“Oui, to what must be said.” Bryna finally met his gaze. Father and daughter regarded each other silently for a moment over their glasses, then awkwardly each looked away.
At last Blaine cleared his throat nervously and said, “There is so much I want to tell you, Bryna.”
“Please just tell me this. Why didn’t you ever come back for me?”
Blaine nearly choked on his wine at the abruptness of the question, but he managed to swallow and draw a deep, steadying breath. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “I had no way to keep you with me. I did what I thought best.”
“By trying to foist me off on my grandpère?” she countered bitterly. “That loving gentleman didn’t want me, either.”
“‘Twas his loss. Mine was that I wanted you with me and I couldn’t have you.”
“You wanted me so much, you left me at the orphanage thinking no one cared for me but the sisters.”
The big man looked pained, but he said nothing in his defense. Encompassed by anger right now, she would not hear his explanation. He only hoped that when the time was right, the wish he expressed in his toast would be granted. Then they would say what must be said. Then and only then could respect and trust and even love grow between them.
Concentrating on the glass she clutched so tightly that her knuckles were white, Bryna did not see the turmoil in Blaine’s face. “All these years...” she whispered harshly.
“I am sorry, lass,” he responded gently, wishing she would look at him. “I always planned to send for you, but I had to do what I thought best for you, the daughter Catherine had borne me.
“I never should have left your mother, Bryna. She was beautiful and so delicate. But I had already accepted my last commission, the one that would pay for a home of our own. Besides, even mercenaries have a code of honor. I was obligated to do my duty—or what I considered my duty—one last time.
“When the news of her death reached me, I...I went a little mad for a time. I volunteered for every foolhardy mission. When I was not trying to kill myself in battle, I was drinking, wenching, trying to forget.”
“But you could not forget?” While she listened, Bryna’s hand rose involuntarily to caress the locket she wore.
“Never.” Blaine shook his head firmly. “When I finally came to my senses, I knew I still could not send for you. What would I have done with a wee one? Hauled you from camp to camp? Placed you in the care of camp followers each time I went into battle, praying I would return? You were better off with the sisters.
“I gave up soldiering then and became involved in setting up trade routes to the East. When I began to prosper as a merchant, I did send for you.”
“You did?” Guarded but willing to believe, Bryna watched her father.
“Aye, but Mother Veronique convinced me that my life was still too unsettled to bring up a child.
“Now wait—” he cautioned when the girl’s mouth dropped open in surprise, “—I’ll not hear any angry words about that fine lady. She was right. ‘Twouldn’t have been fair to drag you halfway around the world and hand you over to a native nurse. You see, I could not remarry, for I’ve compared every woman to Cathy.”
“So you and Mother Veronique decided that if I did not have a mother, I could not have a father, either?” Bryna muttered rebelliously.
“Bryna Jean-Marie O’Toole, look at me,” Blaine ordered quietly, rising to stand before her,
Unwillingly she obeyed and was surprised to see tenderness and entreaty in his blue eyes. “You do have a father,” he informed her gently, “though not a very good one. I realized recently that you would soon be a woman full grown and I had never known you. I’ve never told you that I love you. I’ve never asked you to forgive me.”
“To forgive you?” she repeated warily.
“Yes.” Silently Blaine awaited his daughter’s judgment.
Bryna sat very still, her gaze fixed on the night beyond the terrace doors. At last she sighed and shook her head as if to clear it. “Next to pride and patience, Sister Françoise’s favorite subject was forgiveness.”
Blaine exhaled in a rush, realizing for the first time that he had been holding his breath. Taking her hands in his, he pulled her from her chair and asked urgently, “Then you’ll forgive me, petite maîtresse?”
“I will try to forgive you, but I warn you, I do not know if I can forget.”
“‘Tis not much time, but you have six weeks to find out.” He grinned weakly when she stared at him with shock. “That is how long you have given me, isn’t it, ‘til your eighteenth birthday?”
“Another of Mother Veronique’s letters?” she asked ruefully.
“Aye.”
“Six weeks may be enough, but it could take longer. We shall see.” Unexpectedly her lips curved in a smile. “I wouldn’t want to make it too easy for you, Blaine O’Toole.”
He swooped suddenly and planted a kiss on top of her head. “Daughter, you’re a woman after my own heart. Take as long as you like, chère, take as long as you like.”
CHAPTER 4
The heat of the day was not quite over when Bryna wandered through the empty rooms of Blaine’s luxurious home, the skirt of her pink cotton dress swaying, her bare feet slapping softly on the cool tile floor. Enervated by the heat of Tangier, the girl understood the native custom of kef, rest during the afternoon, but she couldn’t sleep. While the teeming city was quiet, she roamed the deserted house.
Accustomed to being surrounded by people at Hotel Ste. Anne, she was oddly unsettled by her solitude. Here, even the servants napped in the afternoon. Morocco and its customs still felt so alien to her, she wondered if she would ever be at ease.
At last she padded out into the tiny walled garden below the house, burning her feet on the sunbaked steps. She found a shady spot under a tree and plopped down with a mighty sigh, uncaring that she was soiling her skirt. She leaned her head against the puny tree trunk and closed her eyes.
Suddenly it occurred to her that she missed Blaine. She had seen him off on a business trip at dawn that very morning, but already she missed him. She would not have believed it five days ago.
After a while—she did not know how long—Bryna became aware of the sun, scorchingly hot through the fabric of her skirt. Swatting drowsily at an insect that droned around her face, she opened her eyes to discover the lower half of her body was no longer in the shadow of the tree. She must have dozed off. Shifting to take advantage of the shade that was left, the girl lethargically contemplated going inside.
Yusef appeared on the steps to the terrace and frowned at her. His skimpy gray hair was disarranged so his bald pate showed through, and his clothes were rumpled. Obviously his kef had been disturbed.
“There is a gentleman to see you in the library,” he announced. Disapproval dripped from every syllable.
“A gentleman?” Bryna sat up in surprise. “I know no one in Tangier. Are you sure he does not wish to see my father?”
“Non, mademoiselle, he insists he must see you right away. I told him you were resting, but he is Inglayzi—an Englishman—and he would not understand.”
Brushing the dirt from her skirt, the girl followed the disgruntled servant to the house. As her feet met the cool tile floor, she remembered that she wore no shoes, but before she could retreat, Derek Ashburn, handsome in an elegant new suit, was at her side.
“Bryna, I was afraid you would not see me,” he greeted her, pressing his lips fervently to her hand.
“What are you doing here, Derek?” she asked, shocked beyond polite conversation. Shaking with sudden anger, she yanked her hand from his. He could hardly think he was welcome after the things he had said to her on the Mab. But miserably she realized her fury was directed at herself as much as at him. She had told herself a hundred times in the past five days that she hated the arrogant young Englishman. Yet now that he was here, as attractive in his civilian clothing as he had been in his scarlet uniform, she felt nothing but confusion and an unwanted
attraction.
“I came to see you, of course.” Seemingly unfazed, Derek bestowed a winning smile upon her. “I’ve been so wrong, my darling. Will you forgive me?”
“I’m sorry you made such a long trip in vain, Monsieur Ashburn.” She swept past him haughtily, displaying more composure than she felt. “I do not think we have anything to say to each other.”
“Please, Bryna, just listen to me for a moment.” Derek followed her. Her back to him, the girl did not see the flicker of triumph in his hazel eyes when she halted, torn by her emotions.
Taking her by the arm, he gently turned her to face him and lifted her chin until her unwilling eyes met his. A rueful smile on his handsome face, he argued almost teasingly, “You must forgive me, you see. I cannot bear it if you will not.”
“Derek. I do not—”
He shook his head as if discouraging a pampered child from an ill-advised deed. Then, placing a finger to her lips to silence her, he coaxed, “Come and sit down so we can talk.”
“All right,” Bryna agreed reluctantly, hating herself as she allowed him to lead her to a chair. She sat with her head bent, her eyes fixed on her hands clasped in her lap and her feet tucked beneath her skirt.
Kneeling on the floor beside her, the man addressed her earnestly. “Since you left me that night on the boat, my love, I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind. I’ve been in Gibraltar for the past five days trying to work up my courage to come here and apologize for the terrible things I said. You surely know I did not mean them.
“I was afraid of losing my freedom, you see,” he explained with just the right amount of amused disbelief in his voice. “Now I know what an idiot I’ve been. Now I know I want to spend my life with you. I plan to resign my commission and I want to take you with me—as my wife—when I return to England.”
He paused, staring at her profile, inviting a response. When she didn’t answer, he placed a hand on her shoulder and continued doggedly, “Did you hear what I said, my love? I want to marry you. I intend to ask your father for your hand.”
“That night on the Mab, you were not willing to wed me or even to court me,” she answered, staring straight ahead. “Isn’t that what you said? You told me I was not the kind of wife you needed. What were your words? Let me see if I can remember—”
“Forget what I said that night. Forget what a fool I’ve been.” Derek’s hand tightened on her shoulder and he said urgently, “Bryna, I’m telling you I love you.”
The face she turned to him was dismayed. Derek claimed he loved her, now that it was too late. How could it be true after the cruel things he’d said? She couldn’t deny she’d felt a thrill of attraction when she found him here in the library today, but was that love?
“Say you will marry me, Bryna,” he pressed.
“I cannot, Derek.” The girl’s gaze returned to her hands, and her voice was not above a whisper.
She was refusing him? A look of disbelief flitted across Derek’s handsome face before he schooled his expression. “Will you always hate me?” he asked, downcast. His grip on her shoulder loosened, and his hand dropped to hang dejectedly at his side.
“I don’t hate you.” She sighed ruefully.
“You mean there is hope?” he crowed, his countenance brightening. “Then I will call on you. I’ll call every day until I win you over. I’ll make you love me, Bryna,”
“I don’t know what to say.” Bryna rose and walked to the doors to look out over the garden.
“Say you love me, too.” She heard him rise and step toward her. “You know you care for me. Remember all those moonlit nights on the Mab?”
“Derek...” When Bryna turned, she found him standing very close. He made no move toward her, but he was so near she could feel his warmth. Almost shyly she looked into his hazel eyes and was assailed by memories of being held in his arms. Her heart pounded and her breath was short. “I...I do not know what I feel.”
“I have overwhelmed you, haven’t I, sweetheart?” Derek’s voice was low and amused. “I don’t think I ever realized how small and fragile you are. Why, you only reach my shoulder! And you’re even more beautiful than I remembered. I was a fool to let you go,” he said fervently, convincing himself as thoroughly as the girl.
“I shouldn’t have been so vehement, darling, but I had to tell you how I feel. I’ll go now, but I’ll return tomorrow and the next day and the next, until you admit that you love me as much as I love you.”
“Please, Derek—” she began to object.
“No, my darling, I will do what I must.” Drawing Bryna into his arms, he kissed her tenderly, chastely. But before his nearness had time to cast its spell on her, he released her. “Until tomorrow, my love.”
“Until tomorrow,” she murmured, bemused. Perched on the edge of the chair she had recently vacated, she stretched her legs out in front of her. Serious thought was vanquished when she caught sight of her toes, pink under a coating of dust, peeping from under her skirts. A mischievous grin lurked suddenly at the corners of her mouth. He had thought she was small and fragile when she was only barefoot.
Then another fanciful thought occurred to her. In bare feet, she had just entertained a proposal of marriage from the very proper Derek Ashburn. Did he need a wife with only position and influence, or must she also have shoes? The idea of an unshod Mrs. Ashburn struck the girl as very funny, and her shoulders shook with her laughter. She was grateful no one could see her fit of hilarity. The servants would probably think her mad.
She probably was mad even to consider marrying Derek, she realized, suddenly sober. Did he love her or the fact that she was now an heiress? She would give much to know whether his last five days had been spent learning about her father’s business.
Sighing deeply, she went into the dusky courtyard. What strange tricks life plays, she mused, sinking onto the stone bench beside the fountain. For years she’d thought no one loved her; now she had a father and a suitor.
She sat, lost in thought, until the call of the muezzin. Night had fallen, she realized. It was past time for dinner, and Fatima had not come for her. In fact, she had not seen any of the servants for some time. Puzzled, she listened for sounds from the house.
Suddenly Bryna’s head reeled with the pain from a brutal blow. Lights danced before her eyes, dimming as she slumped to the ground at the feet of her assailant. No one stirred in the house as the rough Arab nudged the girl with his booted foot, rolling her onto her back to be sure she still breathed. Moving unhurriedly, he sliced a piece of fabric from her pink skirt and secured it to the outside of the gate with a small ornate dagger.
“Let there be no doubt,” the man muttered grimly. “O’Toole must know Gasim Al Auf has taken his daughter and understand the reason.” Flinging the girl’s limp body over his shoulder, he stole into the night.
* * *
The injured girl lay very still, not daring to stir. Clenching her teeth, she steeled herself against another wave of bitter bile that burned the back of her throat. She swallowed hard and willed herself not to retch. Moving her head slightly, she gasped as an excruciating pain exploded behind her closed eyes. Lights flickered inside her lids again, now bright and red-tinged.
“She’s coming around, I think,” Bryna heard a female voice exclaim excitedly. The cultured English accent of the speaker cut through a discordant rise and fall of otherworldly wails whirling around her pounding head.
She opened her eyes and blearily surveyed the murky darkness of a tiny, windowless room. Groggily she focused on the fragile, blond-haired girl who leaned over her.
“I say, are you all right?” the British girl asked anxiously.
“I think so,” Bryna answered hoarsely in English, stirring tentatively on the blanket that shielded her from the hard-packed dirt floor.
“We’ve been ever so worried about you. You’ve scarcely stirred since they brought you in last night.”
“Last night? Where am I?” Bryna attempted to sit up but succ
eeded only in jostling her throbbing head.
“Slowly, dear, you’ve quite a goose egg,” the other girl warned, pressing her reluctant patient back on a filthy pillow.
“Who are you?” Bryna asked curiously. Her nurse was young and obviously a gentlewoman, though her patrician face was streaked with dirt and her hair matted and dirty.
“I am Pamela Hampton-White,” the girl responded, graciously offering her hand. “And like you, I am a captive of the slave trader Nejm Al Anwar.”
“A slave trader?” Wincing, Bryna lifted herself onto one elbow. “Where are we?”
“We are still in Tangier, but I do not know for how long.” Pamela’s chin quivered, but she continued bravely, “We are, all of us, to be sold into bondage. Even those poor wretches from among his own people.” She gestured toward the opposite corner of the filthy room.
Bryna peered through the gloom, where she discerned a huddle of black-clad Arab women who clung to each other, a tragic chorus that lamented its fate loudly. Their voices rose and ebbed, echoing off the high-domed ceiling of the minuscule chamber.
“We cannot be sold into slavery,” Bryna muttered disbelievingly.
“Of course we can,” a contemptuous voice disagreed from nearby. “This is Morocco.”
“May I present Condesa Theresa Delgado, a noblewoman of Spain.” Pamela directed the newcomer’s attention to the source of the voice. Bryna twisted gingerly on her pallet to see another woman in European dress, sitting behind her with her back to the clay brick wall. Theresa nodded disdainfully, her demeanor haughty even under these adverse conditions.
“Theresa was captured by pirates.”
‘“They had the audacity to attack my father’s yacht,” the Spanish girl fumed. “The Conde Tomas Ramone Fernando Delgado, the most powerful man in Ceuta.” The nostrils of her aquiline nose flared with indignation.
‘‘Yes, yes, Theresa,” Pamela interrupted soothingly, having heard the story a dozen times. “May I introduce...” She faltered. “I am sorry, what is your name?”
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