On a Long Ago Night (13 page)

given him one last glance full of utter contempt and turned away.

She had still been shaking with terror, and he knew she hated that

he realized how afraid she truly was. She did her best to put on a

brave show. He understood and admired her behavior. All he could

do to help her was send a bribe along to the bagnio guards to make

sure Honoria was given a solitary cell. It would be better for her to

be kept safely away from the crowded slave pens.

If he could do this differently
—

But he could not. He must move cautiously. He should not be

so worried about the Englishwoman. Many had been through

worse
. He
had been through worse
—
but he was not a gently

reared young woman. He had taken her chance of easy rescue

away out of his own desperate need, had put his bid for freedom

above a foolish urge toward chivalry. And why not put his needs

above a stranger's? Why should remorse claw at him just because

of a piteous look in a pair of blue eyes
?

She would be all right. He must look to his own survival first.

'With that harsh reminder, Diego nodded to the guards on either

side of the reception room doorway and walked into the watchful

presence of Ibrahim Rais.

The quickest of glances served to show him that the silver

scimitar was no longer hanging on the wall of the reception room.

The place of honor it had occupied behind the pirate admiral's red

velvet divan was bare. Diego was both disturbed and pleased to see

that the precious thing was gone; the sight of it would no longer be

a mocking reminder. But he would know where it was soon, or he

would be dead. The scimitar meant everything to him, but he did

not let his gaze return to the empty spot on the wall again. He did

not have to see it to remember every detail, especially the warm,

rich glow of the rubies, emeralds and sapphires that studded the

hilt. There was a diamond in the hilt as well, only one, but it was

the size of a dove's egg. Diego did not have to think too hard to

imagine what a man could do with the fortune a diamond such as

that could bring. But he did not let himself imagine anything about

it here in Ibrahim Rais's presence. The old corsair had too uncanny

an ability to read other men's intentions; to survive around him,

one learned stillness and caution. Instead of looking at the bare

spot on the wall, or the white bearded man seated on the divan

until he was sure his hatred wouldn't show, he slowly looked

around the rest of the large room. Diego's nerves tightened further

as he saw that there were more guards present than usual
—
not a

good sign. He kept his visage calm, his step light. He bowed

respectfully toward the man seated on the divan and kept his hands

away from any weapon, but his skin pricked a warning of danger
.

He had not been in this room for months. It was large and

beautiful and lofty, said to be as lovely as the bey's throne room.

Having been in the Bey of Algiers' throne room once, Diego knew

that the description was not quite true, but the luxury Ibrahim Rais

bought with theft and peoples' lives was indeed impressive. Diego

always had to fight hard not to spit on the finely glazed white and

black tiled floors of his "benefactor's" house. He had lived in this

house for years, knew every room and passage, knew all the slaves

by name, and called most of them friend. He had thought once that

commanding his own ship was all he wanted. Then he had added

wanting a house of his own to his list of desires. Though both those

desires had been fulfilled, he still felt hollow inside. Neither of

those small steps toward freedom gave him more than a taste of

what he really wanted.

He was not alone in the reception room with Ibrahim Rais,

and he was glad of that. Salah was a big man, with a big, booming

voice, and a bold, flamboyant presence, a man happy to be the

center of attention. Diego admired the man's swaggering bravado

and could match it if he must, but today he chose a more

circumspect course. Salah seemed to take no notice of the guards'

alert gazes as he strode up to where Ibrahim Rais was seated with

a covered bronze dish on the floor by his feet. Diego kept a careful

distance, waiting to be invited. Ibrahim Rais's bearded chin lifted

sharply, but Salah took no notice of the old man's annoyance at this

breach of protocol. He planted himself before Ibrahim Rais and

demanded, "Why did you send for me, old man? You know I'm

setting sail for Alexandria. You're not going to stop me this time."

Tense guards drew closer, but Salah went on as if he didn't

notice. "I've served you well, but our time is over. I'm taking my

spoils and going home to my wife."

"Leaving me," Ibrahim Rais said softly, regretfully. Diego

flinched at the deceptive gentleness in the old man's tone. "To be

with your wife." He gave the big Egyptian corsair an evil, deadly

look. Diego's gaze went to the bronze bowl. He knew what was

coming, and wanted desperately to look away.

"The French fleet will be here in a matter of weeks," Salah

pointed out. "Time we all cut our losses and ran. I'd rather go

home than run with you, Ibrahim."

"What if I sent for your wife?" Ibrahim Rais rose slowly to

his feet.

Salah shook his head. "I'd rather go to her."

"Too bad. Your wife is already here." Ibrahim Rais kicked

over the bronze container, and Salah screamed as the woman's

head tumbled out. The guards closed in on him. Diego backed

away, sickened, disgusted, glad that he'd made more cautious plans

for his own escape.

After dinner, Honoria stood her ground by the piano near the open

garden door. They were all looking at her, of course, behind their

fans and beneath their demurely lowered eyelashes. She was well

aware of how ladies could stare without seeming to do so. The men

were still enjoying their after dinner brandy, but soon they would

join the ladies in the music room, and Honoria's evening would

only get worse. She doubted this awful evening would ever end.

She heard the women whispering in their little groups, by the

door, on the settee, near the fireplace. She was not fool enough to

pretend that the whispering wasn't about her; they would not be

whispering otherwise. Whispering about her and Derrick Russell.

She knew his reappearance would be of more interest than Mr.

Marbury. As far as society was concerned, apologies had been

tendered and accepted; the Marbury Affair was settled.

At least she had gotten through the meal with no one the

wiser. The important thing was that her father suspected nothing.

Her father had paid far too much attention to Diego—James, but it

had been normal paternal attention. The Spaniard—the Honorable

Mr. Marbury—had been at pains to show his charming side to the

Duke of Pyneham. Her jaw clenched in fury as she remembered all

too well just how charming he could be. She was still singed

around the edges from having his warmth turned on her this

evening. Knowing that it was a false warmth didn't lessen the effect

any, it only served to make her wary. She was still frozen inside.

He was responsible for the ice around her heart that would never

melt, especially not in the light of his sunny smile.

What about the heat of his kisses? The fire from his touch?

Honoria pushed away the questions that rose unbidden, and

the memories they brought with them. She reminded herself sternly

that having been burned beyond healing once, she was not fool

enough to risk a second exposure. Ice and fire, indeed, she added

with a mental snort of derision. What fanciful nonsense!

Lady Asqwyth said something to Cousin Kate, who replied,

and Honoria realized they'd been involved in a lively conversation

for several minutes. Whether either of them had spoken to her in

this time, she didn't know. All she knew was that the smile on her

face was so fixed, she doubted her lips would ever return to their

normal shape again.

Her attention kept turning to the open doors that led to a wide

terrace and the back garden beyond. She very carefully did not look

toward the hall door. The men would arrive whenever they chose,

and this waiting would then seem like a pleasant purgatory

compared to the hell of enduring
his
presence once more.

Yet she knew very well that she was waiting for the door to

open and for him to come in.

She took a few deep breaths, hoping the fresh air would aid in

calming the nervousness she ordered herself not to feel. The breeze

was pleasant, scented by roses and air washed clean by rain earlier

in the day. The garden beckoned her, dark and mysterious—as

much as a neatly groomed walled lawn in the middle of a safe city

neighborhood could be. The truth was, anywhere away from this

crowd of brightly clad, avid-eyed females beckoned to her.

Why had she not taken the coward's way out, pleading a

headache and fleeing to her room as soon as the meal was over?

She had already done her duty to society and her father this

evening.
Could it be
, a creeping snake of speculation whispered

inside her,
that you want to see him
? Nonsense. The man was not

the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil; he was not ripe and

rich and tasty with sensuality. Well, he was—but the analogy to an

apple certainly didn't suit. He was not sweet. His kisses were, she

remembered.
Concealing bitter poison
, she argued back to the

snake of memory. He would not tempt her. Not again. She would

keep control of her emotions and her life, perform the duties

expected of her place in society, and bring no shame or criticism

upon her father or family name. She had her books, her quiet place

in the country. Those were rewards enough for leading an

exemplary life. She'd put the past behind her; now all she had to do

was get through the present.

"Only a few more hours," she murmured.

"What, my dear?" Cousin Kate asked, over the piano music.

That she was talking to herself again frightened Honoria. Any

lack of control was disturbing, and now more than ever, with
him
to

face. "It's been a long evening for me." She smiled and spoke

pleasantly, as she looked from her cousin to Lady Asqwyth. "I am a

country girl at heart, you know. I would be in bed by now if I were

at home."

"You'd be up reading a book," Cousin Kate said, as though

this was a nasty habit she intended to break her younger cousin of.

"You're in London now, my girl." She gestured about the room

with her fan. "At the height of the Season, I might add. With Her

Majesty's coronation and—ah!" Her voice lit with joy. "The

gentlemen have joined us at last!"

Looking toward the hall door, Honoria was aware of large

black lumps spilling into the room and spreading out across the

floor like an overturned bucket of coal. The timbre of the women's

voices changed, skirts rustled, the whoosh of fans stirred the air,

and excitement lit the air brighter than gas lights or candle flames.

With bitterness, Honoria realized that the past hour had been the

lull in an ongoing hunt. The Season was a long, elaborate mating

dance. Most of the women here were involved in that dance, either

for themselves or for their daughters, or as avid observers and

critics of the chase. Honoria was not one of the hunters, or allowed

to observe with the aficionados; she was one of the observed. And

a veritable prize among the prey animals, as well.

Honoria snarled angrily at the thought.

"Indigestion?" Cousin Kate questioned. "Or is it the sight of