On a Long Ago Night (32 page)

Marbury stepped between his wife and the newcomer.

The officer wove drunkenly to a halt and peered angrily past

Marbury's wide shoulders. "Honoria!" he shouted. "Is it true? What

they're saying at the clubs—that the Spanish bastard won the bet to

be the one to marry you? That the fortune is his? It should have

been mine!"

"Bet?" the heiress asked from behind Marbury. "Is that what

this is about, Derrick? A bet to see who could marry me?"

"Of course!" Derrick shouted, full of snide, ugly sarcasm.

"What else?"

"I see." Her voice was soft, cold as ice at the top of the world.

"That is not what this is about, Honoria," Marbury said, but

he did not turn his furious, dangerous gaze from the intruder. "You,

sir," he said, dropping his hand on the man's shoulder, "were not

invited to this wedding."

Derrick sneered and pushed Marbury's hand away. "Don't

touch me, bastard." He took a step back and looked Marbury over

disdainfully. "You took what was mine."

"A long time ago," was Marbury's quiet, confident answer.

"Not that she was ever meant for a coward like you to begin with."

The intruder bristled indignantly. "Coward? I'll show you

who is a coward!"

Menzies wasn't surprised when Derrick slapped Marbury's

face. Nor was he surprised by the thin smile that briefly lifted

Marbury's lips. Marbury clearly hated this man, and had just

goaded the fool into doing exactly what he wanted.

Marbury touched his marked cheek as shocked silence

rippled out from the center of the room. There was not a person

present but himself who was not frozen in place, fascinated by the

drama. "My choice of weapons," he said. "My choice of place. My

second will call on yours. Now—" he gestured dismissively. "Get

out of my wife's presence."

Having made a fool of himself, disillusioned the bride, and

ruined the wedding party for everyone, the intruder turned on his

heel and stumbled drunkenly out.

Menzies rubbed his chin and watched him go. There was

something there, he thought, some old feud. Something to do with

Algiers?

He didn't know, but he would find out. The party was over,

anyway. He followed Derrick out.

She had not spoken to him, not one word, in all the hours the

carriage had been moving steadily through the night, taking them to

a brief honeymoon at the Pyneham country estate. The weather was

fine, but there was only so much countryside that could be made

out by moonlight, no matter how hard James tried to concentrate on

the passing view out the carriage window.

Honoria sat across from him, as still as a statue. She wore a

black traveling dress and bonnet. Even the gloves covering the

hands held clasped tightly in her lap were of black kidskin, so all

that was visible in the dark enclosure of the coach was the pale oval

of her face. He alternated staring out the window with watching

her, but her gaze had yet to lift to his face. The silence wore on

him, for it was shaded with equal parts fear and fury.

She had never feared him when she had reason to, back in

Algiers. Now she was his wife and—

He sighed, and wondered if this was how they were to spend

the rest of their lives. No, he decided with a sudden rush of temper

and determination; it was not. It was time for him to take control of

the situation, to make his marriage what he wanted it to be.

"We made the vows," he said. "We will live up to them."

Honoria continued to ignore him, but he expected that he

already knew how stubborn and headstrong she was. Once she got

a notion in her head she followed it through, right or wrong. She

had a great many notions about him, and it was up to him to prove

to her whether they were right or wrong. She was a challenge, and

he suddenly looked forward to continuing what they'd already

started. He needed it. And he wanted her as strongly as during

those long, sensual Arabian nights. But he had to get her attention

first, the same way he had begun when they were alone in the

library.

He shifted her wide skirts aside and sat down beside her.

Honoria had to scoot over quickly from the center of the well-

padded bench to avoid his landing in her lap. There was plenty of

room in the luxurious coach for two people to sit side by side, but

James moved close to Honoria. She backed off, until she was

wedged into the corner of the compartment. She remained stiff as a

board when he put his arm around her shoulders.

When he undid the ribbon tying on her bonnet she finally

spoke. "Don't."

He ignored her and took the hat off, tossing it across to the

other seat. "You need to relax," he said. "Get comfortable."

"I am. "

"All that heavy black must be hot. You look more like a

widow than a bride."

"Black is practical for travel." Her voice was as stiff as her

spine when she replied, "I am quite comfortable as I am… my

lord."

"My lord?"

"You will find that you have acquired a title along with a

wife… my lord. You are no longer the Honorable James

Marbury—not that you ever were. Honorable."

"Ah," he said, leaning against her. "I see."

"I doubt that."

"Well, it is dark in here."

"You are being facetious." Her tone was as crisp as starched

linen.

"I know." He put his head on her shoulder. "Why are you so

angry with me, Honoria?"

"It would take weeks to enumerate."

He could tell that she did not want to speak to him. He heard

the anger at herself for talking to him every time she answered him.

He took her not being able to stop herself as a good sign. Then it

occurred to him that perhaps she had not had anyone she
could

speak to as herself in a long time.

He knew how that felt. Until his father had forced the whole

story of his life in Algiers out of him, he had lived in unnatural

silence. He had had outlets—women, drink, brawling. He was

infamous in the streets and taverns of Malaga. A respectable

woman had no such recourses.

He decided to deal with the most recent cause for her to be

angry rather than to dwell on the past. "I knew nothing about any

wager, I swear to you. No, that is not quite true. There were wagers

in the betting books of several sporting clubs concerning whether

or not the Duke of Pyneham's daughter would wed. The odds were

running against, by the way. It would seem that dear Derrick took

the bets, but I did not. I swear. I cared nothing about the

matrimonial prospects of this duke's spinster heiress. I was looking

for you."

Honoria tried not to be affected by the sincerity in his voice.

It did not help to feel his soft hair against her cheek, or that there

was something comforting about the warm weight of his body

against hers. It tempted her to relax in kind, to fit herself against

him. She remembered all too well how naturally their bodies

molded together. He was quite impossible, and so very
physical
.

She didn't want to answer him. All she wanted was to get to Lacey

House, run to her room, and lock herself inside until he went away

forever. She said, "Then why else did you marry me, if not to win a

wager? How many fortunes do you need, my lord?"

"I escaped Algiers with enough to buy a tavern for my

mother."

That did not answer her question. She had to bite her tongue

to keep from pointing this out. After she remained silent for a

while, he made his own assumption.

"It disgusts you, doesn't it? Knowing that I went into trade?

That you married a man who has worked in a taproom, and has

helped hang up the clean laundry, and picked herbs from the

kitchen garden? Hardly proper occupations for a gentleman. You

would prefer to marry a true, lazy, useless nobleman, rather than an

honest man."

His descriptions of such homely tasks actually sounded quite

soothing to her. She said, "When I met you, you were a pirate."

"A pirate is romantic," he informed her. "An innkeeper is

not."

"Depends on the innkeeper." She cursed herself for the way

he might take such a comment—and, in truth, she wasn't quite sure

what she meant by it.

He went on. "Then I found myself the heir of a viscount.

There's an unexpected fortune there. In many ways," he added

softly.

"So you didn't marry me for the money," she answered tartly,

refusing to let herself be affected by the deep emotion he seemed to

feel toward his newly found father. "You no doubt decided to take

on the challenge of winning the wager."

He propped his chin on her shoulder, and whispered in her

ear. "Oh, you are a challenge all right, fox-haired duchess mine."

His voice was smooth as silk, as seductive as she had ever heard it.

She could not stop the shudder of reaction that went through

her, but refused to acknowledge what he made her feel. "Yours for

now," she said. "But not for long."

He sat up straighter. She missed his weight when it was lifted

off her. "You're worried about the duel, aren't you? Afraid I'll be

hurt, or longing for me to be killed? Shall I choose swords or

pistols?"

She laughed. She couldn't help it. Her iron control slipped far

too easily around this man. She looked at him for the first time, and

was aware of the dangerous glimmer in his eyes even in the dim

light inside the carriage. How well she remembered that look in his

eyes. "Afraid? For you? Ha!"

"Escape?" Diego gave her a warning look and motioned for her to

stay by the door as he moved to the center of the room.

She ignored him, and followed closely on his heels
—
though

what she could do to help in this situation, she did not know. All

she knew was what Diego had told her of Ibrahim Rais. She only

knew that she wanted to save Diego from whatever punishment the

corsair admiral intended for him. Protect him somehow, or share

his fate. When she slipped her hand into Diego's he squeezed it

tightly
,
reassuringly, though the quick look he flashed her was

exasperated that she had not stayed put.

Ibrahim Rais had two guards with him in the room. As she

and Diego moved forward a third one entered, pushing Maggie

Huseby ahead of him. Huseby saw her and ran forward with a

startled cry. As she embraced her servant and friend, a deep sense

of chagrin overcame Honoria. She became aware that days
—

days
—
had passed since she had thought of her fellow captives. She

had been living for the rapturous pleasure she found in Diego's

bed, and nothing else had mattered. Kisses, caresses, the shattering

delights of lovemaking had driven out the higher callings of duty

and responsibility. The realization that she had betrayed her

position, her friend, and the man she was betrothed to ripped

through her. If someone had thrown a bucket of icy water over her,

the sensation of waking from a long, luxurious dream could not

have been stronger
.

"What have I done?" she rasped, guilt almost overcoming

awareness of the danger posed by the vicious old corsair. "Where

is Derrick?" she finally thought to ask.

"
I was so worried, my
—
Honoria," Huseby quickly stopped

herself from using Honoria's title. "Derrick is asleep, or pretended

to be when the guard came for me," Huseby added, almost under

her breath. "I have been tending his wound. It is nearly healed, as

far as I can tell
."

"Good, good," Honoria answered. She meant the words, but

was too distracted by what Ibrahim Rais intended to do to Diego to

work up much concern for Derrick.

Huseby went on hastily, her hand on Honoria's arm, "When

we were brought to this house I was told I would see you, but
—"

"Silence," a guard ordered, and pulled Huseby and Honoria

apart.

"You may take the servant away," Ibrahim Rais ordered. "I

only wanted to show my dearest Captain Moresco that I had proof

of his treachery."