Silver Angel Page 4

  "You have strange ways here."

  "Strange to you, yes, but you'll get used to them. All things become natural after a while."

  The Earl remained behind in the little parlor after Ali was led away by Walmsley. He sat behind the desk, staring thoughtfully at the letter lying open before him. Three short sentences in a bold Turkish scrawl, easy to read, since Turkish was as familiar to him as Arabic and French. In fact, English had been the last language he had learned, though he spoke it now as if he had been born to it.

  His first reaction on reading the letter had been relief. No one had died. But after what Ali had told him, he had to admit: Not yet.

  Three short sentences:

  I offer greetings. Need I say more? You are remembered.

  A child's code, designed by boys who liked to confound their teachers and servants. He remembered fondly the time he had read an essay aloud and no one had understood why Jamil found it so funny. But Jamil had heard the code, and the message only for him: I would rather be eating pomegranates and spying on the Dey. What about you?

  This message was much shorter. Three sentences, three words, the three first words of each sentence. I need you. Of course Derek couldn't ignore such a message. There had been letters through the years, but sent through normal channels. This one had cost lives. This was no simple letter. I need you. Derek would go.

  He should have gone two months ago, when Marshall had asked him to, but that had been for a different reason, one that hadn't been important enough to make him postpone his wedding, or break his word to his grandfather. Locating and ransoming some English girl, known to be in Barikah, was nothing to him. She had already been in captivity for three months, so it was highly unlikely that she was still a virgin, and thus he could see no need to intervene.

  It was the English consul's job to handle the ransoming of slaves. It would just take a little longer for the consul to free the girl, if she could be freed. Few women were, at least pretty women, and Marshall had assured him the girl was pretty. She was also related to some powerful nobleman, which was why Marshall had become involved. But it still meant nothing to Derek. Only now that he was going to Barikah, he might as well agree to rescue the girl. That way, he could question Marshall about what was going on in Barikah without revealing why he wanted to know.

  Kismet. This was meant to happen, at this time, in this way. It was the Muslim philosophy, on which he was raised. After nearly nineteen years in England, he was meant to go home. Why, he wouldn't know until it was over.

  Chapter Five

  Beneath the woolen blanket, Chantelle lay shivering. It was a condition she had no control over, and it wouldn't stop. Her hair had dried hours ago. The cabin was warm. It was her fear that was causing the trembling, and twice had made her sick to her stomach.

  Dear God, she had come so close to escaping the corsairs. Her feet had actually touched bottom when the small boat bumped into her, pushing her under the water. When she came up for air, hands immediately hauled her inside the boat, and she knew she wouldn't get another chance to escape.

  She was brought back to the ship, carried back into this cabin. Only this time two men had stayed to see her stripped down to nothing. Too exhausted from her bid for freedom, she had been unable to stop them. But they hadn't touched her otherwise. They had left her alone in the dark cabin, taking her wet clothes with them. She had eventually found the pillows and fur rug she remembered seeing from before, and the blanket to cover herself with. She had crawled into a tight ball, and die shivering had begun as she wondered what would happen next, afraid she knew.

  She didn't sleep, terrified of being caught by surprise. Morning came, and with it light from one small window, and still she was left alone. She would rather have gotten it over with, whatever they would do to her next, than to lie here thinking about it. She was certain she would be raped by the crew, certain that if she survived that, she would then be sold into slavery. Both prospects were so inconceivable that she couldn't bear thinking of them, and so there was just the fear of being hurt and abused.

  Several times she wondered what had happened to the little man who had spoken to her before. Why didn't he come again? Any communication at all would have been a relief. But perhaps it was standard procedure to let captives suffer the agonies of the unknown to wear them down. Fear was debilitating. Yet he had spoken to her before. He had said she wouldn't be harmed. But what exactly to a corsair constituted harm?

  God, if only she didn't know what they were. If only her tutors hadn't thought to include world history and affairs in her studies. But the Ottoman Turks, who for hundreds of years had been intruding on Christian Europe, were known to her, as were the Barbary States, members of the Turkish empire, and the Barbary corsairs, pirates of the Mediterranean. They raided foreign coasts, they attacked foreign ships, they killed or sold all Christian captives into slavery without exception. So what would such men consider harm to a woman? Certainly not what she would reckon as harm.

  When the door finally opened later that morning, it wasn't to admit the sailor Chantelle had spoken with. Four men entered, two bare-chested, one tall, thin man in a long white robe, and one more impressive fellow in a bright silk jacket over loose Turkish pants. All wore turbans. All were sharp-featured, though light-skinned. Only the one in the white robe didn't have a long, curved sword attached to his belt.

  Chantelle sat up immediately, but she didn't try to rise with only the blanket to cover her. She held it up to her chin, cowering back against the wall. Trapped in the small room, eyes huge with fear, skin translucent without color, she didn't realize that she stunned them, especially the captain, who was having his first look at her in good light. Eyes like hers were unknown to them. And the hair, silver blond, with a lock falling over the blanket to reveal its glorious hip length, was prized in the East. Circassians were known to have blond hair, but sailors weren't likely to ever see it, and these hadn't. Her face was exquisite. If she had a body to match, she would be worth a fortune. If she was also a virgin, her price could increase tenfold.

  It was precisely the latter that Rais Mehmed had come to judge, for her comfort on the voyage depended on her worth. Then, too, if she wasn't a virgin, there was no point in denying himself or his crew the use of her body for the long trip home. Most of his crew were sodomites, but only by necessity. A woman aboard was a blessing—if she wasn't a virgin. Mehmed began to hope she wasn't.

  "She is terrified, Rais," the white eunuch said quietly by his side. "Shouldn't you get Hakeem in here to tell her this is just a simple procedure?"

  Mehmed shook his head without taking his eyes off the girl. "He must become her friend if he is to help her to adjust. The more he can teach her of her new life, the more malleable she will be, and so the more valuable. If he were here now, even to explain, she would never trust him later, never be willing to learn from him.''

  "Then get it over with, before she faints."

  Chantelle didn't faint. She screamed, piercingly, until a cloth was stuffed in her mouth to muffle the sound. And she fought, wildly but uselessly. Her blanket was used against her, trapping her arms beneath it as she was pushed down onto her back, the man in the silk jacket lying across her upper body, pinning her to the floor. She kicked, regardless that this dislodged the blanket from her legs, but in seconds, each foot was caught by a different man, and her legs were spread wide and held down with a hand pressed against each knee and ankle to keep them straight and still.

  Her eyes were wild with horror, expecting the worst. She couldn't see past the broad chest of Silk Jacket, who lay on her sideways, his hands on her shoulders, his heavy side gouging her stomach. She didn't know that the sailors holding her feet had been ordered not to look at her, that White Robe was a eunuch who couldn't have raped her if he wanted to, that he did this to all female captives. She could only feel what was happening, the shock of something pressing between her legs, being inserted into her body, probing painfully, then withdrawing. She tho
ught she had been raped. She didn't know she had just passed the test that would save her from it, at least while she was on the ship.

  The blanket was pulled down over her legs, alerting her that apparently only one man was to violate her for now. Words were exchanged, and her legs were released. She didn't try to move them. Depression was already setting in. She had feared the worst and the worst had happened. Nothing else mattered at the moment.

  The two bare-chested sailors left the room before Silk Jacket removed his bulk from her. She didn't care that he pulled her up with him. But she did snap out of her shock when he snatched her blanket away.

  She reached for it, only to drop her hands instinctively to cover herself instead.

  It was the final humiliation, to be deprived of her dignity in this manner. They were animals, and she told them so, though they ignored her words, not understanding them. Her contempt and outrage were more easily understood, however.

  "By the prophet's beard, she's magnificent," Rais Mehmed got out, though he suddenly seemed breathless. Never in his life had he seen a woman like this.

  "She does have spirit," the eunuch allowed.

  "Such curves—"

  "She could be plumper."

  "I wouldn't change a thing."

  "Your tastes are not the usual," the eunuch reminded him. "Nor is she for you. But Hamid Sharif will be pleased."

  Mehmed grunted, for the merchant Hamid Sharif, owner of their ship, already had four wives who nagged him to distraction. "He would rather have the profit, which will put more coins in our pockets. He might even be able to tempt the Dey with this one, though it has been a long while since he has bought any new women for his harem."

  "It is not for us to be concerned with whoever eventually buys her, Rais. It is for you to see she is delivered to Hamid Sharif in good condition."

  With that he handed the blanket back to the girl, offering her an apologetic smile. Mehmed laughed to see her take the blanket, cover herself with it, then spit at the eunuch's feet.

  Chapter Six

  Caroline Douglas reined in the high-stepping mare and waited for Derek to catch up with her. She hadn't expected him to call this afternoon, or to suggest they ride out when he learned her father had guests. But she hadn't been caught unprepared. This was her chance to wear her new riding habit of dark navy wool, with a light blue satin waistcoat cut like a man's. The masculine style of the outfit, made by a man's tailor, was quite fashionable, and she knew she looked particularly fetching in these colors with her red hair. At least Derek thought so, since he said as much.

  Under the brim of her tall hat, she watched him approach, admiring his handling of the half-trained stallion he rode. Raising Thoroughbreds was just a hobby to him, yet his stable produced some of the finest horseflesh in England, many of which were champion racers. Her own mare had been a gift from him when he asked her to marry him. She loved the animal. She loved Derek. She sighed, wondering for the hundredth time if it wasn't a mistake to marry one's best friend.

  No, she had to stop it. She had already jilted two men, to her father's vast displeasure. She couldn't do it again, and certainly not to Derek Sinclair, Earl of Mulbury. She wanted to marry him, she really did.

  She couldn't think of a more perfect union. They had grown up together on neighboring estates. They knew each other so well. Her father looked on him as a second son. And then there were the incidental things, such as his charm, his handsomeness, his gentle nature. Of course he was a sensualist, but she couldn't really fault that, not when his kisses made her feel like she was the most cherished, beloved woman in the world. The trouble was, she was afraid he made every woman feel that way, and he had had so many women, so many women at the same time.

  He used to tell her about each and every conquest, just as she had told him about her first infatuation and each subsequent one. As far as that went, they had no secrets. He had sworn to make her happy. She believed he could. She knew he had given up his mistresses when he proposed to her, and that included half the maids in his grandfather's house. It wasn't that she didn't think he could be faithful to her. So what was it that made her keep having these doubts?

  Bride's jitters, no more. She had suffered them twice before as the wedding date approached, and it was no wonder. Decisions came hard for her because she rarely had to make any for herself. She didn't have the confidence to be certain of her choice when she did make one. It had always been so. One of the things that drew her to Derek was that he gave of himself, his own confidence, his strength. When he made a friend, it was for life, as if that person belonged to him. Maybe that was what was wrong. She felt she had always belonged to him. She couldn't imagine her life without him in it. Was that why she had said yes, so there would be no chance of her ever losing his friendship?

  No. she loved him, always had. Well, not always. He had taken getting used to when he first came to England. She had been only six years old. He had been almost eleven. He spoke French, acted in strange ways. She hadn't been taught French yet, so their communication was limited, but only for a short while, for he learned to speak English with amazing speed. He had been raised in some Near Eastern country where his father was an ambassador. The Marquis's daughter, Melanie, had married the fellow while abroad and in all those years had not returned to England. But both Derek's parents had died when he was ten, and so he had been sent to live with his grandfather, who had immediately had Derek's name changed to Sinclair since, as the last male of the line, he was the Marquis's only heir.

  She remembered Derek's condescension that first year of his arrival, his air of superiority. He had acted like he was a bloody king and everyone else was there just to do his bidding. God, how she had hated him at first. But it hadn't taken him long to readjust his attitude, or to win her over. He had a way with females that was impossible to resist. Soon she adored him, never questioning that her best friend should be a male instead of a female. And even after nearly nineteen years, he was still her closest friend though she knew he had other friends, male friends, with whom he was just as close.

  Lord Fielding was one, that scoundrel who had led Derek into a pastime of spying. Pastime indeed, but that was all it was to Derek, who thought it a lark, a bit of excitement, never considering the danger, while the Marquis, and she, too, was terrified each time he crossed over to France, wondering if this time he would be caught and executed. Finally the Marquis had convinced Derek to stop taking risks with his life. The poor man was rightfully afraid that Derek wouldn't live long enough to carry on the line. So he was to get married, at the Marquis's insistence, and his natural choice, the way he had told it when he proposed, had been her. And she had been so terribly flattered. He knew so many women, yet he had chosen her to settle down with.

  "Wool-gathering, Caro?"

  She glanced down to see that he had dismounted and was holding out his arms to her. She smiled, putting her hands to his shoulders, feeling his sure grip on her waist, the warmth of his fingers. And he didn't let go immediately when her feet touched the ground. Unlike most men, he had the ability to communicate his affection through the senses. It was an endearing quality, because he did it unconsciously, touching a shoulder, a waist, an arm, fingers smoothing over skin. He didn't know what these innocent contacts could do to a woman. Or maybe he did. It was part of his potent sensuality.

  She laughed away his question now, unwilling to admit he was so much in her thoughts. "I was thinking of my garden, and moving the rose bushes—"

  He pulled her closer. "Little liar."

  Caroline grinned up at him, and it was a very long way up, for she was a small woman, and he towered more than a foot above her. "Very well, I was thinking you have very feminine eyelashes."

  "Good God, woman, if that was to be a compliment, you failed."

  "But they make you very handsome, Derek," she insisted, mischief lighting her gray eyes.

  'And if all you have to spout is nonsense, I can think of a better way to spend our time."
>
  "Oh, no." She moved quickly away from him, for once he started kissing her, every other consideration disappeared. "You brought me out here for a reason, so let's hear what couldn't be said in front of my father."

  "I have ravishment in mind, little one."

  Caroline snorted. "Not bloody likely. If I were going to be ravished by you before the wedding, it would have been done months ago. Now, out with it."

  He caught her hand and began walking her through the meadow of wildflowers. "How much of a fuss will be caused if we postpone the wedding?"

  She stopped, making him face her. "What's happened?"

  "I have to leave England for a while."

  "That cad! That scoundrel!" she exploded. "He's done it again, hasn't he?"

  "Who?" Derek asked in all innocence.

  "You know very well who! Lord Fielding! And after you promised your grandfather you wouldn't get involved in any more of his nasty adventures."

  "Marsh didn't . . . well, actually—" He stopped, grinning. "Scoundrel, Caro? Cad? I thought you liked Marshall."