Esme moved uneasily. He was lying, of course. He’d made off with her for revenge and would, if he could, rape her for the same reason. All the while his voice would remain sweet, gentle.
“You don’t believe me.” He gave her another faintly abashed smile. “I do not believe it myself. I have been well-educated and do not believe in demons, yet I find myself behaving as though I were possessed. When you fled Tepelena, I knew if I pursued you, Ali would have me followed—yet I could not stop myself. And so they caught me and took me to Janina, where Ali’s doctors began poisoning me. By then, you see, he had learned somehow of my disloyalty. I lay upon my lonely bed, dying by inches, and saw all my hopes destroyed, because a woman had made me stupid and reckless.”
“Your vanity made you stupid,” she said. “You only wanted what you could not have—Ali’s kingdom, a woman who hates you.”
“Nay, I am merely your scapegoat. You have persuaded yourself to hate me. I shall persuade you otherwise.”
She wished he’d lose his temper, show some sign of hostility, because his gentle patience was disquieting. His soft voice was like the silken threads of a dangerous net.
He looked down. “Listen to me.” He took her hand and closed his lightly around it. “I was raised, educated for intrigue. I can make men—and women—do almost anything but see into my heart. The Almighty gave me an attractive form and intelligence. These I learned to use as tools, always with calculation. You know this of me.”
“I know it well enough.” His nearness bothered her a great deal more than it ought. He was only a man, and this was skill only, as he said, a gift for making others do as he wished. Yet Esme couldn’t help recalling the superstitions about him: that he was not quite human. The graceful fingers closed about hers disturbed her too much. She had not been able to resist Varian. It was possible she was weak-minded about men, or certain kinds of men. It was possible—nay, likely—that Ismal possessed even greater skill and fewer principles than her husband. Esme told herself she loved Varian and hated Ismal with all her heart. All the same, Ismal’s nearness, his touch, his scent…filled her with dread.
“Don’t be afraid of me,” he said, making her heart hammer.
She hastily assured herself he couldn’t read her mind. It was only her body that betrayed her: the chill clamminess of the hand he held and the hurried pace of her breathing. “If you don’t want me to be afraid, then don’t play your games,” she said.
“You want me to speak and act plain, as you do?” Ismal gave a small sigh before lifting his gaze once more to hers. “I lost that skill long ago. To live in Ali’s court is to live an endless chess game: to mislead and feign, always alert for traps ahead. Always, I played the game well, until you came to Tepelena and sickened my mind. But you shall cure me, little warrior. When we lie together, I shall be part of you and you shall be part of me. In this way, you will know me, and in time you will take pity.”
Esme drew back, but didn’t try to pull her hand away. She didn’t want to trigger a physical struggle she was all too likely to lose. “I don’t want you,” she said, “and it is monstrous to imagine I could ever pity you.”
“You don’t understand. Later, you will.”
“I understand well enough. You mean to rape me. You talk this nonsense only to amuse yourself.”
He clicked his tongue. “I abhor violence. If you wish violence, I shall give you to my crew. When they are done with you, I think you will find yourself in a more accommodating temper. Then I shall give you a second chance, perhaps a third. I am not without patience.”
Esme felt the blood draining from her face.
“It would be much simpler to accept me,” he said. “I cannot expect you to show eagerness for my embrace, but because you are stoical, I can ask that you endure.”
“Endure? Dishonor my wedding vows, cuckold my hus—”
“I am your husband, by right,” he said calmly. “I paid your bride price and was cheated. When I tried to claim you, I nearly paid with my life.”
“That is nonsense. You have the chess set. You have reclaimed this so-called bride price many, many times over.” Esme kept her voice as low and calm as his. “You are a savage, no better than Ali.”
His hand tightened about hers, and his blue eyes flashed briefly, but that was all. His control was formidable. “That may be so, for Ali made me what I am. If you want a better man, Esme, you must make me one. Before this new day is ended, I will show you how.”
Dawn did nothing so decisive as break that day. Lumberingly it rolled upon Newhaven in a heavy blanket of low clouds, a somber light slowly penetrating the blackness of night.
***
As he’d done countless times before, Jason—currently in the guise of ship’s surgeon, wearing a black wig and spectacles—scanned the vessels in the harbor. He didn’t allow himself to think, only to see and let his instincts do the rest.
He had let reason overrule his instincts at Gibraltar and wound up in Cadiz, on board the wrong ship with an irate foreign minister. The man loudly objected to having his vessel searched and thereafter accused Jason of stealing valuable government documents. The consequent complications had trapped Jason in Cadiz for more than a week, and Ismal, who’d been mere hours ahead at that point, had eluded him again.
Jason had sent word ahead to Falmouth. Thence it should have traveled England’s coast. It should, as well, have reached London by now. Unfortunately, Ismal had already obtained more than a week’s lead. In that time he might have done anything, gone anywhere. Jason swore under his breath.
The hands were making his small craft fast when he became aware of a bustle on a nearby vessel. He stared hard at the ship, a small American-made schooner. Sleek and fast, ships like this—though usually larger—had harassed British shipping to a frustrating degree during the last war with the Americans.
Jason glanced at Bajo. The Albanian’s attention was fixed on the same vessel. Before Jason could consult him, their captain approached and gestured shoreward. A naval officer was hurrying down the quay toward them.
Jason hastened from the ship to intercept him and, without a word, handed over his papers.
“Yes, sir, I’ve been expecting you,” said the officer. “Captain Nolcott, at your service. I regret I’ve no
“News for you.”
Jason indicated the vessel which had alerted his instincts. “Tell me about that little schooner,” he said.
“The Olympias?”
Bajo approached. When Jason repeated the vessel’s name, the bearlike man smiled.
“The man we seek fancies himself a descendant of the mother of Alexander,” Jason explained to Captain Nolcott. “That was her name.”
“Can’t be the same man,” the captain said. “The owner’s an Englishman named Bridgeburton, and the ship’s papers were all in order. They’re awaiting a foreign trade official they’re taking to Cadiz.”
“Bridgeburton’s body was pulled from a Venice canal a few months ago,” said Jason. While the captain gazed at him in consternation, he went on to explain that Bridgeburton was reputedly addicted to a particularly lethal combination, absinthe and wine. Since no marks were found upon the body, it was supposed he’d fallen into the canal in a state of delirium. Jason’s Venice contacts had told him of the matter because Bridgeburton had recently come under suspicion of smuggling and slave trading. They’d assumed he was Ismal’s source of weapons.
Jason didn’t tell Captain Nolcott and hadn’t told his associates in Venice that Bridgeburton had once been a friend. It was Bridgeburton who had lent Jason the money to continue the endless game of hazard long, long ago: the game Jason had scarcely remembered when he woke, violently ill, late the next day…woke to find himself owing Bridgeburton a fortune.
Jason supposed he’d get the remaining answers soon enough, no matter how much he dreaded having them.
At present, however, Captain Nolcott was awaiting instructions. Jason studied the harbor and quays. Newhaven had boasted
a thriving shipping trade early in the last century but, as the paltry collection of vessels—mostly fishing boats—sadly proclaimed, the trade had gone elsewhere. One who wished to depart with a minimum of annoyance might consider it an ideal site. It was a shorter distance from London than Dover was. Dover’s other disadvantage was the busy traffic of post chaises racing to catch the packets to Calais. Bridgeburton’s name fully settled the matter.
“The Olympias looks ready to be leaving soon,” Jason said. “If this wind holds, there’s nothing to stop her.”
“You want her taken?”
Jason was about to answer when he heard the clatter of wheels and hooves on the cobblestones. He’d no need to look toward the sound. Bajo’s countenance and hasty retreat out of sight told him all he needed to know.
Chapter Thirty-One
As the carriage was slowing, Ismal moved to sit beside Esme. “Do nothing foolish when we disembark,” he warned. “You cannot know who is in my pay and who is not. You will do as I request or prepare to satisfy the lusts of my crew. Do you understand?”
Esme looked bleakly out the window. He’d already explained sufficiently, all the way from Lewes. Besides, she understood the British well enough to see how minute were her chances of finding a sympathetic rescuer. She was dressed in boy’s clothes, and her accent was noticeably foreign, despite Jason’s efforts. No one would believe she was a lord’s wife, or any sort of lady. She bore no marks of ill usage to prove she’d been taken against her will—while Ismal possessed a heap of official-looking documents.
Any attempt to escape now promised only failure…and finding herself in the hands of Ismal’s men. He’d not offer idle threats, or futile ones. Death she could face courageously, he well knew. What he’d threatened instead thoroughly terrified her, as he must also know. As the bile rose in her throat, she cursed herself for being a coward. “I hate you,” she said.
“Shpirti im,” he whispered, “you lie to yourself.” He began removing the pins from her hair.
Esme remembered the bedroom at Mount Eden. Was it only two nights ago that Varian had taken the pins from her hair? She remembered his urgent hands upon her, inflaming her, and the aching tenderness of his words of love.
She should have heeded him. All he’d done was try to spare her discomfort while he worked to redeem himself and make a life for them both. She should have told him she loved him, believed in him, was proud of him. Now he’d learn only of her shame. That was why Ismal loosened her hair. He wanted the bystanders to notice the young red-haired woman. Eventually, Varian would be told.
She stared blindly out the window while Ismal finished his work.
“In Tepelena, you so beautifully feigned your love for me,” he said. “Now you will do so again, and those who watch will understand you leave happily with me. Did you know Englishmen are greatly aroused by the sight of a woman in trousers?” He smiled tenderly. “You will wish to keep close to me, for protection.”
Soon enough, she knew, she’d be as near as female could be to male. But she’d endure what she must until her time came. Then he’d pay.
As they alit from the carriage, Esme covertly studied her surroundings. The village of Newhaven lay about half a mile behind them. If she tried to run, she’d be caught long before she reached it. Upon the cluttered wharves she spied several possible avenues of escape as well as numerous places wherein she might be hopelessly trapped.
The nearest and most formidable dead ends, however, lived and breathed in the shape of Risto and Mehmet. Without a weapon, she had no chance at all. Still, Ismal had armed himself before they left the carriage. The pistol would be awkward at close quarters and clumsy toget in the first place. The dagger, though one stab only…and she’d cry “Murder!” But how would this crowd react?
Esme saw sailors and fishermen, mainly. Two men in naval uniforms were talking to another man who wore a beaten old tricorn and equally ancient knee breeches. He carried what looked like a surgeon’s bag.
None of those watching Ismal’s party approach the boats looked particularly friendly. On the other hand, none seemed obviously hostile. They were all staring, but then, the likes of Risto and Mehmet would not appear in this small port every day, nor yet the elegant likes of the mad but beautiful Ismal in his English garb. No matter where he went, he attracted attention.
“Didn’t I warn you’d arouse their lust?” Smiling, Ismal wrapped a protective arm about her shoulders. “You will wish them to understand you are mine.”
Esme lifted her eyes with what she hoped was an expression of adoration and forced her mouth into a besotted smile.
Ismal drew her closer and slowed their pace. “Soon you will look upon me in this way without feigning.” His mouth brushed her ear.
“So you keep telling me.” Esme’s sidelong glance took in the line of vessels ahead. Though he’d not described his ship, she discerned two reasonable possibilities. Both were very near now. There was little time.
She added sweetly, “I always thought a man assured of his skills would have no need to boast.”
He laughed. “You are trying to provoke me, I think.”
“You said I must not show my true feelings. You did not say I may not speak them, even in a whisper. Must I tell pretty lies as well as make pretty faces for you?” She gave him another infatuated look. “Once, years ago, you kissed me, and I spit the taste of you from my mouth. Do you think your lips will taste less vile to me now?”
“That may be easily settled.” He paused, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. A few feet away, Risto scowled horribly.
“Shall I kiss you before all this rabble?” Ismal asked.
Esme shrugged. “They all believe I’m your whore. Soon I shall be in truth. I’m already sick with shame. Nothing you could do would make it worse.”
Risto was beside himself with impatience. “Master!” he hissed.
Ignoring him, Ismal lazily gathered Esme into his arms. She heard Mehmet’s chuckle and Risto’s curses and raucous shouts from sailors nearby. She was aware of Ismal’s hand at the back of her neck and the warmth of his breath as his face lowered to hers. She was aware, too, as his mouth slanted sensuously over hers, that his boasts had not been idle. In spite of herself Esme was taken aback by his skill, and her lips parted without her ordering them to. He was annoyingly good at it, to confuse her at all, but it was only for a moment. Cold resolve quickly dispelled the fog in her mind.
She let her hands slide caressingly to his waist. Her heart beat fast but steady while her fingers inched toward the dagger under his cloak.
He began to draw back, and Esme’s hand paused. “This was not wise, little one,” he murmured against her lips. “I shall not be able to wait all the long day for more.”
“Curse her!” Risto snarled, moving nearer. “Half the town comes to watch. How long will you dally here?”
Even Mehmet murmured a warning, but Ismal wasn’t listening. He had turned out to be a man like other men, Esme thought grimly, as his mouth sought hers for a deeper kiss. His brain was not doing all the thinking at present. Hers, on the other hand, was fully alert. She was aware of the onlookers’ scattered cheering and vulgar advice. She felt the building heat of his kiss and the growing tension in his slim frame. Arching against him, she reached cautiously toward the dagger.
Every nerve tingling, every sense painfully acute, Esme heard the gulls’ cries, the waves’ pounding against the sea wall, and a distant pounding from the shore. Hoofbeats…hurried footsteps…new shouts among the cheers. She heard, yet it all seemed lifetimes beyond. The present was revenge…a hairsbreadth away.
She’d just touched the dagger’s hilt when Ismal’s body stiffened. In the next instant, he’d wrenched her about and the blade lay against her throat.
All the quay went very still. The bystanders came into sharp focus: ten, twenty, no, at least fifty men, and not one moved. Every eye was on the blade.
Including Varian’s.
Esme blinked, but the
vision remained.
She wanted to shake her head, to clear it. The faint scratch against her throat told her she was awake.
It was Varian who stood not twenty paces away. He held a pistol. Why the devil did he not fire it? Ismal was a full head taller than she. A babe could have put the bullet through his evil brain. Surely Varian could. Twenty paces, she thought wildly. Only dueling distance. Why did he not shoot?
“Ah, you prefer not to test your skill, my Lord Edenmont,” Ismal said amiably. “Very wise. If you wish your wife to go on living, you must also tell this rabble not to hinder me. And put your weapon down, if you please.”
Varian lowered his pistol, but didn’t drop it. “Let her go,” he said.
Ismal ignored him. “You may come out now, Sir Gerald. What strange allies you make—but you are too fat to hide behind his lordship.”
Holding his own weapon pointed downward, the baronet emerged from the crowd gathered behind Varian.
Ismal began backing toward his ship, and his bodyguards quickly moved to shield him. No one else moved. They wouldn’t, Esme thought despairingly. Ismal had let them know she was the lord’s wife. No one would risk getting her killed.
No one, however, had to get on some accursed ship with Ismal and submit body and soul to him. Esme reminded herself that hundreds of Albanian women had thrown themselves from cliffs rather than submit to their enemies. She was as brave as any of them. She’d not go with this man, not alive. Varian had come for her. She’d not leave shame behind to haunt him.
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