On a Long Ago Night (16 page)

Still, he was the one who gasped as her gaze flashed up. Their

gazes met as reflections in the window glass.

She said on a sigh, "You might have paid more than fourteen

drachma for me, you know."

"I was not a wealthy man," he answered, and thought better

of it instantly. Perhaps she wanted to hear that she was worth the

moon and the stars to him. He stepped back, but she turned to face

him before he could dramatically take her into his arms. He had

lost the edge with this woman, the advantage that should have

come with surprise and physical closeness. Now he would have to

use his wits, and hope that hers were as out of practice as his were.

He doubted that. No, he knew it, he'd heard her sharpening her

tongue on the fool English captain in the garden. And she had not

exactly been slow of tongue when they'd traded barbs over dinner.

James feared he was in for a long night. Penance, his father

would call it. Was any woman worth this?

She looked past his shoulder and the frown that was already

on her face deepened. "The bed curtains were closed. You were

hiding in the bed?" Her eyes widened and her gaze flew back to

his. "In my
bed
? How dare you? For how long?"

"I have been in your bed before."

"You have not," she corrected, her diction precise. "I've been

in yours."

That was his Honoria, accurate and specific. He grinned

confidently. "Frequently."

The dark anger that filled her eyes looked like it came

straight from her soul. He shrugged. "The bed was the only private

place in your room. It was logical."

"Your logic was ever sloppy."

"I had to improvise."

"Also not your forte."

James put a hand thoughtfully on his chin. "Now, why did I

come here? Certainly not to share a pleasant conversation with

you."

"I am not a pleasant person," she snapped back. She doubted

the Spaniard had sneaked into her room, her very bed, for the

purpose of seducing her. Or had he? Why? How long had he been

hiding behind the bed curtains? Long enough for his scent to

remain on the sheets? Her stomach tightened at the thought, even as

a tingling of excitement raced through her. "I shall have to have the

bed linen burned, I suppose."

He looked indignant. "Do you suspect I have lice?"

"I don't dare to suspect where you might have been, or what

filth you might have acquired along the way."

He gestured at his elegant clothing. "I have acquired the

polish of an English gentleman."

"Stole it, more like." She saw how he bridled at this implied

insult to his father. Good. That gave her a weapon to use against

him. Perhaps not a good one, but—she sighed. "Go away. We'll

fight another time, if you must have a fight. I'm tired now."

"You've had one confrontation too many today, Honoria."

His words broke gently into her thoughts. "You want me to go

away. You want me to never have been born," he added. "You

don't want to argue, though you think hurting me would be nice if

you could manage the energy."

She nodded slowly. "I would like those things, yes."

He took a step closer to her, catching her gaze with those

warm golden eyes of his. He had such expressive eyes. Clear,

perfect eyes. Everything about him was perfect. She couldn't help

but note how a swath of dark brown hair fell in a graceful arc

across his wide forehead, how his heavy brows arched emphatically

over those so-expressive eyes with their long, long lashes, how his

wide shoulders and muscular thighs were shown off by his well-

tailored evening clothes. She'd always known he was perfection to

gaze upon. What difference did it make? Derrick was a fine

physical specimen, as well, yet he was the lowest type of life form.

This man with the warm honey eyes was even lower in the great

chain of creation, as low as the serpent in the Garden. He was the

devil himself.

The difference, she knew as the air heated around her, was

that Derrick no longer tempted her. Perhaps he never had. Diego—

James, whoever he was and whatever he called himself—might be

the spawn of Satan, but that didn't stop her from wanting to—

Honoria reached out her hand toward his cheek, the

movement slow, unwilling, the ache to trace her fingers along the

strong line of his jaw and trace his sensual full lips perverse and

foolish. She was barely able to draw her hand back before it made

contact. She was left furious with herself, and with only a years' old

memory of the warm suppleness of his skin.

"You are evil incarnate!" she declared, thrusting her hands

behind her back and clasping them tightly together. "I shall scream

now," she added, standing stiffly erect before him. She refused to

look into his eyes anymore. "I will call for help."

"Why?" he asked, in his familiar, teasing way, head tilted

boyishly to one side.

"Because I need help." She shouldn't let herself be drawn into

conversing with the devil; she should be screaming.

"Perhaps it is something I can help you with." He took

another step toward her. She took a step back, and her shoulders

came up against the cool glass of the window. "Helping me is not a

concept you are familiar with."

"I helped you," he reminded her. "For a price."

"It was always commerce with you," she snarled.

"I know." He did not look in the least abashed or ashamed by

this admission. He glanced around the bedroom. "Are you going to

scream and compromise yourself when the household rushes to

your rescue?" he asked mildly. "Or may I continue with what I

have come here to do?"

She held a hand up between them. It was a very dramatic

gesture, just the sort of theatrical thing she loathed. She put her

hand down and faced him with proudly raised chin. "If you've

come here to ravish me—"

"When did I ever have to ravish you?" He sounded genuinely

affronted.

She had the strongest urge to stomp her foot. "Nobody
ever

wants to ravish me." The complaint came from the deepest part of

her, unbidden, and terrifying in the dark anger it stirred in her. Her

tone was sharp as glass shards when she snarled, "I know I'm an

overgrown ugly cow, but why not pretend just for once that what

you have on your mind is—" Honoria clamped her hands over her

mouth. What was she saying? She didn't
want
to be ravished—that

wasn't the bloody point!

He looked stunned. "Honoria—"

She rammed her hands against his chest and pushed him

backward. Tried to. He didn't budge. He put his hands up and

grasped her wrists. To keep her from pounding on him next, she

supposed. Trapped between the window and large man who held

her hostage, she demanded, "What is it you want with me?

What
?"

She had no idea where she was. A private house, that was

easy to surmise. In a small, plainly furnished room. Alone. She'd

been draped in veils and robes again and the slave dealers had

delivered her to the house of her new master, but no one had told

her who that master was. She'd been brought to this room by a pair

of elderly women, and a tray of food and a flask of water had been

provided. Earlier, a woman servant had helped her bathe, and

offered her fresh clothes afterward. At first Honoria had wanted to

refuse to wear the clothing given by a master to a slave, but she

was a practical person at her core. Her black mourning dress was

a filthy wreck. She could not stand the thought of donning it once

more, though it was the only reminder left to her of her life in

England, and of the mother she had lost. She was lost herself, dead

to the life she had known. She hated accepting this truth which new

clothing represented, but she was too pragmatic and unsentimental

not to exchange the rags. The Arabic clothing was exotic, but far

from immodest. The vivid colors of the many layers of robes in

green and rust and gold suited her coloring. She did her fresh-

washed hair in a simple long braid down her back and allowed the

woman servant to wind a light, nearly transparent veil around her

head and show her how to tuck an end of the draping across her

face. Honoria asked questions, but all she received in reply were

compliments on how well she spoke the language. Then they left

her alone again. She paced like a trapped animal for a while.

Eventually she ate her cold meal.

By the time she was done, the woman returned and told her,

"Our master will see you now." The servant gestured toward the

door. "Please come with me."

Honoria wanted to back up against a wall and fight to be

dragged from the room. She wanted to proclaim that she called no

man "Master" and obeyed no man on earth
—
other than the king,

her father, and her beloved betrothed. To state haughtily that she

was the heiress of a dukedom, who gave orders but rarely took

them. She also wanted to beg and scream and cry and crawl under

the bed in quaking terror
.

She did none of these things, made no foolish proclamations.

She could not call on anyone but God for help, which she did

silently. She went where the servant directed her, all too aware that

if she did not please her new "Master" that any fate he chose could

be dealt out to her. She feared that she might be tortured, but being

sold would be worse. Lady Alexandra Margaret Frances Honoria

Pyne was terrified down to her soul of facing the unspeakable

horror of standing on the auction block once more.

She was trembling as she was shown through another

doorway, now almost grateful to this stranger who had bought her.

The other woman withdrew, closing the door behind her, leaving

Honoria alone with their owner. She looked toward the man who

had taken her away from that horrible place, and very nearly

opened her mouth to say "Thank you."

The tall young man coming toward her was dressed in clean

white robes. His beard was trimmed, his dark hair combed back,

and there was a bright, cheerful smile on his handsome face.

She stopped dead in her tracks, and shouted angrily, "You!"

"Hello, Honoria," the Spaniard said affably, and held a

tattered piece of paper toward her. "I bought you so you could

translate this for me."

"What are you doing in England ?" she demanded. "Now what do

you want from me?"

The Honorable James Marbury stepped back again and

bowed to her with elegant polish that did nothing to allay her

suspicions. Then he dropped gracefully onto one knee. "Honoria

Pyne," he said, sounding sincere and not looking the least bit silly

gazing up from his humble position. "Do me the honor of

becoming my wife."

After she watched him in silence for quite a long time, James

shifted his weight onto his other knee. She stayed very still, barely

breathing, though she did blink a few times. It didn't help. He was

still there when she opened her eyes.

"Honoria?"

"Yes?"

James came slowly back to his feet. He moved closer.

Barefoot, wearing a nightgown and robe, with her beautiful copper

hair unbound, she did not look so different than she had in Algiers.

Her vulnerability was not so open, but he knew it was there.

He hoped it was. Or had she changed utterly, become as sharp and

flinty and dead to feelings as rumor claimed? If he took her in his

arms now, would it do any good?

A spark of anger lit deep within him, and a bitter voice told

him he was giving himself up to a life of sacrifice and penance if he

continued with this mad scheme. The voice urged him to walk

away, to run from his past rather than embrace a woman who did

not want him. Pride kept him where he was, and another type of

anger. Was he to leave her to Derrick Russell? If it was to be a

contest between them, this time he would win.

Besides, he still wanted her.

"Do you have needs?" he asked. "Do you feel desire? You