On a Long Ago Night (18 page)

Marbury."

Her father patted her on the shoulder, his smile patronizing

and insufferable. "My dear innocent," he murmured. "There doesn't

need to be."

She recalled that he'd discussed a match with James with the

Viscount of Brislay. "Oh, no, you don't."

Her father ignored her. "You have no clue as to what went on

between you and Edward's boy at dinner. That's all right. You and

the lad keep on as you've begun, and leave the viscount and me to

manage the details."

Her father stepped back and took the seat she had vacated. He

seemed in no hurry to leave. He gestured for her to take a second

nearby tapestry chair. "There are some things you need to know

about James Marbury."

She tucked her hands in her sleeves, standing rock still where

she was. "Believe me, sir, I know more—"

"You've heard rumors and lies. You believed the tale of his

being Edward's bastard, didn't you?"

That was true. She nodded. Did the bed curtains ripple just

now? She turned her back on the bed, and on her father as he went

on.

"I'd almost forgotten the tale," he said, as she moved to look

out the window. Her hands were still in her sleeves, grasping her

elbows tightly. She wanted more than life to be left alone. This was

not a dream, and he would not go away until he'd told his tale.

James Marbury was not likely to go away soon, either. She was

trapped. Again. She damned all men, looked at the moon and tried

not to hear.

"I am half English, but I cannot read the language." Diego

Moresco put the paper back on the table and came back across the

room to where she stood as though her toes were rooted in the deep

pile of the jewel-toned carpet. "Some of the letter is in English. I

can read my mother's tongue, she taught me well, but I have no

other education."

He told her this while he drew her reluctantly forward and

made her sit. His touch was gentle but insistent. His expression was

kind, concerned, but she sensed fury in him, taut and held hard.

Some anger inside him was trying to get loose. He'd held it down

for years, but the ropes that bound it were fraying. She didn't know

how she knew that, but she knew, especially when he touched her.

"I am impatient," he said, reading her as she read him. His

smile flashed, sending a wave of heat through her. "Impatient for

many things. It makes me a poor host. My mother taught me to be

polite. We will sit and talk for a while." There was a silver pitcher

on the table, frosted with moisture. He poured some of the liquid

into a crystal goblet and handed to her. The cool glass felt good

between her hands. "Fruit juice," he said. "We do not drink wine

here. You know the customs of Islam, I think."

"Alcohol is forbidden," she heard herself say. She felt like a

parrot, or perhaps a trained monkey, mouthing words, aping

human movement. "You practice the faith of Mohammed?"

He crossed his arms over his chest. "When I am in Algiers.

My mother had me baptized in her faith. I do not know what faith

my English father would want me to follow." He shrugged. "It's not

likely I'll ever find out. Drink the juice while it's still cold. It's better

that way."

She wondered if she obeyed because he owned her and had

given her a command, or because she was thirsty. It was delicious.

She felt so very helpless and confused, and hated it. She couldn't

take her gaze off the Spaniard. She had never been alone with a

man before she met him
—
now she seemed to be making a habit of

it. She couldn't help feeling that being alone with him was better

than being completely alone, but it certainly wasn't proper. Did

propriety matter now? She belonged to him. The humiliation still

burned in her, as if she'd been branded by it.

But she couldn't help but look at Diego Moresco and think
, I

belong to him,
with something that felt almost like eagerness,

and
—
pride? Pleasure? She did not know what to call her reactions

to looking at him, but she simply couldn't stop looking. Her feelings

were confused and muddled, as were her normally lucid thoughts.

She was so very physically aware of him, aware of the strength in

his big, hard-muscled body, of the leashed danger in the

economical way he moved. Aware that he was so very
male
that it

made her feel small and soft and helpless and female to be near

him. He was not a bit like Derrick, who loved her. She should be

thinking of Derrick, not staring at a smiling barbarian corsair.

Derrick loved her; Derrick did not own her
.

Not yet, some mad voice in her head whispered from out of

nowhere. A father owns his daughter, a husband owns his wife.

This man, this barbarian, owns you because he paid a few coins for

you. What is the difference?

Moresco took the goblet from her and took her cold hands

between his big ones, warming them as he began talking again.

"My father was an English officer. My mother was at a convent

school. She might have been a nun if they had not met."

"After the wedding Edward and Graciela were separated during the

battle of Talavares. He was wounded and shipped home to

England. It took him over a year to fully recover." Her father's

voice reached her as if from a great distance. She didn't know how

long he had been speaking, or what he had said to draw her

attention back to the present. "Edward spent years searching for his

lady, and years more searching for her grave after the letter he sent

to her father came back with one informing him that she was dead.

He didn't talk about his quest. Most of his friends forgot that he'd

wedded a Spanish noblewoman. I do recall that he would only

shake his head sadly whenever any of us urged him to marry again

and produce an heir. Though he didn't know about James, he didn't

abandon his wife. Finally, on one more visit to the Spanish

embassy, he told a newly arrived official that he was searching for

burial records. When he gave the woman's name, the official

indignantly informed Edward that his sister was disgraced but she

wasn't dead. He said that Graciela was living in Malaga and he

wrote her letters, even though their father had declared her dead as

far as the family was concerned. And then he challenged Edward to

a duel for dishonoring the family's noble and ancient name." Her

father chuckled.

She did not look at him, but at the heavy bed-curtains behind

him. She thought she detected some faint movement within, and

was glad her father's back was to the bed. She wondered if the man

in her bed was amused at this recounting of his parents' lives.

Perhaps he was squirming in embarrassment. She hoped so, as long

as he didn't jump out to add an explanation of his whereabouts

during the years of his father's so-called quest.

"What," she asked as her father wiped a tear of laughter from

his eye, "is so very amusing?"

"You've never seen a Marbury fight a duel."

She had to bite her tongue. "No," she admitted after a

moment. She put aside the memory of slashing sabers. "I don't

suppose I have." Fighting for his life and hers, yes, but she had

never witnessed anything so tame and formal as a duel. Duels

involved honor, after all.

"Things would not have gone well with Graciela's brother, I

assure you. Fortunately for the man's hide and international

relations, Edward found out that Graciela had been found in

Talavares by her father and dragged home after the battle. When

she explained about her English husband her family were appalled,

and unbelieving—there were no witnesses, no records, just a

pregnant seventeen year-old girl's word. Her father tossed her out."

She knew that. Diego had been very bitter about how his

mother's family had treated her. She had assumed he was lying;

spinning tales to make her trust him, win her sympathy, and make

her want to help him. She wondered if her father would toss her out

if he knew the truth. She didn't even have the excuse of having

married the man she'd given herself to. "So she ended up working

at an inn in Malaga and raising her son the best she could."

"You've heard servants' tales, I see."

"Yes," she answered, though Huseby had not reported on

James Marbury's past; merely his activities since coming to

London. None of the things Huseby had told her had given any clue

to Marbury's true identity. Had she had any clue whatsoever, any

hint that the man she had thought she'd mistaken for Diego

Moresco really
was
Diego Moresco, she would have fled the

country rather than gone down to dinner. Perhaps it was not too late

to flee.

Recalling what had happened the last time she had left

England, her glance was unwillingly pulled toward the bed. Again.

Her father followed her gaze. He stood. "You're tired. I'll be

going in a moment."

A jolt of mixed joy and terror went through her. She

desperately wanted her father to leave, but didn't want to be left

alone with the man behind the curtains, either. Would this waking

nightmare never end? Her father came closer and cupped her face

with his palms, his touch gentle and warm. He kissed her on the

forehead, and Honoria couldn't help but smile for him. There was

nothing but hope in his eyes when they looked into hers.

"You and James Marbury will suit." He drew her closer and

whispered in her ear, "Trust me, I know the signs." Though he still

whispered, there was steel in his voice as he added, "Marry him.

Give me grandchildren."

They both knew it was not a request. It was a good thing that

he did not command her to be happy. She could not even try to find

words to answer him, but he knew her very well. He stepped back

with a sad smile. "You are thinking that it's too late to argue. You

do look very tired. Go to bed now, Honoria. We'll speak again

tomorrow."

Her father was certainly right about how weary she was. She

closed her eyes as he turned away. She heard footsteps, and a door

opening and closing. She felt weak and faint and as if there was no

air in the world. It was far too dark, and she was alone.

The next thing she knew she was being held in strong arms

and a warm embrace. She heard the steady thrum of a heartbeat as

her cheek rested against crisply starched linen. Her hand rested on a

broad shoulder, her fingertips brushed against the soft wave of hair.

Someone was carrying her.

"You were trying to faint," she was told.

"I succeeded," she replied, realizing where she was and who

held her. She was too weary and too comfortable to fight with him.

"Briefly." He must have caught her as she fell. She wasn't alone,

after all.

"Hush."

She did not want to be told to hush, but she had nothing to

say at the moment, either. She sighed, and rubbed her cheek against

his chest. He smelled good, like starch and tangy cologne, and his

own spicy scent. Cinnamon, she thought. Or perhaps she wanted to

sprinkle him with cinnamon and eat him up. She sighed again,

languidly.

A finger slowly traced the curve of her lips. "You're smiling."

"I do. Sometimes." Honoria knew she was less than half

awake, but had no strength in her and less sense. It was lovely not

to think. Her limbs were heavy, but the rest of her seemed to float,

her blood flowing warm and sweet as heated honey. Honey eyes.

Honey and cinnamon. Her fingers twined in thick hair. Her lips

found his throat. He tasted as good as she remembered. It was his

turn to sigh. It was a warm night. Why was he wearing so many

clothes? Why was she?

Oh, yes, she remembered now—they were in England. She

hated him, but she couldn't make it matter right now. Later,

perhaps.

He put her down on the bed and came with her. Bed linens

rustled, and the mattress gave beneath them, embracing and