by Tamara Leigh
Grasping her elbow, LeBrec guided her to the tavern’s entrance, his companions following. “Yet you speak Arabic as if it were your native language,” he mused.
She halted. “It is. I am no liar, monsieur. I was born and raised in Algiers. My father is Abd al-Jabbar.”
He smiled wider, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “What is your name, cherie?”
“Alessandra.”
“Well, Alessandra, when this grime is removed”—he drew a thumb down her cheek and came away with a smudge—“we shall know for certain, eh?”
She would have to tell him all of it, she realized. She only hoped the price of his assistance would not be her virtue.
“Come,” he urged, “I will take you to my home where you can have a long bath. Then we will talk.”
A bath. The dirt no longer concerned Alessandra, but the cleansing away of the feel of those hands that had sought to violate her. Warily optimistic, she placed herself in LeBrec’s hands.
Pity, Jacques LeBrec thought as he leaned over Alessandra’s sleeping figure and lifted a lock of her lustrous red hair.
He was taken with the beautiful, impetuous young woman who had emerged from the filth to grace his table hours earlier. She was refreshing, her manners impeccable and testimony to her incredible story, and of which he now had written proof.
He let the tress fall, then straightened and looked at the letter he had found among her scant belongings. It was from her mother, and its poignancy had gripped him when he had read it minutes earlier. He retrieved it, folded it, and tucked it inside his overtunic.
When he looked again at Alessandra, he stirred in remembrance of the shapely figure he had glimpsed beneath the diaphanous material she had been clothed in following her bath, and that was now hidden beneath the blanket pulled over her. But only a stir.
Having long ago accepted his impotence, he was not surprised. Still, he continued to hope he would find a woman capable of bringing him to life. Though it seemed Alessandra was not to be the one, she had moved him more than any other.
Just as well, he consoled himself as he turned away. Otherwise, I might not be able to part with her. Which I must do. And soon.
It was not like him to become emotionally attached to one of his investments, but this woman was an exception. Had he time to send a messenger to Algiers to discover the reward for her return, he would keep the promise she had extracted to return her to Abd al-Jabbar. Unfortunately, he had a sizable debt coming due.
At the door, he looked over his shoulder. In sleep, she was even more exquisite. The light sprinkling of freckles enhanced, rather than detracted, from her beauty. Her long lashes, pert nose, and bowed mouth were an artist’s dream. And her spirit, that transcended slumber, was irresistible. It was no wonder this Lucien she pretended to hate was so determined to take her to England. No doubt he knew how to pleasure a woman. And himself.
The bitterness that Jacques had long ago come to terms with crept back in. It tore at him, hardening him against feelings that were determined to interfere with what he must do.
No matter, he tried to convince himself. If Alessandra could not satisfy the elusive passion of his body, she would satisfy the one passion in which he could easily indulge—gambling.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“There is an auction today,” Jacques said as he assisted Alessandra from the carriage that had delivered them to the marketplace.
She assured herself her veil was in place, then peered up at the man who had generously made himself her guardian three days past. During that time, he had proven himself a gentleman—unlike Lucien, she reminded herself as she was assailed by longing.
“Auction?” she said.
Jacques set a hand to her back and guided her forward. “Oui, a slave auction.”
She tensed. It was at such an event her mother had purchased Lucien, and she found the thought of attending one unappealing. “I have never seen one,” she murmured as he led her toward a stall brimming with cosmetics.
“But today you shall, cherie.”
Alessandra wanted to object, but held her tongue for fear of offending this man who had been kind to her. If not for him, a terrible fate would have befallen her. Now she had only to wait for Jabbar. As Jacques had sent a messenger two days ago, she would soon be restored to all that was familiar.
Telling herself it was what she wanted—wishing she did not have to remind herself of it—she looked to the vendor who pressed pots of kohl and rouge upon her.
She shook her head, but Jacques tossed a coin to the man who scooped up the cosmetics and handed them to her.
She thanked him and placed them in the pouch beneath her cloak.
Next, Jacques led her to a small stall where trinkets blinked in the sunlight.
“This would look lovely with your hair.” He dangled an intricate silver necklace before her.
“It is beautiful.”
“Then you must have it.”
“I have no coin,” she reminded him.
He smiled. “It would please me to buy it for you.”
Although she had agreed to allow him to purchase caftans—the reason for the outing—she was uncomfortable with his offer. The garments were a matter of comfort and modesty that the silken trousers, chemise, and vest he had loaned her did not permit. And though she had been given no choice with the cosmetics, the necklace was even more of a luxury.
“You have already shown me more kindness than I deserve. Thus, I cannot accept it.”
He reached for his purse. “Consider it repayment for your companionship these past days.”
“It is you who should be thanked. If not—”
“You will wear it for me tonight. I insist, cherie.”
“And I insist otherwise.”
His face darkened so suddenly she nearly stepped back. “You think I expect payment in flesh?” he snapped, causing the merchant to quiet.
Alarmed, she said, “I do not mean to sound ungrateful, Jacques. Certes, I am appreciative of all you have done for me.”
Abruptly, he turned away.
She touched his arm. “Forgive me for offending you.”
He kept his back to her until his shoulders no longer moved with the turbulence of whatever had roused him to anger. When he once more faced her, his expression and coloring were nearly normal, there being just enough evidence of the anger he had turned upon her to feed the foreboding in her breast.
“Humor me, will you?” He held out the necklace.
She nodded. “Very well, but I shall repay you as soon as I am able.”
Displeasure flitted across his handsome face, flitted off. “This I know.”
Once he had worked the merchant down to the price he was willing to pay, he pushed aside Alessandra’s cloak to secure the necklace about her throat.
Reminding herself he was European and, therefore, unfamiliar with the strict decorum of the Muslims, she swallowed her discomfort at being revealed before strangers while he fastened the clasp.
“I knew it would suit you,” he said with a thin smile.
Grateful for her veil, she pulled her cloak closed over the filmy garments. “Merci, Jacques.”
He turned her around and led her between the stalls. “You are a strange one, Alessandra.”
“How is that?”
“You are different from other women I have known.”
“Have there been many?” The moment she said it, she wished she could take back the words. They were too bold and personal.
As if unaffected by her query, Jacques said, “I have known many. Though few were virgins like you.”
Alessandra halted, forcing him to stop to keep hold of her. “How do you know that about me?” It was not something they had discussed. In fact, considering the tale she had shared with him, she would not have been surprised had he assumed otherwise.
He urged her forward again. “I know the face of innocence.” He turned off the main street and down a narrower one. “Though yours is
no longer in full bloom, the prize has yet to be taken.”
His words and behavior embarrassed her. More, they worried her, for this Jacques deviated considerably from the one she had come to know in the comfort of his home. What had changed?
“It surprises me,” he continued, “that this Lucien you speak of did not take your virtue in all the time you were together. Or that you did not surrender it to him.”
Alessandra would have halted again, but his lengthy stride would not permit it. “You cannot know that,” she said.
Down another street he pulled her, at the end of which lay a large, decrepit building. “But I do, for it is my business.”
Something was very wrong. “Your business?” She recalled he had said something similar to the tavern owner. “I do not understand.”
He kept his gaze fixed ahead. “All will be explained momentarily.”
She looked to the building that was far removed from the marketplace. What of the caftans he had promised her? Were they not the purpose of their outing?
She dug her heels in and pulled free of his grasp. “Where are you taking me?”
“You will see.” He reached for her.
She jumped back. “You are behaving strange, Jacques. I will go no farther until you have told me the reason.”
“I have a surprise for you. Would you ruin it by forcing me to reveal it before its time?”
She stood firm. “I must know.”
He sighed, then grabbed her and lifted her high against his chest.
“Put me down!” she shrieked and struggled to break free.
He stumbled but did not relinquish his hold. Though Lucien would dwarf him, Jacques was no weakling, his stout, broad-shouldered frame surprisingly muscular beneath his clothes.
Alessandra fought him all the way, and not until she was dropped into a chair did her blows fall only upon air. Well past concern for her modesty, she threw off her veil and the constricting cloak. “How dare you!” she hissed as she peripherally took in the filthy room into which he had deposited her.
“I am truly sorry, cherie,” he said, his breathing labored where he stood over her. “It is with much regret I do this.”
Alessandra was wrenched by his betrayal, for she knew she was being cast before wolves. Jacques had never intended to help her. All along, he’d had other plans for her. Still, she had to hear it from him.
“What is it you do, Jacques?”
He averted his gaze. “Understand, cherie, it is business.”
The business of knowing whether or not a woman was virtuous. “What business is that?”
He returned his gaze to hers. “Slaving, Alessandra.”
She closed her eyes. How was she to escape? And if she managed to, what new dangers awaited her? Her mind dredged up the ravishment from which he had self-servingly rescued her. Was there no safety for a woman alone in the world?
Her chest and throat tightened. All was lost, not only her mother and home, but Lucien. Lucien within whom beat a heart of compassion, whose face she yearned to see, in whose arms she longed to be. He hated the Breville in her, but now that she most acutely felt his absence, his loathing no longer seemed such a terrible thing. An obstacle only. And the revenge she longed to take upon Leila…
Strangely distant, almost trivial. Sabine was gone, and though Alessandra would ever embrace her mother’s memory, the mourning would eventually ease. What might not ease was the life ahead of her. Her mother had done her best to ensure it would be a more tolerable one than that of the harem and veil, but Catherine Breville’s daughter had rebelled. And now this…
She suppressed a sob.
“Wipe your tears, cherie.” Jacques thrust a crisp kerchief at her.
She slapped his hand aside and scrubbed her eyes across her forearm. “Why, Jacques?”
His smile was apologetic. “You will bring a good sum—an innocent with tresses of fire who speaks the Arab language.” He reached to her hair but grasped only air.
The chair upended by her hasty retreat, Alessandra stepped over it to put distance between them. “You are despicable! A man who is not a man. A weasel!”
As if she had landed a terrible blow, his lungs emptied with a rush, hands snapped into fists, color flooded his neck and face. “I could have sold you into prostitution!”
She laughed. “I should be grateful you mean only to sell me into slavery?”
“Many will vie to bring you into their harem. Surely you prefer one lover to many?”
“I prefer none!”
Lower jaw thrusting, he dropped his gaze to the floor between them.
Alessandra glanced at the door he had carried her through. He would overtake her before she reached it. However, there was an open pathway to a door on her left—her only chance, though she had no notion of what lay beyond it.
She ran, heard Jacques shout her name and the sound of his boots on the wooden floor, but nothing would turn her from her course.
Nothing except the large woman who appeared in the doorway.
Alessandra slammed into her, cried out when rough hands clamped around her forearms.
As she strained to break free, the woman ran eyes over her, then boomed in uncultured French, “You could have lost her, dear Jacques.”
“Not with you slugging about,” he snapped and reached to reclaim Alessandra.
At that moment, she would have willingly gone to him, the known preferable to the one who examined her as if she were a sweet morsel.
Sidestepping Jacques’s attempt to relieve her of Alessandra, the woman said, “Surely you are not having second thoughts. This one will free you of your debts. Or nearly so.”
He turned away, asked over his shoulder. “How much?”
The woman released one of Alessandra’s arms, gripped her captive’s chin, and pressed her head back. She considered the face, then the hair. “A bit too red, do you not think?”
“Do not play games with me! What can you get for the wench?”
Tears burned Alessandra’s eyes. Chattel. That is all I am to them. Cloth on a bolt.
“I cannot know for certain, but you will not be disappointed.”
“Do it today,” Jacques said and strode opposite.
As Alessandra peered sidelong at him, straining to keep him in sight, the woman called, “It would be better to wait. Word will spread, and you will obtain a higher price.”
He halted, looked around, but not at Alessandra. “I said today!”
The woman heaved a foul-smelling sigh. “As you would.”
“And Edith…?”
“Oui?”
“The necklace goes with her.”
Alessandra had forgotten about it. As greedy eyes flitted over the silver collar, she reached to tear it from her neck, but the woman loosed her chin and caught her arm against her side.
“Do you understand, Edith?” Jacques pressed.
“It goes with her,” she grumbled.
Jacques resumed his course.
Alessandra had no intention of begging him, and yet as he was about to pass through the doorway, his name burst from her. “Jacques!”
He paused and his shoulders hunched. “Pardon, cherie,” he said without looking around. Then he was gone.
With a mix of fear and rage, Alessandra fought the hands holding her.
“If that is to be the way of it,” the woman said. She thrust Alessandra back against the wall, squeezed a calloused hand around her captive’s throat, and did not let up even when her prey ceased struggling.
The loss of air sprayed colors against the backs of Alessandra’s lids. Lovely colors despite the strain and pain that called them into being. Even lovelier was the black that ran over them, promising to deliver her from this nightmare. But not the plaintive voice in her head.
What have I done, Lucien? Dear God, what have I done?
A man who is not a man.
That was what she had said of him, though she could not know how true she spoke.
Stagger
ing in his haste to exit the building in which he had sentenced Alessandra to slavery, Jacques stepped to the side and leaned back against the wall.
It should not be such a hard thing. But it was, and more so after their time in the marketplace.
Curse her! Why could she not be like the other grasping creatures who had surrounded him all his life? He should not have had to push the necklace upon her, a fine piece of jewelry meant to serve as an apology. Rather, she should have asked for more—earrings, a bracelet, a belt of shimmering coins. But it was as if she had known what awaited her and sought to employ guilt to alter his plan. And such guilt! Deeper than that with which his mother had controlled him, the devil rest her soul.
Alessandra’s face rising before him, he closed his eyes, but it was clearer, more vibrant, behind his lids.
It had cut him to see the gratitude, admiration, and trust with which she had regarded him these past days replaced by accusation, loathing, and fear. Indeed, he had been tempted to remain the champion he had pretended to be these past days. But then Edith had reminded him of his debt and who he was—Jacques LeBrec, slave trader, gambler unextraordinaire. For that, he had rejected the woman’s suggestion that the sale of Alessandra be delayed. At a time like this, he could not afford to reshape his character. Thus, it had to be today or he might change his mind. And then where would he be?
CHAPTER TWENTY
Had she not been such precious merchandise, Alessandra bitterly reflected, she might have ended up much the same as the girl with whom she shared a cell.
Clutching the accursed necklace still fastened around her neck, she stared at the girl’s bruised and swollen face that not even sleep could soften. And shuddered. It could as easily be her had Jacques not ordered that she be auctioned this day.
An hour past, she had awakened here—one of many cells, but separate from the others. From her tearful companion, a dark-skinned girl of ten and five who spoke halting Arabic, Alessandra had discovered the reason for the segregation. With the exception of the children, they alone were chaste. The other captives, a teeming mass of bodies pressed into cells filled to capacity, were men and women of varying races and languages. Though some were vocal about their captivity, most seemed resigned.