by Tamara Leigh
“You saw her?”
“I did. It was hidden in her vest.”
He spoke of Leila and the lethal drug he had earlier discovered missing from his closet of medicines.
“What did she put it on?” Sabine asked.
“Dates. Those on the platter the girl brings you.” Khalid jutted his chin at the servant girl who threaded her way toward them. “I will take them to Jabbar and show him Leila’s murderous deceit.”
“No. That will not stop the wedding. And even if Leila is removed, eventually, another will take her place.”
Khalid narrowed his eyes. “What do you propose, mistress?”
“Let the girl bring me the food. This night, Leila will have one small triumph.”
“Mistress, you do not intend—?”
“I am dying, Khalid. Whether it be this day or a month from now, the end is the same.”
“What of Alessandra?”
It deeply grieved her that her daughter might see her in the throes of death, but there seemed no other way. “It will serve to convince her the dangers are real, and once I am gone, she will see there is nothing for her here.”
Khalid growled low. “Nothing except the only life she has known.”
“She will go with Lucien,” Sabine said firmly. In spite of her misgivings over trusting him with Alessandra, she had come to realize their mutual attraction could be the bond that held them together until they reached England. She only prayed Alessandra would not reveal she was a Breville.
Unaware she bore death upon her arms, the girl set the platter of beautifully prepared food on the nearby table. “For your daughter and you, mistress.” She bowed, turned away.
My daughter, Sabine inwardly raged as she considered the half-dozen gleaming dates. She drew a deep breath, chose a sweetmeat instead, and carried it toward her mouth. “Does Leila watch?” she asked.
A muscle in Khalid’s jaw clenched. “Yes, mistress.”
Sabine slowly chewed the sweetmeat, slowly swallowed, more slowly considered the dates. And chose the plumpest. “I have prepared a bag for Alessandra’s journey,” she said. “You will find it beneath my dressing table.”
“I beg you, mistress”—Khalid’s voice was tight with what she knew were tears—“do not do this.”
“You have been a good friend. As promised, all except that which I give my daughter and the Englishman is yours.”
“Seif is more than capable of forcing her to go with him,” Khalid reminded her of their original plan.
Sabine rolled the sticky fruit between thumb and forefinger. “She holds her breath, does she not?”
Nostrils flaring, hands tight at his sides, Khalid glanced at where Leila reclined. “She does.”
“I wonder how long she can go without air before she faints,” Sabine mused and lifted the poisoned fruit to her lips. Holding it there, she waited for Khalid to turn his coal-black gaze upon her. When he did, she said, “Do not mourn me, old friend. At last, I shall be free of pain.”
Something warm and loving, as of deepest friendship, passed between them, then she turned her regard upon her lovely, vivacious daughter. She waited, and when she felt something akin to peace—the nearest she could come—she took her first bite of the poisoned fruit.
And so I win, Leila, she silently gloried in her triumph.
Unhurriedly, she ate the remainder of the date, and four others. “A pity she did not put poison on something else,” she said as she licked the juice from her fingers. “I have never been fond of dates.”
She lowered herself to the divan that would be her deathbed, made herself comfortable among the pillows, and folded her hands over her abdomen. “Of course, they were intended for Alessandra, were they not?” It was well known her daughter had a passion for the little fruits.
Khalid poured a goblet of honeyed lemon juice and passed it to her.
Wondering when she would feel the beginnings of death, Sabine sipped the cool liquid and reached to the platter again. “This”—she nudged the last date—“you must take to Jabbar.”
A gleam in his eyes, Khalid said, “He will feed it to Leila.”
He probably would, and that was good. Even if Lucien de Gautier failed her, an almost unthinkable event, Leila would not be given another chance to harm Alessandra.
“Will it be long, Khalid?” she asked when several minutes had passed.
“Though it is deadly, it is slow to act.”
She should have known Leila would not choose something that would deprive her of the pleasure of a slow death. “Is it painful?”
“It is, but if you do not fight it, the pain will be less.”
There was not much comfort in that, but it was good to know what to expect. Looking past the dancers, she picked out Leila’s flushed countenance.
Poor woman, she mused, she knows not whether to celebrate or lament. She has what she has ever wanted, and yet not all to which she aspired this eve.
Sabine’s wry smile slipped when she caught sight of Alessandra making her way toward her.
“It was wonderful!” her daughter exclaimed as she neared. “I do not think I shall ever forget this night.”
For a different reason, Sabine hoped she would not.
Alessandra dropped down beside her, poured herself a drink, and quickly drained the goblet.
“Why do you waste your time with me when you could be dancing?” Sabine asked, gliding a hand over her daughter’s arm. As she did so, it occurred to her this was the last time they would touch. Vision blurring, she looked away.
Alessandra, who had not felt like laughing earlier, did so now. “Even I must rest sometime, Mother.” She leaned sideways, planted a kiss on Sabine’s cheek, and reached for the last date. Only to have it snatched from beneath her fingers.
“Khalid!” she exclaimed. Never had she seen the chief eunuch take food in front of the harem women.
He smiled, a tight thing that did not reach his eyes or soften the grooves alongside his mouth.
“You are behaving most strange,” Alessandra said.
He shrugged. “I am hungry.”
She eyed the fruit. “Then why do you not eat it?”
“I would enjoy it in private.”
It did not seem as if he sported with her, and yet what other explanation was there? She stood, held out a hand. “If you are not going to eat it now, surely I ought to enjoy it?”
He crossed his arms over his chest.
It had to be a game he played. Smiling, she looked down at her mother, in the next instant crouched beside her.
“What is wrong?” she gasped, searching Sabine’s contorted face.
“I—” Her mother’s voice broke, and she lurched against the pillows, threw her head back, and wheezed.
Khalid yanked Alessandra to her feet and thrust her aside.
“What is wrong with her?” Alessandra cried.
He knelt alongside the divan and drew Sabine into his arms.
She convulsed again, rasped, “Pain!”
“Mother!” Alessandra dropped down beside Khalid. “What is happening?”
Drawing short, jerky breaths, Sabine opened her eyes. “Poison.” Her hand trembled violently as she raised it to Alessandra’s face. “I warned…”
Alessandra caught her mother’s hand and pressed it to her heart. “What do you mean?”
Sabine’s gaze flickered over the faces of those gathering around, and when they settled upon her rival, she cried, “Leila.” Then she convulsed again, snapping her head back and causing the muscles of her throat to bulge and veins to rise.
All of her trembling, Alessandra stared at Rashid’s mother whose face radiated satisfaction, then she thrust to her feet.
As if the others knew her intent, they cleared a path for her all the way to Leila. Alessandra halted before the woman. “You did this.”
Leila raised her eyebrows. “I know not what you speak of.”
Alessandra lunged, and the two fell to the floor, Leila taking the
brunt of the fall upon the hard tiles.
“Murderer!” Alessandra raked her nails down the older woman’s face and neck.
Leila retaliated with a slap that snapped her attacker’s head to the side, then caught Alessandra’s braids and wrenched them.
Physical pain nothing compared to what shredded her heart, Alessandra bunched her hands and drove them into Leila’s sides. Distantly, she heard the woman’s cries, distantly she felt herself being tugged and pulled. Then she was dragged off Leila and back against a firm chest.
“What are you doing, Alessandra?” It was Rashid.
“Release me!” she screamed, straining and thrusting her body toward Leila who struggled to her feet.
Rashid wrapped his arms tight around her. “Cease!”
She jerked her chin around and met his gaze over her shoulder. “You are not my master! Loose me!”
Shock swept the anger from his eyes. “Alessandra, what—?”
A shout of denial resounding around the room, Rashid turned her with him to see Jabbar fall to his knees beside the divan.
“No!” he shouted and dragged Sabine’s limp form out of Khalid’s arms into his own.
The bones also went out of Alessandra. If not for Rashid’s support, she would have crumpled to the floor. “Mother,” she croaked as the man whom none had ever seen shed a tear buried his face in Sabine’s hair and began to sob.
“I do not understand,” Rashid said as if to himself.
“Release me,” Alessandra demanded. “Now!”
His arms fell away.
Legs feeling as if they might collapse, she stumbled forward and sank down beside Jabbar.
As he continued to weep and deny that the woman he loved was lost to him, Alessandra pressed a palm to Sabine’s back and prayed her heart yet beat. It had to. If Jabbar would only quiet, she would feel it.
Swallowing so hard it hurt, she lifted her mother’s wrist, stopped breathing, and strained to feel life jump beneath her fingers. Nothing.
“Mother,” she choked, then dropped her chin to her chest and arms to her sides, and sank back on her heels.
Though grief demanded a greater outlet than the tears streaming her face, she sealed her lips against the sobs and howls that filled her throat so full she felt it would burst. Shaking her head, she began to rock herself back and forth.
Minutes passed. Perhaps hours.
Alessandra did not know. She knew only that her mother had been carried away and all sent from the hall, and it was into this pounding silence that someone came to her.
He lowered beside her and, with gentle murmurings, stroked her hair. She did not know him. Did not want him here. Wanted to awaken and have all be as it was, no matter how the bars of her gilded cage chafed.
Not until the one at her side tried to draw her to her feet did she lift her head. She stared at the dark-headed man and, for a moment, was comforted by the familiar face. But that comfort was quickly replaced with fear.
Here was the son of the woman who had murdered her mother. He had Leila’s heavy-lidded eyes, her mouth, and the same high forehead. He was of that one’s blood which ran so hot with jealousy only murder could cool it.
“Come.” Rashid’s eyes were deceptively kind. “I will see you to your apartment.”
She wrenched her arm from his grasp, cried, “Do not touch me!” and began to crawl away.
He gripped her shoulder. “Alessandra, it is Rashid.”
She fell onto her side. Freed from his hold, she wrapped her arms around her head and curled in on herself.
His body brushed hers where he came down beside her, and again he beseeched, “It is Rashid.”
She knew that. How she knew that! “Leave me be!”
When he tried to pull her into his arms, she lashed out, slapping and scratching while some pitiful, keening sound scored her throat and stung her ears.
She did not realize he had moved away until Khalid’s voice warmed her ear. “Mistress, put your arms around my neck. I will carry you to your bed.”
Chest convulsing with shallow breath, she peered up into his dark face. The grooves there were deeper and more numerous, and his eyes…
So much sorrow, so little light.
“My mother,” she whispered.
“She is at rest, little one. No more harm can be done her.”
“Truly?” she said on a sob.
“Is that not what your god promises?”
So He did. Still, it was little solace for one left so far behind. Desperate to be comforted by this man who deeply felt her loss, she slid her arms around his neck.
When he lifted her, she pressed her face into his shoulder so she would not have to look upon that other one—he who was born of a murderess.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Surfacing from a sleep she did wish to awaken from, Alessandra heard her name called and felt warm fingers slide over her arm. She groaned, rolled onto her stomach, and buried her face in a pillow.
“Alessandra!” The voice was more insistent, then she was turned and pulled up onto her knees.
Raising her head, she tried to focus on the shadowed figure who supported her. Though it was too dark to make out his features, she knew who had come to her in the night.
“Lucien! What—?”
“Quiet!”
Gripped by memories of what had happened the last time they had been caught together, she lowered her voice. “I have been terribly afeared for you. Are you in much pain?”
“No more than I am accustomed to.” His voice was gruff, impatient.
She winced. “Can you ever forgive me?”
At his hesitation, her distress trebled. But then he lowered his head and pressed a kiss to her lips. “Now—”
“Ah, Lucien.” She leaned against him and slid her arms around his neck. “I so like the feel of you.” Her mother had guessed right. She did have feelings for him—things she did not feel for Rashid. Smiling, she touched her mouth to the exposed skin above the neck of his caftan.
“Alessandra—”
“I had the most frightening dream,” she said as images filtered into her consciousness—a woman gasping for breath, the evil eyes of another.
Having no desire to dwell on perverse imaginings of the mind, for that was all they were, she shook her head to clear it. And awakened a bit more.
She frowned. “Why are you here? If you are caught—”
“We must hurry.” He pulled her hands from around his neck.
She tried again to make out his features but caught only the glitter of his eyes. “I do not understand.”
He lifted her from the divan and set her feet to the floor. “We are leaving this night.” He turned toward the open window through which he must have entered her apartment. “We have no time to waste.”
Suspicions sprang upon Alessandra. Her mother’s determination to see her taken to England. The long search for a new eunuch. The purchase of an Englishman unsuited to harem life. The possibility he might not be a eunuch at all.
She closed her eyes. Was this her mother’s doing? It had to be, meaning Lucien was not a eunuch in any sense. He was a man paid to play the part and whose true purpose was to steal her from the only life she had known. His touch and kisses had meant nothing to him other than a means of gaining her trust.
“Ah, nay,” she lamented.
He grasped her arm and began pulling her toward the window.
She wrenched free. “I have been tricked!”
“God’s teeth!” Lucien reached for her again.
She evaded him and retreated to the far side of the room beside her dressing table. “It is my mother’s bidding you do,” she said.
He strode toward her. “I will explain it all later.”
“There will be no later.” She fumbled for something with which to strike him and her hand closed over her brush. “Do you come nearer, I will scream!”
Continuing toward her, he said, “And be responsible for my death?”
S
he waged a battle between preservation and conscience. She could not allow him to take her from here, but neither could she sentence him to death. “Go, Lucien,” she pleaded. “Take your freedom and leave me.”
“I am not going without you. You are leaving this night, even if it is over my shoulder.”
She swept her pitiful excuse of a weapon before her. “Then that is how you must take me.”
He lunged and caught her arm.
Alessandra twisted around, raised her free arm above her head, and brought the handle of the brush down upon his skull.
He grunted and snatched the brush from her.
“I will not go with you!” she cried. “I will not leave my mother!”
His arms crushed her to his chest. “Alessandra.” Though his voice was harsh, she thought she heard a ring of regret. “It was no dream. Your mother is gone. She is dead.”
If not that he held her so near, she would have sworn he had punched her in the chest, for his words stole her breath.
“There is no longer any reason for you to remain here,” he continued.
Memories rushed at her, too vivid to be dreams, but she shook her head. “You lie, Lucien de Gautier. It was a dream!”
“Leila poisoned your mother. Do you not remember attacking her?”
Well she remembered it, and though she tried to back her mind away from it, the memory clung like disease. Too real to be a dream.
“How would I know your dream if that is all it was, Alessandra?”
He could not. Still, she asked in a small voice, “My mother is dead?”
“She is. I am sorry.”
Feeling grief tighten her chest, she turned from wrenching sorrow in favor of the less painful emotion of hatred. “I will see Leila dead.”
“Her punishment will be just, Alessandra. Now we must leave.”
“Not until my own eyes have witnessed she suffers the same fate as my mother.”
He growled, swung her into his arms, and strode toward the window.
Alessandra renewed her struggles, punching, kicking, and bucking, holding back only her voice lest he once more bend—quite possibly die—to the bastinado.
Lucien hated what she forced him to do, something he had never done to a woman. He dropped her to her feet, and holding her with one hand, raised the other. “One day you will thank me for this,” he said and landed a fist to her jaw.