On a Long Ago Night (11 page)

acquaintance." He smiled as he looked around, showing that he was

conscious that they were being watched. Honoria was aware of a

flash of bright white teeth. She recalled how devastating that smile

could be when set off by a dark beard. "I have had etiquette

lessons," he said, playing to that crowd.

She could not see the charming twinkle in his eyes, but she

heard it in his voice, felt it in the response from the onlookers. He

could make them like him, believe him. Want him. When they

laughed, it made her want to scream.

Somehow, she smiled instead. "The deportment lessons

seemed to have taken—Mr. Marbury. I'm not sure the same can be

said for mine." She was speaking! Actually coherently speaking!

"Untrue, Lady Alexandra." He touched his cheek with the tip

of a finger. "The note you sent me was a masterpiece of propriety.

And you have such lovely handwriting."

"I don't imagine you had any trouble making it out." Was his

smile as frozen as hers? She couldn't tell. "Does your facility for

languages extend to being able to read them as well? Arabic?

Turkish? Latin and Greek?"
Fool
! she shouted to herself.
This is

not the time or place
! But she had to know.

"Alas, no, Lady Alexandra. Until recently I could make out

only a bit of Spanish. I was never a very good student, though I am

told my comprehension of English is progressing nicely. I haven't

had the advantage of your classical education."

"How odd," she said in Arabic, "I thought you took

advantage of it quite thoroughly." He could always be lying. He

probably
was
lying. It had not clawed at her soul for years, and it

didn't matter, anyway.

Diego tilted his head appealingly and shrugged slightly. She

wanted to kick him.

"You always had me at a disadvantage. Led me around by

my—"

"Greed," she interrupted hastily.

He smirked. "You could call it greed." His gaze swept boldly

over her. She took an angry step toward him.

"What did you say, my dear?" her father asked, before either

she or Diego could do anything. "And what was it you replied, Mr.

Marbury? How nice to see that you and my daughter have

something in common."

Was that a hint of speculation in her father's voice? Oh, no,

was he sizing up another candidate for her marriage bed? She

leaned closer to her father as her gaze flew to his face. Yes, there

was definitely a hint of benign but crafty conjecture in his features.

This did not bode well from a man who wanted grandchildren. She

squinted past him, trying to make out if Cousin Kate, standing on

the other side of the duke, was looking as smug as Honoria

suspected. There was tension in the air, as though everyone in the

room was poised for the very dishonorable Honorable James

Marbury's response.

"Yes," he answered. "I am sure your daughter and I have

much in common, Your Grace." Diego's voice sounded rich as

cream, and as smug as that of a cat who'd gotten into that cream. "I

look forward to many opportunities to explore our common

interests, and to develop new ones with her."

"Well spoken, young man." Her father clapped the scum from

Algiers on the shoulder. "I look forward to it as well."

Honoria very nearly choked; her racing heart made an

attempt to leap from her chest; but all she could do was curl her

hands into tight fists at her side. She caught the flash of smiles on

faces she couldn't make out, and there were too many nearby faces.

Someone in the crowd giggled. Giggled—how galling! How

appalling. Didn't these people have anything better to do than stand

about eavesdropping on a private conversation? The level of

interest in her encounter with Diego was much higher, more

titillated, than when she'd spoken to Derrick.

Huseby had posted herself at the top of the stairs. Now she

came to stand like a guard at Honoria's back. "My lady?" she

whispered, in a voice full of the naked fury Honoria could not

show.

"Thank you, Maggie," she heard herself say in the most

ordinary way possible. "You may go now."

To the world she sounded as if she were dismissing her

servant; only she and Maggie Huseby knew that she was sending

away her only friend and ally. She turned her head to meet

Huseby's frantically worried gaze. "Please wait up for me," she

added. She gave Huseby the briefest of nods, the lightest brush of

her hand on the woman's arm, urging her to go. Derrick was an

irritant; Diego was disaster incarnate. But she would face him

alone, because, of course, she had no other choice.

She'd been made to wear a voluminous robe over her clothes and a

heavy veil that covered her hair and face for the journey through

the city. The coarse wool smelled of dust and someone else's sweat,

and the veiling had been terribly hot. Underneath the concealing

clothing she'd worn chains. The city was noisy, noisome, and

strange. She'd been too terrified, too bereft and confused to

understand much of what she'd seen. She would have welcomed

even the Spaniard's company, but she was not granted even that

much mercy. The guard who took her from the ship was an

indifferent stranger; the slave dealers he left her with showed only

a certain commercial interest in her. A woman examined her

intimately and declared her to be a virgin. They looked at her teeth

with the same interest. The only response she received when she

protested was someone making a note that she spoke their

language. Apparently this added to her value as property.

She was shaking and sick when they finally locked her in a

small room with stone walls and floor in a place called the Bagnio.

It was stiflingly hot inside the narrow room, without even so much

as a pallet to lie down on. There was a slop bucket, and she was

grateful to have that to throw up in. When she was under control

once more she noticed that there was only one small window in her

cell, up near the ceiling. It let in little light and little air. She tried

jumping to get a view of outside, but the window was too high up.

After a while the silence and the solitude began to prey

fiercely on her nerves. She could not remember a time when she

had ever been alone. For the first time in her eighteen years, she

realized that she had never been alone.

Honoria paced the small cell, solitary but for her thoughts

and a smattering of rats. The rats were easier to deal with than her

wild imagination, for, bold as they were, she could scare them

away. Her thoughts refused to scurry off. She was trapped, lost,

alone. No one would ever know what had happened to her. She

would never see her parents again.

"Oh, God!" she whimpered, and covered her face with her

hands, consumed by grief and guilt. Her mother was dead! Now

her poor father had lost her, as well. She could do nothing to help

Derrick or Huseby. She could not even help herself.

"
Why are you doing this to me?" she raged, her face turned

up to the ceiling as she shook her fist. It was not God she railed at,

but the Spaniard. She was going to be sold into slavery. She was

alone
—
and no one cared. And the Spaniard was to blame
.

The Spaniard was also seated next to her at the dinner table. For the

first time in years she did not feel alone in a crowd, and the

sensation was most disturbing. Her father was seated at the head of

the long table, she at the seat to his right. Normally she would have

taken the hostess's place at the opposite end of the table, but Cousin

Kate had agreed to preside tonight. Honoria had wanted to be near

her father while sharing a meal with Captain Derrick Russell. The

plan had been to demonstrate to the duke that she carried no secret

tender feelings for the man she had once been engaged to. James

Marbury had not figured into her plans for the evening—not past a

show of reasonable politeness to the man she had offended.

Assigning him the place of honor to her right had seemed like a

perfectly rational idea when the object of the exercise had been to

make up for her rudeness.

So, here she was, surrounded by the last men on earth she

wanted to be with, and there was no way to escape them. Ignoring

them was her only course. In Derrick's case this was easy enough,

as her vision, the width of the table, and a large silver centerpiece

effectively kept his golden countenance out of her sight. Derrick

was easy to forget about with the Spaniard by her side. The

Spaniard—Diego—James—the Honorable Mr. Marbury—was a

large, living, potent reality. She knew, to her disgust, that she

would be totally aware of James Marbury's vibrant presence if he

were seated across the table, across the room, possibly if he were

seated in a dining room in an entirely different house. Now that she

knew that he was alive and well and—

James watched as Honoria took a deep breath that told him

she was forcing her emotions to stay under control. She'd been

taking quite a few deep breaths since they had come face to face

earlier in the evening. The movement was subtle, but he knew what

to look for. Besides, he thoroughly enjoyed watching the swell of

her magnificent bosom. The deep blue of her dress accentuated her

fine skin and the cut of the gown showed off her womanly curves

far better than the dress she'd worn a few nights ago. He took great

pleasure in studying those curves. At least she had not slapped him,

not yet, nor had she run from him as she had in the ballroom. She

was tempted, he could tell, by the faint flush of her cheeks and the

heightened color on her throat that brought out the faint line of

freckles across her collarbone. She wore them like a necklace,

those pretty freckles, much prettier to him than the cold stones of

the necklace she wore. One could covet diamonds and sapphires,

but a man couldn't kiss them.

Did she remember his kisses? Perhaps the temptation she

fought was of a different sort. Perhaps she was fighting against

throwing herself into his arms rather than against clawing his eyes

out. He smiled at the thought. He was tempted as well, and not to

run. His moment of weakness was past. What he wanted now was

privacy. Perhaps he should suggest to her that they leave.

Conversation around them was loud. The blond man directly

across from Honoria was glaring at them—James recognized the

scoundrel but paid him no mind. If the English swine had behaved

like something that walked on two legs—not even necessarily a

man, but something above serpent in the order of creation—in

Algiers… well, the Englishman was no man. He should be fed with

the curs rather than allowed to sit at a dinner table. James did not

know why "Dear Derrick" was a guest, but at least Honoria was

ignoring her "Darling Derrick" as conspicuously as she was him.

That was good, but not good enough.

James leaned toward Honoria, and watched her stiffen. He

could almost hear her heart racing like a frightened rabbit's. Ha!

Furious lioness was more like it. Whatever the reason for her

reaction, he slipped his large hand reassuringly over hers where it

rested in her lap. Beneath the din of conversation, he whispered in

Arabic, "We have unfinished business, you and I."

Surprising him, she turned her head in his direction. While

she did not look him in the eye, her haughty gaze settled

somewhere around his chin. "Business?" she responded in the same

language.

He couldn't keep the teasing smile from his lips. He

continued the conversation in what amounted to a secret language

between them. "You remember what we were doing when we were

interrupted."

He expected bright color to rise on her cheeks and throat; she

paled instead. She lifted her head sharply, exhibiting the sort of

pride meant to quell her inferiors. It made James smile even wider,