Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (23 page)

      
For her obduracy she had been forced to go without food and clothing for days at a time, and when that did not break her spirit, Fatima had ordered her eunuchs to hold her down so the slave women could perform their cosmetic foolery on her body. But Beth had become enraged beyond the basic resistance Derrick had suggested. She fought with teeth and nails, kicking and gouging until Fatima's puny “not-men” had fair quaked in terror whenever the chief wife ordered them to approach the wild foreigner.

      
When all else failed, Fatima had had her dragged from the women's quarters to a dungeon where the Janissaries had applied the feared bastinado—beating the soles of her feet with a truncheon. The pain was excruciating, but she refused to give the hateful old crone or her sadistic minions the satisfaction of crying out. Twice she had passed out during the administration of punishment. But after all she endured, there had been no further word from Derrick.

      
Then two days ago Kasseim had returned from his journey into the interior and requested the defiant female be brought before him. Quinn had not lied about the prince's looks—at least that much was true—but Beth hated the way he studied her with his keen dark eyes. North African men had elevated male arrogance to an art form. Rather than lowering her lashes as Fatima had instructed her, Beth had met his stare boldly, which perversely seemed to amuse him.

      
Although his mother insisted that the infidel be educated properly first, Kasseim had decided to take his chances. Beth had been desperate that afternoon when the women were all rewarded with a few hours in the gardens—all but the disobedient one.

      
While left to languish indoors, she had filched some opium powders from Maya. Beth had observed the prince's favorite hiding them in a secret compartment inside the silk coverlet on her pallet when Maya believed no one was looking. Beth concealed in the lining of her caftan enough of the vile narcotic to knock down a camel.

      
That night Kasseim was surprised to find her compliant, even offering to pour his sherbet and serve him. She had acted just reluctant enough to hold his interest and not arouse his suspicions, sipping her own drink while he downed several goblets of the lemon-sugar drink that she'd laced with opium.

      
When she finished serving him the meal, he reached for her and then she turned coy, playing teasing games just long enough for the drug to take effect. As his eyes started to lose their focus and he slid down on the pile of cushions, she slipped off her caftan and went into his arms. He caressed her breast once, then fell asleep with a smile on his face.

      
Last night Maya had retaliated with the connivance of two of her Abkhasian friends, who attacked their American rival. Rather than fighting back and knocking the plump weaklings unconscious, Beth had allowed them to win the contest before the eunuchs dared to interfere. Scratched and bruised, Beth had been allowed to retire to the baths while Maya had been sent to the prince. Apparently that had not been sufficient to quell her jealousy. Today, with the latest news of Decatur, the favorite had begun venting her spleen until the entire harem was ready to claw out Beth's eyes.

      
“Perhaps if the dey were to deliver me to my father's old friend, I could intercede for your safety,” she replied to Maya's diatribe, knowing old Fatima could hear her. The chief wife sat behind the lattice screen by the pool, as was her custom, so that she might eavesdrop on her son's concubines.

      
The ploy did not work. The women were herded into the baths for their late-afternoon ritual. The eternally boring order of harem life was not to be disrupted, even by the threat of enemy bombardment. Beth walked proudly on her bruised feet, refusing to give her tormentors the satisfaction of limping.

      
Fatima had abandoned her attempts to have Beth properly groomed. She wondered if Kasseim had ordered his mother to desist, preferring the way she looked when she removed her caftan—that is, if he could remember anything at all from their first night together. What will I do if he sends for me again tonight? she thought as she stripped and dived into the tepid pool. Beth had not enough opium to drug him again and if she took any more from Maya's hiding place she risked discovery. If Kasseim ever found she had put anything in his drink, she would die.

      
As she cut through the water with strong clean strokes, she could think of no way to save herself. Had fate spared her from Liam Quinn only to deliver her into the bed of another heathen stranger?
Derrick, where are you?

* * * *

      
Drum paced furiously across the quarterdeck of the American warship, cursing the sweltering heat that caused him to perspire like a common laborer, not to mention the salty humid air that had quite wilted his last fresh cravat. “No way to be presented to that colonial, no way at all,” he muttered beneath his breath.

      
If only Derrick's cork-brained scheme worked. What if the commodore refused to see him after he'd risked life and limb to get here? He had slipped from the fortified city and paid a ghastly cutthroat to row him out to the American position at the mouth of the harbor, a dangerous feat that had nearly gotten them blown out of the water before he was able to identify himself as a British subject.

      
Just then a tar motioned for Drum to follow him below-deck. Commodore Stephen Decatur was an imposing man, even for a colonial, the little dandy was forced to admit. Tall and muscular, he wore his elegant dress uniform with true dash. Wavy light brown hair faintly flecked with gray framed a handsome face whose large blue eyes were keen and penetrating as he studied the Englishman from behind a desk filled with charts and papers.

      
“Jorgensen tells me that you're here on a mission of some great urgency you can only divulge to me directly, Mr. Drummond—is it not?” Decatur said.

      
“The Honorable Alvin Francis Edward Drummond, your obedient servant, sir,” Drum replied, clicking his heels and bowing smartly.

      
“Then you'd best get on with it as I have a fleet waiting to attack Algiers at dawn if the dey refuses my terms,” the American officer said impatiently.

      
“Does the name Elizabeth Blackthorne mean anything to you, sir?”

      
Decatur's eyes narrowed. “Pray explain yourself at once, Mr. Drummond.”

      
Drum proceeded to do so.

* * * *

      
The dey sat as straight on his throne as his arthritic spine permitted, watching the big arrogant American enter his audience room. If only Kasseim were here—if only the accursed infidels had not appeared without warning scant hours ago demanding he sign a treaty that would effectively put an end to his rich Mediterranean enterprise—not to mention freeing a fortune in slaves from the
bagnos
, even a few men who labored in the palace itself!

      
Allah had indeed cursed him, he concluded as the presentation of Commodore Decatur was made. Perhaps if he stalled enough, his riders might yet locate his son. But what could Kasseim do against nine warships with their cannon trained on the city? The infidel dogs had already all but wiped out his fleet. No, he would be forced into the humiliating treaty...which would only leave the European powers sniffing the air like the greedy curs they were. All because of the Americans, Allah curse them!
 

      
He inclined his head ever so slightly, noting the mere sketch of a bow the commodore made before him. “My ministers have looked over the treaty. All is in order. I have signed it.” He motioned for his chief adviser to hand the document to Decatur.

      
“There is one more matter that must be resolved before I may sign for the United States, Your Majesty,” Decatur said, waiting as the interpreter translated, maintaining the fiction that the dey did not understand English, even though both men knew he did.

      
“And what is that?” the dey asked ingenuously.

      
“We have reviewed the listing of prisoners and find one missing person.”

      
“The
bagnos
have been searched diligently, as have all households in Algiers. Every one of your countrymen taken by our corsairs has been freed,” the dey's adviser replied indignantly.

      
“I do not speak of an American man, but a woman...the daughter of an American senator. Elizabeth Blackthorne is being held prisoner right here in your palace.”

      
A murmur went up around the crowded room as De-catur's words were translated. Algerian men bristled in outrage, and the dey's advisers circled around his throne like angry hornets. This time the old man did not bother with a translator. In thickly accented but quite serviceable English, he replied, “Our religion demands that we keep the sanctity of the harem. No woman who has been placed under protection of my household may be taken from that sanctuary. The one you speak of is now a concubine of my son Kasseim. She is dead to you.”

      
Derrick stood in the shadow of the hallway, listening to the exchange. He had left Kasseim and his friends collapsed in celebratory inebriation after the race and ridden hard to reach the city before Decatur signed the treaty. He was determined to make certain Beth was rescued, even if it meant upsetting British diplomatic relations with Algiers, but the dey's words rocked him.
The one you speak of is now a concubine of my son...

      
She had not been able to stave off the inevitable, he thought with bitter regret, all the while realizing that one more man could make little difference. He had been the first, but he had always known that he would not be the last. She had done what was necessary to survive. At least she would be free to pursue her life's dreams once again. But Derrick had not expected reality to hurt so much.

      
He watched as Decatur took a step forward, his hand on the hilt of his ceremonial sword, his expression cool and grim. The dey's Janissaries also reached for their weapons. The American was backed by several dozen heavily armed marines whose ferocity under fire had already become legend along the Barbary Coast.

      
He said, “The sanctity of your slave women be damned, Your Majesty. You will produce Miss Blackthorne or I shall dispatch my men to tear your harem apart silken sheet by silken sheet.”

      
“This is an outrage! An affront to Allah himself, may the Prophet curse you!” The cries went up from around the throne, but Decatur's words cut through the babble of protest.

      
“I will have Miss Blackthorne or by the Almighty, I shall order this city bombarded until it makes the Roman's treatment of Carthage seem merciful by comparison. You may choose, Your Majesty,” the commodore said with steel in his voice.

      
Derrick's hands rested on the pistols in his sash, praying the dey would not be so foolish as to provoke a bloodbath. The Englishman was grateful that Kasseim was not present. The young prince's pride might well have led him to act rashly.

      
The dey motioned for silence, his eyes never leaving those of his American adversary. Slumping back in his seat, he said, “Bring the wench. My son is well rid of the infidel baggage.”

      
With a huge sigh of relief, Derrick slipped his hands from his pistol butts and waited as a pair of eunuchs were dispatched to fetch Beth from the seraglio. He did not see Drum glide up to his side until the little man spoke.

      
“Done to a cow's thumb. That Yankee certainly came up to scratch. Now, we can spirit Beth to safety—”

      
“What do you mean, we?” Derrick snarled. “She'll be reunited with her countrymen. They shall see to her safety.”

      
“Ah, no, old chap. 'Fraid not. That task's been set for us...or rather you,” Drum replied with a beatific grin. “I arranged everything with the commodore.”

Chapter Thirteen

      
When the eunuchs took hold of her to drag her from the women's quarters, Beth feared she was going to her death.
This is the end of it, then.
Regret for the loss of her young life seared through her, for all the painting she had not done, for all the times she had not told her family how much she did love them in spite of her choice to live abroad, for not being able to tell Vittoria good-bye...but overshadowing everything was her regret over Derrick.

      
Derrick, whose children she would never bear, whose life she would never share. She would never again feel his hard, lean body pressed against hers, his hands caressing her, or hear his low voice teasing her. Derrick, whom she loved.

      
There was no longer any use denying the truth. In these last few moments of her earthly existence, Beth openly admitted to herself what she had been afraid to consider during the time they had spent together and the time after he had betrayed and deserted her. She would gladly have given up the life she'd built for herself in Naples in exchange for being his wife.

      
But he had not even attempted to reach her in this prison after that one mysterious note. Then the thought came unbidden—if she was being taken to her death, perhaps the same fate had already befallen him. That would explain why he had not rescued her after she did as he asked and received such painful retribution from old Fatima.

      
Perhaps we will be together again...in a better place.
She was delivered to the two grim-looking Janissaries, who held her in their steely grip as they walked swiftly through the twists and turns of the palace, taking her to her fate.