your head with a lot of storybook nonsense if that’s what you believe the case to be.”

Ali bowed her head. “No,” she whispered. “You don’t understand.”

“Don’t I?” His voice was very quiet. “What is it that I don’t understand?”

“That Genevieve was your fairy-child. I can never be like her,” she said brokenly. “I can’t be a moonbeam. Or fragile. Or even French. I can never belong to your life as she did.”

He took her chin in his hand and raised her face, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Who has been talking to you to make you think these things?”

“No one,” she said, pulling away. “You have said more by your silence than anyone could have given away in a single sentence.”

He dropped his hand into his lap. “Then I’m sorry. I thought to safeguard your feelings, not hurt them.” “I don’t need protection, Andre,” she cried. “I need honesty. I’m strong—I can take nearly anything, except for losing you,” she said, looking down for a moment. “That I learned over these last weeks.” She lifted her head and met his eyes. “But I won’t be patronized. I’m not a child any longer, and I won’t be treated as one. There’s no need to keep Genevieve a secret.”

Andre’s silence beat into the air between them, heavy, stretched so taut that Ali thought she might break apart with tension.

“God knows you’re not a child,” he finally said. “And if I’ve patronized you, I swear it wasn’t intentional. I only wanted to protect you.”

“By keeping such an important thing from me? You didn’t think I had a right to know?”

“No, Ali, it’s not that,” he said, his expression strained. “It’s just that I’ve put that part of my life behind me. There are some things better left alone.”

“I don’t agree,” she said. “You’ve dragged things out of me that I thought better left alone, and you never blinked an eye while doing it. Yet your previous life is a closed door?”

“My life is with you now. Please, sweetheart. Can’t we take pleasure in seeing each other again, instead of doing a postmortem of the past?”

Ali was about to launch into an argument, but the genuine plea in his eyes told her that she’d gone far enough.

And sitting once more in the ruins of Xanthos with Andre at her side was more than she’d ever expected.

She turned into his arms. “All right,” she whispered against his chest. “And thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, brushing his mouth over her cheek.

“For saving me,” she answered, her words unconsciously echoing the past, their very beginnings.

“Ali—” His voice caught. “I will never let anything happen to you. Never. Not if it’s in my power to prevent it.” He pushed her hair back off her shoulders. “But you have to help me out. No more disappearing acts? For any reason?”

“No more disappearing acts,” she agreed, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “For any reason.”

“Do you swear it?”

“I swear it,” she said, and offered him her mouth.

It was another form of surrender and just as gladly given.

“I thought the evening was never going to come to an end,” Andre said, ducking his head as he entered the tent.

“We had a lot to celebrate,” she answered, watching him from her position on the floor as he began to remove his clothes, her breath catching at the sight of his bare chest as he pulled his shirt off. Desire stabbed through her, making her ache for him. It had been so long, so unbearably long…

“Maybe,” he said, mirroring her thoughts, “but six weeks away from you put things in my mind other than eating and dancing and telling stories into the small hours.”

Ali smiled softly. “I could tell. So could everyone else. Did you see Umar’s grin?”

“How could I miss it? I felt as if I were on exhibition—they all knew perfectly well that I was dying to get you into bed. And Jo-Jean was absolutely no help, grinning just as lewdly as Umar.”

“It’s wonderful to see him again. I’m glad he came with you.” Ali shifted impatiently under the sheet, more than ready for him and wishing he’d hurry up.

“I don’t think he trusted me to bring you back myself. Jo-Jean sometimes behaves as if I’m a small child with no sense.” He tugged off his boots. “It’s all because the extra year he has on me makes him feel superior,” he added with a grin.

“Don’t be ridiculous. He behaves that way because he loves you,” she said. “H e’s always looked out for your best interests.”

“He has indeed,” Andre said softly. “Far beyond the call of friendship. Speaking of which, did you know that he loves you too?”

“Of course,” Ali said, drawing a look of surprise from Andre.

“Oh?” he asked, frowning.

“Not like that, you idiot,” she said, throwing a pillow at him. “He couldn’t be happier for you—he’s told me so any number of times.”

“Well, that’s a damned good thing,” Andre said, stripping off his trousers, still looking annoyed. “Because I’d kill him if he said or did anything suggestive. He’s made some comments in the past that lead me to believe he wishes he were in my position.”

Ali burst into laughter. “
Jo-Jean?
Andre, he’s like a big brother. He treats me exactly as he treats you, as if I need to be looked after.”

“You do need to be looked after,” Andre said, drawing back the sheet and coming down to her. “And I’m the only one who’s going to do it.” He pushed his hands through her hair and took her mouth in a heated kiss, his tongue playing wildly with hers, his teeth biting down on her bottom lip. “Is that understood?” he murmured against her mouth.

“Andre,” she moaned. “Oh, I’ve missed you.”

He raised his head and gazed down at her, the expression in his eyes fierce. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again. Ever. Or I really will throttle you.”

“No you won’t,” she said, her eyes shining with love. “You keep forgetting that you’re not a violent man.”

“Maybe not violent,” he said raggedly, pulling her hard against him. “But definitely starved.” He stroked his tongue down the delicate column of her neck, moving over her breast and finding her nipple, drawing it into his mouth as his tongue did extraordinary things to it and his hands did extraordinary things elsewhere.

They lifted and shaped the weight of her breasts, smoothed up and down her rib cage, over her back, restlessly cupping her buttocks, driving her beyond the brink of control. It was all so familiar, the pressure of his hard thighs parting hers, her legs falling open in helpless invitation, the feel of his stiff arousal pressing against her as his fingers slipped inside her, driving her into a frenzy.

And yet there was something new, something different about his lovemaking, as if he came to her not just to pleasure her, but for something much more important. She felt as if he was giving more to her of himself than he ever had before, freely and without reservation. She felt as if he were spinning pearls…

“Ali,” he whispered, his breath hot on her shoulder. “God, I was lonely without you…” He moved down on the mattress, sliding his hands under her thighs and lifting them.

“Dear God, but you’re beautiful,” he said, gazing up at her for a moment, then lowered his head and took her with his mouth, his tongue sliding between her damp cleft, teasing, caressing, then setting the world on fire as he plunged deep, rhythmically moving in her.

Ali shook uncontrollably, inflamed by his erotic touch. Her fingers dug into his hair and she twisted beneath him, her hips pressing up against him as he pulled her even closer and used his mouth on her exquisitely sensitive flesh, bringing her to a shattering climax.

“Andre!” she cried, and he quickly came up to her, silencing her with his mouth, her taste on his tongue as he plundered her there too.

“Shh,” he groaned. “We don’t want Muzaffer and Hatije to think I’m murdering you.” He kissed her again, hard, then nuzzled her breasts, suckling the erect peaks until Ali trembled and reached for him, wrapping her fingers around his erect shaft, his flesh blazing into hers.

“Now,” she said, her voice choked. “I want you now, all of you…”

“Oh, God,” he managed to say, his breathing labored. “God, sweetheart, you can have it ah, anything you want, but don’t you damned well leave me again.”

He rose over her and pushed between her silky folds, sheathing himself in her with a long inarticulate sound.

“I won’t,” she whispered as she took him into her as deeply as she could. “I swear it, Andre. I wouldn’t survive.”

He sank his teeth into her shoulder, struggling for control, then abandoning it. “Ali,” he cried against her cheek, thrusting into her over and over in a primal act of possession. “Ali, come with me!”

Ali threw her head back, a long, keening sound escaping her throat as Andre took her beyond sentient thought into ecstatic release. She clutched at him, gasping for air, wave after wave of fulfillment washing through her, his body molten heat inside hers, driving her on.

He pushed into her hard and held, then suddenly stiffened, his back arching. “God!” he cried as a great shudder ran through him. “Ah, God,” he moaned, throbbing deep within her, the spill of his seed scalding her, driving her back into another swell of glorious waves, and she clutched at his back with fierce little cries, losing herself to him once again.

Andre dropped his head onto her neck with a long groan. “I don’t know,” he said raggedly after a few minutes had passed and his breathing had calmed.

“What don’t you know?” Ali murmured, thinking that it wasn’t possible to have been in such terrible pain only hours before and now to feel so full and happy and complete. So blessed. Her hands smoothed over his back, slick with the sweat of spent passion.

“How you manage to undo me to such a degree,” he said, nuzzling her ear. “I’ve never been reduced to such a pile of rubble as you bring me to.”

“Not even with Genevieve?” she asked, then bit her lip hard as she heard the words she’d never intended to speak. “Oh…” she whispered, wishing desperately that she could take them back. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean that.”

He pushed himself up on his forearms and gazed down at her, his eyes glittering silver.

Ali swallowed hard, wondering if she had ruined everything.

“Yes, you did mean it,” he said, but to her surprise his tone was gentle.

“But you asked me not to mention her. And I certainly shouldn’t have done it in bed,” she said, mortified that she could have been so insensitive.

“Listen to me, sweetheart.” He brushed her cheek with the palm of his hand. “Although it’s true that I’d rather not speak of the past, I don’t blame you for asking. And since you did, I might as well give you an answer.” He paused. “The truth of the matter is that Genevieve and I never slept together.”

“You didn’t?” she said, a rush of joy flooding through her at not just his reply, but also his willingness to be honest, to broach the subject at all. “But why not?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t usually make a habit of compromising virgins, despite what you may think. We were waiting to be married.”

“Oh…” Ali said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Naturally not. With your logic the cart very often comes before the horse.” He smiled down at her. “Stop looking so contrite, sweetheart. It was a natural enough question—but before you decide to query me further on my sexual history, yes, I do have a basis for comparison. And before you strike me over the head, let me say that although you were not the first woman in my bed, you will certainly be the last.”

Ali couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. “By choice, I hope, and not mere honor?”

Andre slid his thumbs over the smooth lines of her jaw and drew them down the length of her neck. “Although I’d hate to have my honor called into question, definitely by choice.” He kissed her softly, then rolled halfway onto his side, his arm flung over her waist. He yawned loudly. “Sorry. I’ll make love to you all night long another time, but I haven’t had much sleep recently.”

Within moments he’d fallen asleep. Ali settled into his embrace, relishing the feel of his hard body against hers, the heady scent of his masculinity, so long missed, so much his essence. But it was the sound of his soft, even breathing that cut through her, opened all the doors of memory that stretched so far back.

Ali closed her eyes and finally allowed herself to weep.

A
ndre woke early the next morning and carefully moved Ali out of his arms. He dressed quietly, wanting to be sure he didn’t wake her. He’d been alarmed by how pale and strained she’d appeared the day before, how much weight she’d lost, and he imagined she’d had as many sleepless nights as he had.

“Good morning,” Umar said to him as he crossed the encampment. “You are up with the birds. Claubert is still snoring in my tent.” He flashed him a smile. “Will you join me in a glass of tea? It is a pleasure to have your company again.”

“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here.” Andre sat down by the little cooking fire and accepted the glass Umar handed him. “So, Umar. How have you been keeping in the last year? Any sign of a prospective bride?”

Umar shrugged. “I am young yet. It is you I am happy to see married. And to Ali. This came as a great surprise to us.”

“I can imagine,” Andre said, carefully sipping the hot liquid. “How did you and the others react to learning that Ali has been a female all along? I hope it didn’t cause any offense that she violated all the rules of social interaction between men and women.”

“It was a shock, but we understood,” Umar said. “Especially when we heard the whole story.” His brow drew down. “But we have worried for her. She reminded us all of how you were in the early days, mourning your first wife.”

“My first—oh, that’s right,” he said, remembering Ali’s original version of events that she’d littered about Koonik. “Actually, Umar, the story Ali told you isn’t precisely accurate. I’ve actually never been married before this.”

“Never been married?” Umar said, looking shocked to the marrow. “But what about your great tragedy, your terrible loss?”

“Well … I did experience a terrible loss,” Andre said, holding out his glass for more tea. “I loved Genevieve very much and it took me a long time to recover. But we weren’t married, only promised to each other.”

He realized with a vague sense of amazement that he hadn’t given a second thought to bringing up the subject. Nor had it really bothered him yesterday; he’d been more concerned about sparing Ali’s feelings than his own. It was an enormous relief, he discovered, to have it out in the open. And an enormous relief not to feel crippled at the mention of Genevieve’s name.

“Ah,” Umar said, nodding. “But now you are at peace with her death.”

Andre gazed down at his glass, wondering if maybe he really was at peace with it. Was that possible? He wouldn’t have thought so, but then why didn’t he feel the old tug of pain?

“At least, it appears that way,” Umar added when Andre didn’t respond. “Or I do not think you would have come riding in here yesterday the way you did. And I do not think you would look at Ali as you do. As she looks at you.” He rubbed his mustache. “It is good to see this kind of love between a man and his wife.”

Andre’s hand jerked, sending a wave of hot tea splashing onto his lap, but he didn’t even feel it.

I’ll never love anyone but you, I swear that to you on everything I hold sacred.

The words echoed around and around in his head, the vow he had made at the tender age of fourteen and never broken.

Or had he? Dear God,
had
he?

He put his glass down and swiftly rose. “Thank you for the tea, Umar. If Ali asks for me, tell her I’ve gone up to the ruins. I’ll be back later.”

He didn’t bother with a saddle, just threw the bridle on his horse and took off as if all the hounds of hell were on his heels, leaving Umar staring after him with astonishment.

Ali watched over the railing as the steamship began to chug out of the small harbor of Myra, or what as a child she had called Dembre. It seemed so odd to have come full circle, leaving for England from the same port her father had died trying to get her to. And now here she was, a young woman going home with a husband at her side.

It was amusing, the fuss they’d made at the pier over the great English duke and his wife. If they’d only known it was only little Ali, who years before had played in those very streets.

It all looked so familiar, the little town that she had once thought so huge. There, stretching above the trees, was the minaret that as a child she had heard the imam calling from. There was the market that she had shopped in with her foster parents. And there was…

“Andre,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Andre, look!”

He turned from his conversation with Jo-Jean. “What is it, sweetheart?” he asked, alerted by the note of alarm in her voice. His gaze followed hers, landing on the bearded man standing on the pier, staring at them with his mouth hanging open.

“Good God,” he said, putting his arm around her. “He must have come to see what all the commotion was about. What a piece of luck.” He turned to Jo-Jean. “Do you have your pistol handy?”

“Naturally,” Jo-Jean said, reaching inside his coat.

“Good,” Andre said. “Do you see the watermelon that nasty-looking man on the dock is holding under his arm? I want you to shatter it.”

“Andre, have you lost your mind?” Jo-Jean said, regarding him with horror. “Since when do you want me to go around shooting at innocent people?”

“That, my good friend,” he said very softly, “is Hadgi, Ali’s foster uncle.”

Joseph-Jean took aim.

Ali watched in spellbound horror as a loud crack reported in the air, mixed with Hadgi’s scream of terror. The watermelon exploded, splattering everywhere. Hadgi dropped to his knees, sobbing, a large puddle spreading underneath him. It took him a moment to realize that the red, runny stuff all over him was not blood and pieces of his flesh, but watermelon pulp. A crowd quickly gathered around, laughing and pointing. Hadgi had never been a popular person in Myra. Now he was going to look like a fool as well, Ali thought with supreme satisfaction.

She couldn’t help herself. She burst into gales of laughter, burying her face against Andre’s coat. “Thank you. Oh, thank you,” she said, wiping her eyes.

“My pleasure. Too bad Jo-Jean’s such a crack shot. It would have been much more satisfying if he’d missed.”

“For you, maybe,” Jo-Jean replied. “You wouldn’t have been the one languishing in a Turkish prison.”

Andre didn’t have a chance to answer. He was too busy answering the alarmed captain’s questions.

Ali thought it very clever that Andre put the matter down to a simple wager made on impulse. Since the captain was a Turk, he naturally understood.

Ali rolled over in the narrow berth, stifling a moan against the pillow. She hadn’t paid much attention to the dull nagging ache that had started in her abdomen the week before, since it came and went, and was only occasionally sharp enough to annoy her. Nor had she said anything to Andre, not wanting to worry him. He was preoccupied as it was, and that worried her far more than the pain did.

The only other time he’d behaved like this was when he’d taken her back to Sutherby after they were first married, when he thought he’d physically hurt her. And now she was certain he thought he’d hurt her again, because of Genevieve.

It was the only explanation. Why else would he have distanced himself from her ever since Xanthos? Oh, he was subtle, as he always was, but she still sensed his retreat. She’d just have to find the right time and place to bring the subject up. This was not it.

She rolled over again, her legs pulled up against the pain. It wasn’t really so bad, she decided. And after all, what could anyone do? If it persisted, she’d see a doctor when they arrived in England in a week’s time.

But Ali didn’t have a week’s time.

“Sweetheart?” Andre asked, surprised that Ali was still in bed. It wasn’t like her to sleep in so late. “Ali? Wake up. It’s nearly noon, you lazy girl.” He bent down and shook her shoulder.

“Don’t,” Ali groaned.

“Oh, come,” he said. “Since when do you…” He trailed off in sudden suspicion. Ali’s hair appeared damp and he didn’t like the way she was hunched up. He leaned into the confines of the bunk as best he could and put his hand on her forehead. It was cool, but clammy to the touch. “What is it, sweetheart? What’s wrong?” he said, his alarm growing by the moment.

“Nothing really,” she whispered. “Just a stomach upset. I was sick earlier. I’ll be better soon.”

“A stomach upset?” he asked, picking up her wrist and feeling her pulse. It was rapid and thready, not a good sign. “Roll over and let me have a look at you,” he commanded.

Ali turned, but gave a sharp cry of pain, clutching at her abdomen.

He instantly dropped to his knees and pulled the covers back, prying her hands away. Then he pulled her nightdress up and carefully felt her abdomen, relieved to find that the right side was relaxed. But when he moved his hands, he found the lower left side was rigid, and Ali cried out again as he gently pressed down.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked.

“Since last week—but it was only a dull ache, Andre. It didn’t really start hurting until this morning.”

“And you’ve been nauseated, vomiting?”

She nodded, then gasped as another fiery stab of pain grabbed her.

“Is your monthly course late?” he asked, his heart contracting with cold fear.

“No. It was early. I’m sorry. I don’t seem to conceive, do I?”

“Don’t be silly,” he said, feeling for any enlargement, terribly worried.

“Oh, Andre, don’t! Please. It hurts so.”

He took in the fine film of perspiration on her upper lip. Something was seriously wrong; he felt it in his gut, and he had a horrible premonition that he knew what it was. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.” He tore out the door.

Fortunately, Joseph-Jean happened to be coming down the corridor at that moment.

“Jo-Jean,” he said, grabbing him by the arms. “There’s something wrong with Ali—something very wrong. I feel it in my bones. I’m almost certain that she has an ectopic pregnancy.”

“What?” Jo-Jean took in the expression of panic on Andre’s face, and his hands went instantly to Andre’s shoulders, steadying him. “Calm down. What’s that?”

“It’s a condition where the embryo develops in the fallopian tube instead of the uterus.” He shoved his hands over his scalp. “God, I’m worried, Jo-Jean. I’m no doctor by any stretch of the imagination, but I know enough to know she has to get to one as soon as possible. A condition like this requires surgery.”

“Surgery. My God. But how long can it wait?”

“It won’t wait. I’d operate myself, but I have neither the instruments nor the skill. I think her fallopian tube might already have ruptured and she’s bleeding internally.”

“Good God,” Jo-Jean said, paling.

“She said nothing.” Andre beat his fist against the wall, feeling like taking the entire ship apart. “Nothing! She didn’t think it serious. But then, I suppose it probably didn’t bother her much until the damned thing ruptured. She’ll die, Jo-Jean, if we don’t get her to a surgeon, and maybe even then.”

Jo-Jean thought quickly. “Perhaps we could have the boat make an unscheduled stop at Arachon. It’s close enough to Bordeaux.”

“Yes,” Andre said. “Yes. Of course. Bordeaux. We can find a surgeon there.” Good. Good, there was hope. Of course there was hope. Ali couldn’t die. Not Ali.

“Andre,” Joseph-Jean said gently. “Do you really want to take the chance of an unknown surgeon operating on her? You know the risks under the best of circumstances.”

“What other choice do I have?” he snapped. “What else would you have me do?”

“I’d have you take the extra time and go by train to Beynac. From there it’s not much of a distance to Saint-Simon.”

Andre rubbed both hands over his face, then looked up. “I’m not taking Ali to Saint-Simon, and that’s an end to it. We’ll find her a doctor in Bordeaux. It’s closer, and it will save her the journey.”

Joseph-Jean lost his temper, something Andre had rarely seen him do. He shoved Andre up against the wall, half knocking the breath out of him.

“Have you lost your mind?” he shouted. “You have the one person who can get Ali through this. He can save her life, you idiot!”

“Oh? As he saved Genevieve’s?” Andre shouted back, pushing Joseph-Jean away. “Maybe, if he’s in the mood. Maybe—maybe, Jo-Jean, you’re a gullible fool. Has that ever occurred to you?”

“The only thing that occurs to me, and has regularly occurred to me over this entire year, is that the only fool here is you.”

“So. I was right. You are in love with her,” Andre said furiously.

“No, I’m not in love with her, you blockhead,” he said, pounding Andre back against the wall. “
You’re
in love with her, although it would be nice if you could bring yourself to face the fact and tell her so.”

The anger fled from Andre’s face. “That’s between Ali and me,” he said, his voice very low.

Jo-Jean glared at him. “It’s soon going to be a moot point unless you agree to be sensible. My God, Andre,” he said, his voice breaking. “Ali might well die. What is more important to you? Your stupid, misplaced pride, or her life?”

Andre shuddered. “You know Ali’s life counts above all else,” he said hoarsely.

“Then damned well do something about it,” Jo-Jean said, dropping his hands. “Give up this idiotic war of silence you’ve been waging the last nine years and help your wife. Take her to your father. She’ll be safer with him than some butcher in Bordeaux, and you know it.”

“Dear God.” Andre felt sick, utterly confused, and deeply frightened for Ali. But Jo-Jean was right. She had to be his first—his only—consideration. His father be damned. At least he was skilled. The rest of it could wait till later.

Joseph-Jean gestured toward the ocean. “We’re only a half hour away from shore. We can have Ali with your father in a matter of hours.”

Andre ran his tongue over his dry mouth, then made his decision, even though it half killed him. “All right—I’ll speak to the captain. And see if transport can be arranged. We’ll go to Saint-Simon.”

Joseph-Jean smoothed a cool cloth over Ali’s face, his eyes clouded with concern.

“It’s all right, Jo-Jean,” Ali murmured. “It’s all right.”

From what she’d just overheard she knew she was sick, very sick. She knew that she would most probably die, and the idea of having to leave Andre hurt far more than the agonizing pain in her side. But she’d thought the situation through, and she’d made up her mind.