To Catch a Bride (33 page)

“No,” she said, sounding troubled. “I think we have danced enough.”

 

 

 

 

H
ow strange to be thinking about Mrs. Whittacker at a time, at a place, like this, Ayisha thought that night. She lay awake on her side of the bed, waiting for the deep, even breathing that told her Rafe had fallen asleep. After that she could sleep, too.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t trust him; he was a man of his word, and as he’d promised, he’d made no move to seduce her.

Not in bed, that was.

There was a small matter of a kiss. And a dance.

The waltz was a small kind of possession, letting her be taken where he willed, dominated by him and the music. A foretaste . . .

She closed her eyes, reliving the dance. Once she’d got the hang of the steps, she’d let herself go, and oh, the feeling of circling in his arms, twirling in dizzy pleasure, giving herself up to the music, to his strong arms, his powerful body . . .

It made her wonder about the ultimate possession between a man and a woman . . .

It wasn’t him she didn’t trust. She was entirely too attracted to the man.

The memory of Mrs. Whittacker had come at a good time.

Ayisha needed reminding. She’d been seduced by more than just a kiss and a dance. It was the whole vision of her and Rafe married. Being with him for the rest of her life. Sleeping in the same bed, able to touch him as she wanted and be touched . . . To kiss him whenever she wanted, as long and as deep as she dreamed . . . To be able to open her heart to him and have him open his to her, sharing hopes, dreams, and troubles. And maybe, if they were blessed, having children with him. Making a home together, and a family. A family of her own.

That was the real seduction.

Remembering Mrs. Whittacker was like getting a bucket of cold water thrown in her face.

His promise, his offer of marriage, was for Alicia Cleeve. Mrs. Whittacker had taught Ayisha the lesson of her life when she was nine years old. And it wasn’t music.

She’d been going to lessons with Mrs. Whittacker for a year. Papa would walk her there each week and pick her up afterward. Ayisha loved her lessons and loved those walks with him. They were almost the only time she ever had Papa to herself.

Mrs. Whittacker always offered her and Papa tea afterward. She always had delicious things to eat: tiny iced cakes, ratafia biscuits, macaroons, and proper English tea.

Mrs. Whittacker called her Alice, Alice dear, or sweet Alice—never Ayisha. Papa had said she wasn’t to mind and to answer to whatever Mrs. Whittacker called her.

Each month, Mrs. Whittacker put on what she called a
soirée musicale
, only it was in the afternoon. Ayisha had never been to one, but she knew all about it. Her best pupils and their parents were invited, and the pupils put on a small concert. The most exciting part of the concert was the duet section.

Each month two specially chosen pupils were given a duet part to learn. It was only at the concert they heard how the final piece sounded, as they sat down at the keyboard with another pupil and each played their part.

Ayisha still remembered the excitement she felt when finally she was invited to attend the
soirée
and was given the honor of a part to learn. How she’d practiced, knowing at the end of the month she would perform—her first concert, and in a coveted duet.

And then the first blow, that Papa and Mama were going to Jerusalem, so Papa couldn’t attend the concert. Mama never went to that sort of thing—she was shy in company, because of her scarred cheek. Ayisha had always accepted it—until now.

“There will be other concerts, my dear,” Papa had said. He and Mama were very excited about their trip.

The second blow came when Papa said she wasn’t to go to lessons at all while he was away.

In retrospect Ayisha realized Papa had known what he was doing. At the time she thought her life had been blighted, that she’d never again be invited to one of Mrs. Whittacker’s
soirées musicales
, let alone perform a duet . . .

She was right, but not for the reasons her nine-year-old self had imagined.

Her parents left for Jerusalem, but when the time for her weekly music lesson came, Ayisha had persuaded one of the servants to escort her. Not Ratibe, who usually looked after her, nor Yiorgi, who was left in charge of the household—either of those might have known of her father’s edict—but Minna, the youngest of the servants, who was silly and frivolous and fun.

Ayisha had never disobeyed her father before. Mrs. Whittacker was surprised at Papa’s absence, but the lesson continued, though there was no tea afterward.

The following week Mrs. Whittacker had asked her about Mama, question after question. She’d never questioned Ayisha before about anything. Then she’d cut the lesson short, claiming headache. Ayisha hadn’t thought anything of it at the time.

The day of the concert came and she’d dressed in her best clothes. She came in with a group of other people.

“Sit there and don’t move,” Mrs. Whittacker told her, pointing to a seat in the corner.

Ayisha had waited, excited, nervous . . . She watched as the other pupils and their parents arrived and smiled at the pupils, wondering who her partner in the duet would be. She didn’t know many other children. She watched them from her chair, wondering if any of them would become a friend. She dearly wanted a friend of her own age.

The concert started. Ayisha listened, watched, and waited.

Intermission. Everyone drank tea or lemonade and ate cakes. Ayisha got up to get a drink—being nervous was thirsty business—but Mrs. Whittacker hissed at her, “I told you to sit down,” and she sat.

Nobody came to speak to her. Nobody said a word to her. But there was whispering, and people were sneaking glances at her as they talked. What had she done wrong?

The second part of the concert drew to a close; there was only one more item: the duet. A girl with long golden ringlets stood, smoothing her pink dress nervously. Ayisha stood.

“I’m sorry, Susan, dear, your partner in the duet isn’t here,” Mrs. Whittacker said. “The concert is over.”

“But—” Ayisha began.

“Ayisha, go and wait in the kitchen,” Mrs. Whittacker snapped. “You other children may adjourn to the dining room where the refreshments are being served.”

Distressed and bewildered Ayisha went to the kitchen, where Minna was waiting. The other servants stared at her. Nobody spoke to her.

Sometime later a servant came in and said to Minna, “Mistress says you’re to take that girl home, now.”

“I just need to fetch my music bag,” Ayisha said, battling tears, and ran back to the drawing room to fetch it.

There were several children in the hall, including the girl, Susan, who from the look of her eyes had been crying. Ayisha went up to her to comfort her—she, too, had been deprived of the moment of glory for which she’d practiced so hard.

“Oooh! Get away, you filthy thing!” Susan exclaimed. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

Ayisha recalled looking down at her dress, thinking she must have dirtied it unknowingly in the kitchen. But it was as crisp and pristine as when she’d put it on. She tried again.

“Go away!” Susan had shrilled. “We’re not allowed to talk to you. You’re not even supposed to
be
here!”

On the verge of tears, Ayisha pushed open the door of the drawing room and heard someone say, “Who did you say she was?”

And Mrs. Whittacker replied, “She’s Henry Cleeve’s bastard, his filthy little by-blow—and by a slave woman, no less. I was never so deceived in all my life.”

Ayisha didn’t even know what bastard and by-blow meant, but she knew from the way she spoke Mrs. Whittacker hated her. And so did everyone else.

Filthy little by-blow
—it sounded like a blowfly, who laid eggs in rotting food and produced maggots.

Ayisha didn’t even remember how she’d got home. She supposed Minna had found her and taken her away.

Much later she’d learned what it all meant, that they all thought she was her half sister, Alicia, who had died. Papa had known it but had thought his presence would prevent it coming out.

It was a lesson she’d never forgotten: the music, the concert, the friendship—even the cakes had been intended for Alicia Cleeve, not Ayisha. Nothing was for Ayisha.

The offer of marriage from the man lying next to her on the bed was also for Alicia Cleeve, the daughter of a baronet and a lady.

Oh, he wanted Ayisha, she knew that, and he might even come to love her. Papa had loved Mama—she was his whole world.

But in Rafe’s world—the real world—the son of a gentleman would never marry the illegitimate daughter of a slave—not knowingly. Not unless she tricked him.

But if she stayed with him, if she gave in to him, he would make her his mistress—perhaps his beloved mistress. And her sons would be bastards.

But no child of hers was ever going to hear anyone say, “He’s Rafe Ramsey’s bastard, his filthy little by-blow . . .”

There was always the offer of the captain to marry them then and there. The Reverend Payne had also offered to marry them according to the rites of the Church of England.

But she would not trick him into marrying her. He would come to hate her for it, she was sure, and that would be unbearable. She would rather live without him than live with him, despised as a liar. Or as a millstone around his neck.

So she was going to have to tell him. And soon, or he’d be angry for having made a fool of himself over and over, offering to marry her, based on a false assumption.

She turned over in the bed and watched him sleeping, the broad chest rising and falling.

How was she going to share a bed with a man who knew she’d made a fool of him? What if he was furious? It was a very small cabin. She had no fear he’d hurt her physically, but it would be most uncomfortable to have to keep sharing a space so intimately with a man who despised you.

Or a man who was bent on making her his mistress.

She’d wait, she decided, until she was released from quarantine. Then she’d tell him the truth. And until then, she’d keep him at arm’s length. No more waltzing on the deck in the moonlight.

 

 

 

 

T
he following evening they were taking their customary evening stroll around the deck when a sailor shouted, “Sir, miss,” running toward them. “Capt’n’s orders, you’re to go to your quarters immediately and lock yourselves in.” Behind him the decks erupted with action, sailors racing everywhere, hoisting extra canvas—and rolling out the big guns.

“What’s going on?” Rafe asked.

The man jerked his head to the south. “Pirates, sir, coming up fast behind us. Now please, get below and lock yourselves in. It’s going to be nasty.”

Ayisha scooped up Cleo. Rafe took her arm and they hurried below.

While Ayisha put the kitten in her basket, he checked his pistols quickly. He turned to Ayisha. “Have you ever used a pistol?”

“No, but I can learn.” White-faced but outwardly calm, she held out her hand to take a pistol.

“Good. The pistols are loaded. You just cock the hammer—carefully—pull it all the way back—like this . . .” He demonstrated on one pistol and she imitated him on the other. “Yes, that’s it. And then you point it at a man’s chest and squeeze the trigger. And don’t hesitate to kill; a wounded man can still fight on. Right?”

She nodded. She looked scared to death, but her jaw was set. She was magnificent.

“Good.” He replaced his pistol in the case, threw open his trunk, and drew out the sword of Damascus steel. “Now, lock yourself in. I’m going up to fight pirates.”

She caught his arm. “But you’re too weak to fight with a sword—you’re barely over the fever. Take the pistols.”

“No, you keep them. I’ll be fine—I’m a soldier, remember?”

“Then wait, I’ll come, too!”

“No.” He wrapped an arm around her and gave her a hard, possessive kiss. “It’s too dangerous. Stay in the cabin.” He went, slamming the door shut behind him. “Bolt it,” he yelled and ran toward the companionway.

A
yisha stared at the closed door. Bolt the door? Hide in the cabin? Wait and see what happened?

She leaned out of the porthole. The big pirate vessel was bearing down on them fast. Pirates swarmed all over it, hanging from the riggings, lining the gunwales.

She shivered. But she couldn’t, she wouldn’t just
wait
. Not while Rafe was on deck fighting for his life—for both their lives—all their lives.

Once pirates took over the ship, she and everybody else on board were done for. Rape, slavery, or murder.

She hadn’t spent the last six years fighting for survival on the streets of Cairo only to wait tamely for pirates to come and get her.