Lady Of Fire AKA Pagan Bride

by Tamara Leigh

  He would.

  Curse him for the power he wields over me! she silently raged. Curse him for being the one born a man! Though never had she desired to be other than that which she had been born, there seemed no advantage to being a female.

  “Will you contain yourself?” Lucien asked.

  Teeth clenched, she nodded.

  He removed his hand from her mouth and began to work the rope’s knot.

  Once freed, she hastened to stand with her back to him before the cave opening. “Knave,” she muttered. “Cur. Blackguard.”

  A moment later, he pushed her back against the rock wall and pinned her with his body. “Always you push,” he ground out. “What do you hope to gain? You think I will throw my hands up and allow you to return to Algiers?”

  She glared at him. “I do not understand why you do not!”

  “Certes, I am tempted, but I gave my word I would get you to England, and I shall.”

  Mention of Sabine caused Alessandra’s emotions to shift toward sorrow, a place she was constantly sidestepping for how vulnerable it made her. Struggling to return to anger, she put her chin higher. But that small, defiant gesture was not enough to prevent her lower lip from trembling. As she pressed it tight with the upper, the movement drew Lucien’s gaze.

  It did not appear to be desire with which he regarded her mouth, but concern. He drew back a space and slid a thumb beneath her lip. “You are quite the fury, Alessandra. See what you have done to your mouth.”

  She knew, had felt the abrasions and subsequent swelling inflicted by the rope’s rough fibers as she had tried to gnaw her way free.

  “I would not think it would bother you,” she said.

  “It should not,” he said and bent near.

  She jerked, thinking he intended to kiss her. He did, but not her mouth.

  He pressed his lips alongside her ear. “But it does trouble me,” he said softly.

  She shuddered, more from his warm breath in her ear than the touch of his lips. It felt too wonderful to allow it to go any further. And yet she could not summon the words to demand her release.

  He has made himself your enemy, she reminded herself. He tied you up like an animal! Fight him!

  “It is more than my word that makes me hold to you, Alessandra,” he murmured, his breath once more shooting sensation through her. “Despite who begot you, despite how you madden and anger me, I want you.”

  Rashid wanted her, too, would have wed her to have her. Not Lucien de Gautier. He would bed her, and that was all. No words of love would he speak and, afterward, he would force her onto a ship bound for England, tearing her from all she knew. And revenge.

  Catching hold of the anger that had consumed her during her struggle with the ropes, she said, “Why do you not force yourself upon me? Is that not what a De Gautier would do?”

  She felt him tense, but he did not release her as she thought her slander might cause him to do.

  He lifted his head. “You do not know the De Gautiers, and you certainly do not know me. I have never been and will never be one to force myself on a woman.”

  Even his breath fluttering across her stinging, scraped lips made her more aware of her body than she had ever been. “Good. Then you will never have me.” No sooner was it said than a thought struck her, a shameful one of the ilk she strove to think through before speaking. “Were I to give myself to you, would you release me?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Do you place such little value on your virtue that you would bargain it away?”

  From the heat rising up her neck, she knew her face was destined for a shade of red. However, her embarrassment was as much for what she had not said—she valued her virtue, but were it Lucien to whom she lost it…

  “For revenge, then?” he pressed. “Your virtue for a chance to witness Leila’s punishment?”

  That was how it sounded. Desperate and crass, hardly befitting a lady.

  “In England, a woman’s virtue is everything, Alessandra. Do you not have it, it is unlikely you will capture a worthy husband.”

  She caught her breath. “What makes you think I wish a husband?”

  “It is what your father will want.”

  But would her father acknowledge her as his? Though her mother had said he was good and kind of heart, what of those things Lucien had revealed about the man? Providing he had spoken true.

  She drew a deep breath. “It was not an offer I made you. I am curious, that is all.”

  “I am glad to hear it, for though I desire you, neither am I a man who pays for a woman’s company, be it in coin, be it in favors.”

  She was not surprised. Though at her angriest there was satisfaction in thinking and speaking ill of her family’s enemy, he showed little evidence of being of a perfidious bent. Indeed, though he had trussed and gagged her, it was not without cause. They needed food and, given the chance, she would have tried to escape again.

  “Too,” he added, “the virtuous daughter of James Breville will surely be of more value to me once we reach England.”

  She gasped. It was such a calculated thing to say, especially considering the place from which he had jerked her thoughts. But then, his hatred of her family went deep. Of a perfidious bent, indeed!

  “You are despicable,” she said. “An animal.”

  He released her and stepped back. “I am what my captors made me.”

  Keeping her back to the wall, she said, “The blame is not theirs. It is the De Gautiers’. They made you.”

  He seemed to think on her words, then said, “To a point, you are right, but enough of this. There is meat to be fired and sleep to be had ere night falls.”

  Unsettled that he so easily yielded, she grappled for further argument, but there was none.

  Indisputably, Lucien de Gautier remained in control of her fate—one that would soon deliver her to Tangier.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Despite the danger of being a woman alone, it was a chance Alessandra could not pass up. Thus, as she and Lucien were swallowed by the masses frequenting Tangier’s marketplace, she bided her time.

  Why he had brought her so far west was a question that would never be answered if she succeeded in losing herself among the crowd, for each time she had asked, he had only glared. All she knew for certain was that he was looking for something. Or someone.

  Holding tight to her horse’s reins as she led the animal forward, she slowed her steps and dropped back into the thickening crowd.

  Soon, she told herself, allowing herself a small smile at how easy it would be to lose herself among the hundreds of women who wore the same cloak and veil of Muslim tradition. But Lucien also slowed, so much that she was forced to draw level with him again.

  “Stay close,” he growled in the language of his enemies.

  Alessandra glanced at him. Earlier that morning, on the outskirts of the city, he had arranged the excessive material of his head cloth to cover the lower half of his face. Garbed as he was, with only a strip of tanned skin visible, he melded with those around him. However, as his amethyst eyes would reveal he was not of Arab descent, he mostly kept them cast down.

  A major port bordering on the Atlantic and Mediterranean, Tangier was a place of many faces where trade between countries was rampant. Thus, a disguise would have been unnecessary if not for the possibility Rashid was still in pursuit.

  Was he? Or had he given up and taken another for his wife? Long gone were the mass of braids and intricate henna markings she would have worn to her marriage bed. Also firmly in her past were her wide-eyed innocence and the mother who had opposed her marriage to Rashid. She was no man’s bride now.

  She sighed, moved her thoughts back to escape. The opportunity presented itself when Lucien paused before a vendor’s stall that was strewn with textiles and woolens of every color.

  Keeping an eye on Alessandra, he spoke in a low voice to the little man who had rushed forward to present his wares. The vendor was to be disappointed, for it was obvi
ous Lucien was interested in something other than fabric.

  Pressed against her horse by those eager to make a place for themselves in the cramped street, Alessandra prayed for Lucien to look away. When he finally obliged, she ducked and scrambled beneath her horse. Heart pounding furiously, she threw herself into the crowd and was swallowed. One black-clad woman among many, she pushed her way through the suffocating press of bodies.

  She heard Lucien call her name, his voice a bellow above the excited buzz. How near he was, she did not know. All that mattered was that she find her way out of his reach.

  As she hastened past stalls, merchants, and patrons, she tried to ignore the regret burrowing through her. If she succeeded, she would never again know Lucien’s touch, the masculine scent of him, and the sensations he roused. He would be lost to her—a man for whom she continued to harbor feelings, despite all the discord.

  Had the gap between them not widened so terribly when she had told him she was a Breville, she might have cast off her longing to see Leila punished, and even set aside the fear of what awaited her in England. But it was too late. Lucien might desire her, but he disliked her, and she had every reason to feel the same way about him. If only she could…

  Tears blurring her vision, she slipped into the shadowed alley between two buildings. Breathing hard, she leaned back against a wall and stared at the patch of daylight whence she had come.

  She was just beginning to relax when Lucien’s tall, broad figure blocked the light.

  Holding her breath, she tensed for flight lest he draw nearer.

  He did. “Alessandra,” he called as he entered the passageway, wide shoulders brushing the walls on either side.

  She thrust off the wall and ran opposite. For once, she had the advantage of size, easily negotiating the tight space that hindered Lucien—until her foot caught on something and she fell facedown.

  Veil torn away, cloak askew, dirt upon her lips, she scrambled to her feet and lunged toward the light.

  The street she emerged upon was not as busy as that of the marketplace. Had it been, its advantage would still have been limited, for her red hair had come uncovered. No longer was she one of hundreds.

  Men stared as she ran past and women scurried away as if death had come into their presence.

  Alessandra spared a glance over her shoulder and gasped at the sight of Lucien who thrust aside all in his path.

  Hoping to lose him among the buildings, she turned right, left, and left again. Still he came.

  Why did he not let her go? Did he not realize the danger of pursuing her?

  She made another sharp turn, sprinted between two crudely constructed buildings, and turned again. Though the deepening stench, poverty and coarseness of the people, and lascivious stares evidenced she had entered a less desirable part of the city, she did not turn back.

  Rounding a corner, she came upon a half-open door and, without thought, leapt inside and closed it. Back pressed to it, she listened for the sound of Lucien’s passing. There it was, preceded by curses.

  Would he retrace his steps? Likely, but by then she would be gone.

  Feeling the sting of tears, she whispered, “Farewell, Lucien de Gautier,” then forced her attention upon the room in which she found herself.

  It appeared to be a storehouse. Its shelves were lined with encrusted bottles, open barrels wafted alcohol fumes, and sacks strewn about the floor spilled grain upon which rats leisurely fed.

  She shuddered. Only from a great distance had she ever seen the vile creatures.

  Hugging her arms to her, she looked to where light shone beneath a door opposite. Beyond it were the sounds of merrymaking.

  She could not stay long, must find an authority to aid her return to Algiers. Blessedly, she was not without coin. That much she had planned for by raiding one of Lucien’s pouches. But would it be enough? Providing the name of Abd al-Jabbar was known in this westernmost country as it was known throughout the central Maghrib, she need not worry.

  Determining enough time had passed, Alessandra straightened her cloak and envisioned the bath she would have once she secured passage to Algiers. Unfortunately, fresh water had been too precious these past weeks, and the accumulation of dirt upon her was distasteful.

  After arranging the hood over her hair, she reached for the excess material of her cloak that would have to serve in place of her lost veil.

  As she drew it up, the door opposite opened and light rushed in.

  Her first thought was that Lucien had discovered her. But the man at whom she stared wide-eyed was nowhere near his size.

  “Thief!” he cried.

  She spun around, but as she pulled open the door she had come through, it was thrust closed and she was hurled across the room.

  Landing among the scattered grain and the screech of disturbed rats, fear flooded her. The man thought her a thief, and thieves were treated harshly in the Muslim world.

  The hand she might well lose was grabbed at the wrist and wrenched so forcibly that she was propelled upright.

  “Cease!” she cried in Arabic. “I have stolen nothing.”

  The man’s brow furrowed as he looked from her red hair to her eyes, nose, and mouth, then he dragged her from the storeroom and into a room packed with tables and chairs. The handful of men seated there looked up from their drinks.

  Kicking and scratching, Alessandra did not cease until the man holding her grabbed her hair and forced her head back.

  Desperate, she looked about what was surely a tavern in hopes of discovering one sympathetic face among the leers. There were none.

  “Master, a thief!” her captor cried.

  A heavy man, darker than most Arabs, likely of mixed race, rose from a nearby table. “A prostitute,” he said, raking his black eyes over her. “Perhaps she can pay for what she has taken.”

  Alessandra was slow to comprehend his meaning, but when he halted before her, pushed her cloak aside, and ran a hand over her chest, she understood. “Do not!” she cried.

  He smacked her across the face.

  Cheek burning, she said in rapid Arabic, “My father is Abd al-Jabbar. I was stolen from him a fortnight past. He will richly reward you for my safe return.”

  Silence fell as the men digested her claim, then the room burst with laughter that breathed the foul scent of alcohol upon her.

  Of course they did not believe her. Not only was she of obvious European descent, but she was disheveled.

  “A whore and a liar,” the dark man said and reached for her again. “Come, let us see your wares.”

  “I have coin,” she said, knowing it was only a matter of time before it was taken from her. “I will pay—”

  Hands fell upon her body, and she cried out with fear for what this man meant to do, anger that there was nothing she could to do to prevent it, and despair over what she had lost in fleeing Lucien. Despite his deception and that he had refused to return her to Algiers, he had been safe.

  Heavenly Father, she silently beseeched, forgive me for being so foolish to believe it possible to escape without mishap—to venture alone into a mans’ world and remain unscathed. Pray, deliver Lucien unto me!

  Other hands touched and pinched her. Vile words were spoken that nauseated and terrified her.

  Withdraw, she silently urged. If you cannot remove yourself in body, remove yourself in mind.

  But her mind would not be parted from its companion, and so caught up was she in the heinous act to come that she was only vaguely aware when the pouch containing her coins was taken.

  “Lucien,” she gasped amid tears. “Lucien!”

  As if in response, a man rose from a table in the back of the room, but it was no bronze-headed giant. As he advanced on her, surely intending to violate her, two others followed.

  “Enough!” he spoke in the lingua franca recognized by the Arab-speaking people, his heavy accent evidencing he was of French descent.

  Alessandra’s assailants pulled back, allowing her to
look nearer upon the handsome, dark-headed man. In European dress, he and his men stood out among the many draped in shapeless robes. Hope surged through her. Might he aid her?

  He stopped several feet distant and considered her with an appreciative gleam in his eyes. “What price for this woman?” he asked.

  She was to be sold?

  The tavern owner waved the others back. “You would pay to have her first, Monsieur LeBrec?”

  The Frenchman shook his head. “I will pay to have her to myself. I share with no man.”

  Though his words offered little comfort, compared with the others, he seemed respectable. Perhaps she could convince him of her relation to Abd al-Jabbar.

  The tavern owner grinned. “You are a selfish man. And when you are finished with her?”

  “You know my business, Asim.”

  “Indeed,” Asim murmured, then named an exorbitant price.

  “Too much,” LeBrec said. “Look at her. She is no prize. And smell…” He sniffed the air. “It will take much purging before she is of use to me.” He offered a quarter of Asim’s asking price.

  Asim thrust Alessandra in front of LeBrec. “Look, friend, she is of fine frame and slender of limb.” He swept a hand down over her. “Much pleasure she will bring you.”

  “She smells worse than thought,” LeBrec said dryly.

  Alessandra nearly spouted indignant words, but she could not afford to anger the Frenchman.

  Asim leaned near Alessandra, breathed in her scent, and lowered his price.

  LeBrec argued it, and shortly an agreement was reached at less than half the original figure.

  Asim took the money, pushed Alessandra at LeBrec, and lumbered off. The other men also dispersed.

  LeBrec pulled Alessandra’s cloak closed. “You need not fear me. You are safe now.”

  Attempting to see beyond his wonderful smile, she said in a voice flushed with relief, “Merci, monsieur.” He did not seem an animal, but would he aid in her return to Algiers? If so, at what price?

  “So you know my language, eh?” he asked.

  “And English.” Sabine had neglected no area of her daughter’s education, endowing her with the fluency of three languages and the fundamentals of several others.