On a Long Ago Night (37 page)

finest artist of the early eighteenth century. The tall windows

looked out on impressive formal gardens, and the walls were lined

with numerous portraits.

"Welcome to the Rogues Gallery," she said, bringing James

to the portrait of a thoroughly naked woman stretched out on a

velvet divan. The woman was quite lovely, blonde and buxom,

with a sensual mouth and huge, bold eyes of bright blue. "Her eyes

and breasts tend to run in the family," Honoria went on.

James looked the rather erotic painting up and down

appreciatively. Then he ran the same look over Honoria. "They

certainly do. Who is she?"

"My great - great - great - great - great - grandmother." She

counted on her fingers. "I believe that is correct." She pointed at the

painting. "That, oh, son of an honest, hardworking tavern wench, is

Maggie Pyne. The founder of the family. The first duchess. She

was a whore. Worse, she was an actress. A very good one,

apparently. She was also the mistress of a king, by whom she had a

son, who had a son, who had a daughter, and on down to me. She

was smart enough to get King Charles the Second to make her a

duchess, and to pass a law that allowed the eldest child to inherit

the title and property no matter what their gender. Whore she might

have been," Honoria added proudly, with a fond glance at the

founder of title line, "but she was sharp as a blade and took care of

what was hers."

"You are descended from a commoner?" James asked.

She wasn't sure if the horror in his voice and expression was

genuine, or if he was joking. "Who isn't descended from a

commoner at some point?" she asked back. "What's a nobleman,

but the descendant of someone with a big sword and an

overinflated sense of their own importance?"

He crossed his arms and tilted down his chin. "Do you think

so?"

"I do," she affirmed. "And that's not the worst of it. Let me

show you what sort of family you've married into." She led him

down the long row of portraits. "That's an aunt from last century

who was locked up in Bedlam. She escaped the madhouse and ran

off to America with the estate steward—whose name was not

Huseby, by the way. And that's an uncle named Joseph, who fought

bravely in the American Revolution. On the American side, I'm

ashamed to say."

"Shocking."

"
And
he married a Scottish Dissenter." She pointed to another

woman's picture. "Aunt Samantha married a Mohawk warrior."

"A what?"

She waved the question away. "You still haven't heard the

worst." They stopped before a portrait of her great grandparents.

"That's the second duchess, the second Maggie Pyne, as well. It's

said she also enjoyed acting." She pointed at the slender man

standing proudly beside the blonde and beautiful duchess. "James

McKay," she told her own particular James. "Highwayman. I

believe he went by the professional name of Jamie Scott. He and

the duchess met while he was robbing her coach."

"How romantic."

She couldn't stop her own smile at the merriment in his eyes.

She put her hands behind her back, and rocked back on her heels.

"Yes, quite. But my point, my lord, is that the Pyne family has no

cause to be high sticklers about the professions of others.

Especially the people we marry." She chuckled wickedly. "In fact,

your lady mother might insist we break off the alliance when she

finds out about
my
ancestry."

He nodded solemnly. "Perhaps it would be best not to tell

her. At least until the first grandchild is on the way. She could

forgive anything for the sake of my baby."

It finally occurred to Honoria that she was having a perfectly

normal conversation with her worst enemy about
their
marriage.

Even worse, when he mentioned their having children, her first

reaction was not a cringe of horror, but a warm and totally

unfamiliar feeling of sentimental longing.

"I need to sit down now," she said, as her legs would

suddenly not hold her. Fortunately, there was a velvet-cushioned

bench just behind her. She dropped onto it like a stone.

James sat down quickly by her side and took both her hands

in his. The fiend would not let the subject go. "Perhaps you're with

child already." He sounded unutterably pleased about the prospect.

"We should get started soon. I want lots of children." He massaged

his thumbs across her knuckles, setting her stomach to fluttering

pleasantly.

"Soon? Lots? Of children?" She blinked after each squeaked

question.

"So do both our fathers," he added. He gestured at the rows

of ancestral paintings. "We have to do our duty for our families."

This reminder of familial obligation helped settle her for a

moment. Then, as she looked at him, a fist formed around her heart

and squeezed hard.

"Honoria? What's wrong?"

Even though he'd moved closer to her on the bench, his

concerned voice sounded very far away. She could not see for the

pain. For a moment the world went white around her. One word,

one concept, dropped like a burning coal into her mind.

"That's why you married me, isn't it?" she asked after the

spasm of betrayed anguish lessened. She understood this pain; she

had lived with it for years. But right now, it felt like it would break

her wide open. "It has to do with duty, and not with me. It's never

anything to do with me." She was not important to anyone, and

never had been.

The pain transformed to anger as she focused her hatred on

James Marbury. "You care nothing for me," she stated flatly. "You

never have."

Instead of protesting his undying affection, he sprang to his

feet and glared accusingly down at her. "And you've never cared

for me! You've never felt anything but contempt for me, have

you?"

She surged to her feet. "That's a lie! I love you!"

"I love
you
!" he shouted back. The words reverberated down

the length of the Long Gallery as he continued to shout, "I've loved

you from the first moment I saw you. Not that you cared."

"What do you mean?" The family portraits gazed down

silently on her shriek of outrage. "You're the one who bundled me

onto that boat and then walked away!"

"You never said you didn't want to go with dear Derrick, did

you?"

"You never said you wanted me to stay!"

"You never said you wanted me to
ask
you to stay!"

They stood toe to toe, hands on hips, mirror images of fury,

surrounded by the staring painted eyes of her illustrious and

notorious ancestors, their unguarded words echoing around them.

Nothing was going right. Nothing was going as expected. He had a

plan, but it was not the original plan that was supposed to give him

his freedom and untold wealth. Honoria had changed everything.

The streets of Algiers were ablaze from the invader's cannon

fire. All his carefully made escape plans were going up in flames

and smoke like the white buildings of the Casbah, but his plans

weren't important to him anymore. The treasure wasn't even

important. He'd worry about his own hide and grabbing what loot

he could after he was sure Honoria was safely away from the

danger of the attack. It wasn't the attack that was the worst danger;

it was the looters he feared. He could hear the screams of helpless

victims as his party cautiously moved through the town. This was a

city full of pirates who knew their time was up. They understood

pillage and rape, and were turning on the helpless for one last

rampage while the city burned. Getting Honoria to the ship was

safer than remaining in his house, especially after cannon fire had

breached the wall. But they had to get through the looters and

frightened mobs to do it.

The narrow, twisting streets of the ancient mountain fortress

were full of panicked, frightened people. The high white walls

would be no protection from invaders this time. He pushed through

the crowd, saber in one hand, pistol in the other. Honoria followed

close behind, with Huseby holding onto Derrick and bringing up

the rear. Diego noticed that the supposedly feeble Englishman

moved quickly enough to save his own hide after Honoria

explained the plan to him.

Diego knew that taking Honoria toward the harbor might

seem an act of folly when the danger came from the French Navy

that had sailed into the bay, but she had agreed readily to his plan.

Too readily, he thought bitterly. "Oh, yes," she had said after

a cannonball knocked down the garden wall and they were battling

a fire that started in the kitchen. "The roof is going to come down

on our heads at any moment. Derrick and Maggie must be gotten to

safety."

Her face was covered in soot, but it was the most beautiful

face in the world, calm in the face of danger. She nodded

emphatically. "It's my place to take care of them."

She said not a word about what had passed between them in

this falling-down house. She made no protest that she didn't want to

leave. They might as well never have been lovers. It was obvious

that all she cared about was getting away. Very well, he would

make sure she got away from him.

"I want you out of here," he lied, wanting nothing more than

for her to stay with him forever. He couldn't stop adding callously,

to hide his hurt, "Consider it payment for the pleasure you've given

me." Her eyes narrowed briefly at his words. It was the slightest of

flinches. She let out a long, sighing breath, but that was all the

reaction he got. He had hoped she would slap him as he deserved,

berate him, and tell him she cared. But all the passion he'd

discovered in her was now covered by stiff English reserve. By the

time the house fire was out, Huseby and dear Derrick were ready

to go. Diego gave instructions to his servants, then he led the

English contingent away from the wreckage.

There was a naval battle raging between corsair galleons

and modern European ships. He did not think the fight would go on

for very long. The corsairs were too smart not to see it was a

useless fight. Those who could not cut and run would soon

surrender and try to make deals with the victors. The merchant ship

Manticore
was one of many prizes sitting in the middle of that

battle, unmanned, very likely going carefully untouched by both of

the warring sides. Those ships were valuable prizes to both sides:

spoils for the victors, bargaining pieces for the losers. Being

onboard the
Manticore
was the safest place for Honoria and her

friends.

"I got you to safety."

Honoria nodded. "I said I was grateful." How well she

remembered helping to row the small boat away from the dock.

The water around them had reflected the fires. It had been so bright

she'd expected steam to rise up off it. "You kissed me goodbye,"

she said, desperately. "Then you were gone."

"What else could I do? What was there to say when you

wanted
him
?"

"You told me you wanted me to 'get out of here.' "

"I didn't mean it. How could you think I meant it?" He wasn't

sure when he'd taken her in his arms. He held onto her for a long

time, and felt her shaking with sobs.

After a while she lifted her tearstained face and said, "I hate

melodrama."

"But you're very good at it," he teased gently. "Besides, if I'd

told you I loved you then, I would never have let you go."

She turned her tear-soaked face up to his and he kissed her,

tenderly at first, but neither of them needed tenderness right now.

The intensity of contact deepened and sparked through them

quickly. Honoria knew they had much to discuss, but did not care.

She drew him closer, pressed herself against the long, hard-

muscled length of him. She wanted contact with him, every kind of

contact, the more the better.