On a Long Ago Night (9 page)

the city and the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. He glanced up to

read the time in the way the shadow of a minaret slashed across the

blue tiled dome of a nearby mosque. Al-Jaz'ir
—
or Algiers in his

native Western tongue
—
did not feel like home to him, and never

had, but for once he was happy to have made it back to the

corsairs' last safe haven. Their small fleet had had to dodge French

war ships, and Diego guessed they were massing to mount an

attack on the ancient stronghold within the next few weeks
.

They all knew it wouldn't be a safe haven much longer. That

world was ending, but in the meantime, it was still a noisy, busy

place, full of merchants and commerce. Pack donkeys jockeyed for

position with porters, stevedores, sailors, and slaves on the

crowded stone jetties. The wharves smelled of rotting fish and a

dozen kinds of dung. Or perhaps, Diego thought, the choking scent

that clogged his nostrils came from the man who approached him

through the bustling, jostling crowd.

"My son!" Ibrahim Rais called, as he strode toward the

gangplank. The corsair leader was accompanied by bodyguards,

servants, and the captain of the third vessel left in what had once

been a mighty pirate fleet, but the tall old man was obviously the

commander of all he surveyed. At the moment Diego was the focus

of his intense interest, and Diego had long ago learned to look the

old bastard in the eye and pretend respect and affection.

"Admiral!" Diego called out, and hurried to reach Ibrahim

Rais's side. He was careful to bow elegantly when he did so. Many

beatings in his youth had taught him excellent manners.

Ibrahim Rais held his arms out wide as Diego straightened.

The old man's full white beard gleamed in the mid-morning

sunlight; his red, purple, and yellow striped robes stood out even in

the hubbub of the busy port. Ibrahim Rais was never one who

would be ignored, no matter how noisy or crowded a place he

might be in. His garish wardrobe and the sharp scimitar and

pistols in his sash assured that he caught the eye. To be called a

cutthroat's cutthroat was a high compliment to the ruthless corsair.

"Those captives had better he worth the risk we took,"

Ibrahim Rais declared, as he motioned for Diego to walk with him.

He glanced across the harbor to the stolen merchantman they'd

sailed back to Algiers. "That ship alone was probably worth the

risk." His eyes narrowed as he returned his attention to Diego.

"But what of the survivors you took on board? Are they wealthy

enough to buy their way out of the bagnio?" He put a hand on

Diego's shoulder when he wasn't answered immediately. "Do we

sell them or ransom them, my boy?"

Diego did not glance back at his ship. He could not see the

copper-bright head of Honoria Pyne turned away from him in

disgust. He could not see her brave demeanor, or the hurt in her

eyes. Though she was locked in the ship's hold with her dear

Derrick, Diego felt her accusing look cut through him. Or was it a

twinge of guilt? He almost smiled bitterly
—
what pierced him was

no mere twinge. But it could not be helped. It truly could not. The

very touch of Ibrahim's hand on his shoulder burned Diego like a

brand, and he had firsthand knowledge of just what a brand felt

like. His hatred for the corsair admiral choked his spirit, and left a

taste of bile in his soul. He had risen high in the ranks by using

violence when he must, and cunning constantly. Diego knew

himself to be a dangerous man; he must be ruthless and heartless,

for Ibrahim Rais was just
that
much more dangerous than he was
.

He would use Honoria Pyne because he had to. He cared

nothing for her. Besides, she cared only for her beloved Derrick.

"
You hesitate, lad," Ibrahim cut into his thoughts. The tough

old man laughed, revealing a healthy set of sharp teeth. There was

a lewd twinkle in his eyes as he went on, "I'm told there was a red-

haired woman among the
ferengi. Is
she worth more than a ransom

to you
?"

Far more than Ibrahim could know. Diego gave a casual

shake of his head. He had already considered asking for Honoria

Pyne as his share of the booty, and rejected the idea. To show any

interest in the fox-haired captive would draw Ibrahim's attention to

her. Ibrahim Rais's suspicions were easily aroused, and he had

many spies. "No woman is worth more than a ransom, lord."

"Some fetch a good price," Ibraham Rais observed. "Depends

on market value, I've found."

"As you say, lord."

"What of the woman you brought aboard?"

"There were two women," Diego was quick to clarify. "And a

wounded merchant."

The truth was, Diego possessed letters he had had Honoria

write to the British trade representative in the city
—
letters that

would ensure an easy captivity and quick freedom for her and her

companions if he were to hand them over to Ibrahim Rais for

delivery. He would see that two of those letters were delivered; he

could do that much for her. She had not questioned his asking for

three separate letters, though she had thought asking for Greek and

Latin as well as English was peculiar. He had told her that he was

testing her since she was so proud of knowing languages. That, at

least, had not been a lie.

"Two of the captives I hold will go to the cells in the Citadel,

lord," he told Ibrahim. He handed two folded letters to Ibrahim's

clerk. "We will transfer the red-haired woman from my ship to the

bagnio cells," he informed another of the servants. "She can at

least earn our master a commission on her sale."

"I cannot go in there," James said as he stood before the clean

white Georgian face of the Pynehams' townhouse. I
cannot face

her. Not after what I did to her
. He looked at his father in utter

panic. The cool blue gaze the viscount turned on him was pitiless.

"You do not comprehend, sir." The viscount said not a word, but

kept a stern, steady gaze on his son. James was well aware of the

man's own years' long search. "It does not compare," James told

him as a trio of familiar women, dressed as gaily as butterflies,

emerged from the next carriage in the line crowding the street

before the Pyneham residence.

The women crowded up behind them, leaving James no

chance to back away and run for his life. He took a deep breath,

reminded himself that he had faced hell itself a few times, and this

could hardly be very much worse. Duty and honor required this of

him, though the strange woman who awaited him inside would care

not a fig for the requirements of his conscience. The girl he had

known in Algiers. He sighed. That girl was gone forever. She had

been glad to go, though sometimes he pretended otherwise. He had

seen her face and form at the ball, and discovered his craving at

least was no pretense. But he had seen no sign of his Honoria's

personality within the stiff, stern, but altogether glorious shell of

the duke's daughter.

Perhaps he could remember the scent of his Honoria's skin

with vivid longing, and the feel of her legs wrapped around him

when they cradled him inside her, but that was only memory and

imagination. The woman he intended to claim was a stranger, and

clearly counted herself his enemy. There was battle waiting inside,

not reunion.

The relish of the challenge stirred to cunning life. He smiled

with wicked anticipation. Honoria, dried up and marinating or not,

had the same memories of his bedchamber as he. And he'd had

eight years more practice at making love. The woman who'd

snubbed him the other night was a bluestocking spinster, but she

had wildness running deep inside her that he knew very well.

Rumor and gossip proclaimed the duke's heir to be beyond

any interest in men, but she had been his wanton lover once. Was

the wildness dead? Had he killed her passion? There were heavy

bets laid in the clubs against the duke's heir taking a groom despite

the dowry and her father's open attempt to find her a husband. He

had heard those rumors without knowing the cruel jests were aimed

not at a stranger, but at a woman he'd known with delicious

intimacy. There were bets about who would take her and her huge

dowry.

James didn't want the dowry. He didn't want to win the

wagers. But, he decided as he stood on the steps, he would see that

no one else won the bets, either.

Then the women behind them were on the stairs. James found

himself suddenly immersed in the scent of perfume and the sound

of breathless laughter as his father made a witty comment to Mrs.

Ashby and her daughters. In this crowd, James marched forward

bravely into the lair of the Pynehams.

There were no odd looks from the Ashby women, no

comments on the embarrassing incident in this very house a few

nights ago. There was a certain amount of sympathetic cooing and

a pat on the arm from Mrs. Ashby, but whatever they thought,

nothing was said. Buoyed by their presence, James took a deep

breath, filling his lungs with the scent of lavender and ambergris,

and stepped into the front hallway of his quarry's home.

His moment of trepidation was over. He was prepared to

hunt. In this mood, it mattered not at all to him that his entrance

was greeted with sudden, stark silence.

All eyes were on him, but his gaze flashed instantly to the

fox-haired woman in a royal blue gown. Honoria stood tall and

proud at the bottom of the stairs, where the rules of etiquette

dictated her guests must come to her. She had no expression on her

fine-skinned face at all, not even boredom as she spoke to a tall

blond man in a Naval uniform. Her indifference sparked James's

touchy temper, the temper he no longer had to carefully hide.

Honoria Pyne had lied to him, had brought him trouble. He had not

profited by their encounter. It would serve her right for him to

bring her trouble in repayment. His smile blossomed into a full

blown wicked grin at his Lady Fox Hair. The woman had always

been infuriating; something definitely needed to be done about it.

His father leaned close and whispered in alarm, "You look

like the very devil himself has entered you."

"I am the devil," James whispered back. He pulled away from

his father's touch on his arm and walked forward, his gaze riveted

on Honoria. "The devil indeed," he murmured. "As you will

remember soon enough."

"Hello, Honoria."

"Captain Russell." It was not a greeting, simply an

acknowledgment of the existence of the man before her. The

descriptive words that came to her lips after she spoke the name,

she kept to herself.

Honoria looked the tall man standing before her in the eye

without any outward show of emotion. In fact, other than

exasperated annoyance, she
had
no emotional response to him. She

was quite pleased about that. That his features were fuzzy without

the aid of her spectacles did not help at all. He looked older, but no

less handsome. Time had refined Derrick Russell, but had not been

as unkind to him as she would have hoped. A pity. There was a

familiar arrogant boldness about him. His use of her familiar name

was galling and presumptuous, but she gave no sign of offense. She

let him lift her limp hand to his lips and plant a kiss, and made a

mental note to have the glove burned.

Huseby stood discreetly behind her, a few steps up, but

would move aside if Honoria chose to cut and run. She straightened

her spine even more instead, and lifted her chin even more proudly.