by Tamara Leigh
“But he insinuated…” Her face warmed further. “He set out to frighten me.”
He shrugged. “Doubtless, he took it upon himself to teach you a lesson.”
“What right—?”
“We should have sailed two days ago, Alessandra.” He planted his feet apart to counter the ship’s movement. “Your escapade has cost him much in time and profit. Now his cargo will not reach England before the other ships bound for its ports.”
It was the least he deserved for the terrible fright he had given her, Alessandra reasoned. However, guilt followed, and she cast her eyes down. “I am sorry.”
“As you should be.”
She set her teeth to keep her jaw from trembling. How was it that no matter how hard she tried to cast off the child in her, the little one would not be shed? Could she do nothing right?
Lucien tilted her chin up, and she caught her breath at the compassion in his eyes. “It is done now,” he said. “Soon you will be in England as your mother wished.”
The mention of Sabine caused her emotions to go further aslant. “Yes,” she choked. “As she wished.”
Lucien touched his lips to hers, drew back. “Dress now. The sky promises a spectacular sunset.”
Lips tingling from the brief contact, she looked down at the garments over her arm. They appeared to be as her mother had described, close replicas of the sketches Sabine had made of English costume.
The gown, with its V-shaped neckline and waist, gathered sleeves, and dagged hem, could have been the same as her mother had worn as James Breville’s young bride. In no way did it resemble the shapeless caftans Alessandra was accustomed to wearing in public, and it was a far cry from the gossamer vest and trousers of the harem.
“Something is wrong?” Lucien asked.
“I have never worn such clothing.”
His eyebrows rose. “You require assistance?”
She nodded. “Will you show me?”
If the stool had struck his head as intended, he could not have looked more surprised. But he said, “I will.”
It was reckless, Alessandra knew, but she could not bear the thought of him leaving, even if only for a short time.
She handed him the garments, turned, and unfastened her vest with trembling fingers. She dropped it on the cot, then lifted the front of her chemise and hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her trousers. As she slid them down, her heart beat with jumps and jerks she was certain Lucien could hear.
She stepped out of the trousers and, smoothing the chemise down her legs, turned.
He slid his gaze over her. “You are a siren, Alessandra Breville. A flame-headed siren who would lure me to my destruction. Is that your intent?”
She searched his face. “I would lure you, though not to your destruction.”
“What, then?”
In that moment, she longed to speak of love, but that was as a girl would do, flitting about and proclaiming feelings she did not truly understand. A woman, though…
A woman would think through that which moved heart and mind, sometimes in opposite directions. A woman would give due consideration to the consequences of bestowing such precious, vulnerable feelings upon a man.
Determined to rise above the girl who had shown time and again she could not be trusted, Alessandra said, “After what happened this day—worse, what nearly happened—I do not wish to be parted from you again. With you, I am safe. I know that now.”
He lowered his gaze to her throat, lifted a hand and touched the necklace. “As you were not safe with LeBrec?”
Reminded of the Frenchman’s guilt-easing gift, her skin suddenly burned where it lay against her. She reached up and fumbled for the clasp.
Lucien’s hand stayed hers. “Did he touch you?”
Dare she hope it was jealousy darkening his eyes? That it mattered to him whether or not Jacques—
She stilled.
How did Lucien know of him? She did not think Jacques had been at the auction. Certainly, she had not seen him there. “How is it you know of him?”
“Did he touch you?” he repeated.
Then she would have to answer first. “Though he proved despicable, he behaved the gentleman. Undefiled, I was worth far more.”
His lids dropped over his eyes. When he lifted them, relief shone from the violet depths.
Alessandra searched his face. “It matters to you?”
He hesitated, then said, “It matters.”
It was a start, and for now it would have to suffice, for she did not think he would give more. “How do you know of Jacques?” she asked.
His mouth tightened. “Tale of the redheaded wench caught stealing the stores of a tavern spread quickly, though too late for me to intervene. By the time I learned what had happened, LeBrec had you ensconced in his home.”
“Why did you not come for me there?”
“His walls are high, his guards many. And as you did not know what he intended, I was certain you would fight me. I had to content myself with what news the servant girl, Bea, brought.”
The shy Circassian girl who had tended Alessandra’s bath and grooming. In spite of Bea's timidity, her eyes had been watchful. Now Alessandra’s understood the reason.
“As LeBrec has a reputation for leaving innocents intact,” Lucien continued, “it seemed safer to take you at auction.”
She lowered her head, stared at his chest. “I will not fight you anymore, Lucien.”
“I know.”
“I will go to England with you as my mother wished.”
“It is already done.”
She looked up. “Done?”
“We have set sail. There is no turning back.”
So final. England drew near while Algiers receded. Gone was the life she had known. Before her was a life that might swallow her whole. And at the center of it was Lucien. What were his plans for her?
“What of me?” she asked. “Will you use me against my father?”
“Nay,” he said after a brief hesitation. “I will give you over to old man Breville as soon as we reach Corburry.”
“Then I am not to be the instrument of your revenge?”
His bitter laughter warmed her brow. “It seems fitting enough revenge to give you to him. We shall see how he handles what I have endured these past weeks.”
Then he simply wished to be shed of her. To hide her misery, she averted her gaze.
“First, the under gown,” he said. “Lift your arms.”
She did as bid, and he lowered the garment over her.
As its hem settled to the floor, she considered the modest, relatively heavy garment. “This will suffice,” she said.
“It will not,” he countered. “As you are one woman among many men, utmost modesty is in order.”
Of course. It was not a harem though which she would be moving, but a ship full of men from a world far removed from hers.
She raised her arms and he lowered the outer gown over her head. It was heavier than the first and wonderfully roomy—until he began buttoning the bodice. Its tightening diminished her breath, and the brush of his fingers across her chest stole it completely.
“It fits well,” he said, looping the last button.
“It does?” Though the skirt was voluminous, the bodice was not proportionate. If she breathed deeply, the buttons might burst free. “I have no freedom in it.”
Without comment, he belted the high waist.
She squirmed. “Even less now.”
He arched an eyebrow. “In English society, there is no place for a woman to wear caftans and trousers.”
She peered over her shoulder at the garments she had shed. “What of a veil? I cannot go before men without one.”
“Ladies of gentle birth dress as you are now, Alessandra. Some wear headdresses, but veils are of Muslim women.”
It was as her mother had told her, yet it was still foreign. Nervous, she knit her fingers. “And I am of gentle birth?”
Lucien smiled. “By pa
rentage only.”
Rejoicing in the lightening of his mood, she stepped close. “Lucien, do you remember the kisses we shared?”
The tightening of his mouth caused the scar along his cheekbone to pucker. “I am not likely to forget.”
As he would not forget who her father was, his eyes told.
“Nor am I,” she said on a sigh. Consoling herself with the thought it would be many weeks before they reached England, time in which to change his mind about her, she swept past him.
And fell short of the door by several feet. Truly fell. Having trod on the hem of the under gown, she plummeted.
She had only a moment to contemplate the cleanliness of the floor before Lucien scooped her upright and began brushing her down. “You must either raise your skirts or shorten your stride,” he said. “Preferably both.”
She plucked at the skirt. “’Tis too long. The hem will have to be raised.”
He straightened. “The hem is where it should be for a proper English lady. You will have to adjust.”
She wanted to tell him she was neither proper, nor an English lady, but decided to hold her tongue. A needle and thread would solve her problem more easily than changing her behavior. In the meantime, she would keep the skirt raised.
“I am ready,” she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“I owe you an apology,” Alessandra said, and Lucien nearly smiled when she pointedly lowered her gaze to Nicholas’s hips.
Jezebel’s captain, more handsome than his cousin, though of less stature, said, “That you do, my lady.”
Yanking up the hem of her skirt, Alessandra stepped from Lucien’s side, paused to catch her balance when the ship listed, and placed herself before the captain. “Given.”
Frowning at her peculiar form of apology, Nicholas sent an eyebrow high and looked to his cousin.
Lucien shrugged.
Returning his gaze to the woman responsible for delaying his departure, Nicholas inclined his head. “Accepted, my lady.”
“There is something else I owe you.”
“Indeed?”
She struck him across the face. “You are no gentleman, Captain Giraud.”
Lucien struggled against the impulse to intervene as the imprint of her palm rose on his cousin’s cheek and the man’s hands curled into fists. Captain Nicholas Giraud, former corsair and, more recently, Christian-turned-renegade, was not one to allow such offenses to go unpunished—especially with his crew as witnesses.
Hoping he would not have to insert himself between Nicholas and the little fool who seemed oblivious to the anger many would have heeded as a call to flee, Lucien held.
Of a sudden, a smile broke through Nicholas’s lips, and he loosed laughter that carried across the ship on the wind that filled the sails.
Alessandra gasped. “You think it good fun what you did to me?”
He laughed louder, and when he had enough, met Lucien’s gaze and raised his palms in surrender. “Better you than me, Cousin.” With a shake of his head, he strode toward the bow of his ship.
Lucien stepped to Alessandra’s side, casting his shadow over her. As he stared at the top of her head, he marveled that the anger and frustration of these past days, which had become nearly unmanageable, should be so greatly lightened.
“I do not know why I did not anticipate that,” he said.
She looked up. “He deserved it.”
Lucien took her elbow and guided her from the aftercastle to the steps. “I have much to teach you ere we reach England.”
“Such as?”
“If you wish to continue being called a lady, you must behave as one.”
On the last step down, she halted. “You think I do not?”
“Behave as an English noblewoman? I know you do not.”
“But I am not—”
“You will be.” Before long, she would be in England, known by her sire’s name, and her standing would be that of a lady.
She nibbled her lower lip, asked, “Are ladies in England so very different from ladies of the Maghrib?”
Not wishing to miss his first sunset of true freedom, he urged her forward. “Come to the rail, and I will explain.”
For the first few steps, there was space between them, but then she pressed as near his side as she could come without causing him to trip over her.
Doubtless, she was discomfited by the stares of the crew, for Nicholas had dragged her kicking and cursing onto the ship hours earlier and the men had enjoyed laughter and jokes at her expense. Now that she was dressed in European finery, they looked at her anew, though with little more respect than before.
Did she long for a veil behind which to hide her unease?
Lucien settled his forearms on the railing and let the wind do with his hair as it pleased. And it pleased mightily—tugging at it, freeing strands from the leather thong.
More happily, it played amongst Alessandra’s hair, tossing its unbound length across her face and into his own until she gathered it and tucked it into the neck of her gown.
“How different are the ladies of England?” she asked again.
He stared ahead, narrowing his eyes on the place where the ocean swallowed the sun. “Very,” he said. Though numerous examples came to mind, he said, “The donkey game you played—a proper lady would never attempt such foolishness.”
“And if she did?”
He glanced at her. “Likely, her papa would bundle her off to a convent.”
“For riding a donkey backward?”
“For riding a donkey at all.”
Her shoulders slumped. “How tedious.”
Lucien turned to her. “Not at all. There are many diversions.”
She also turned toward him. “Such as?”
“Hunting, hawking, dancing—”
“Dancing?”
“Aye, to dance well is an essential accomplishment of the nobility. You must learn—”
“But I know how to dance.”
He shook his head. “I speak of dances unlike those to which you are accustomed. Very different, indeed.”
Her face fell. “Tedious, then.”
Perhaps compared with the erotic dance he had watched her perform. However, European dance had something hers did not—the interaction of male and female, man and woman, lovers…
“Not so,” he said.
“Then?”
Lucien had the urge to show rather than tell. Would she flow, her body following his? Or would she be stiff and awkward, resistant to his lead?
He swept his gaze over her figure, remembered how it had moved that first day when she had given herself to the music. Nay, never stiff, never awkward. But perhaps resistant to another’s lead.
Returning his gaze to her face, he paused upon the hollow at the base of her throat where LeBrec’s gift nestled. He had forgotten about it. Jealousy that Alessandra had assured him he had no reason to feel threatening his hard-won serenity, he lifted the necklace.
Ignoring her start of surprise, he rotated it and unfastened the clasp. “Do with it what you will”—he pressed it into her hand—“but never again wear it in my presence.”
She closed her fingers around it. “I wanted to tear it off, but it was the only thing of value I possessed, and I thought it might aid in my escape.” She lifted her face, and the setting sun made fire of her hair. “I thank you that I no longer need it,” she said and flung it down into the white-crested waves. “Monsieur LeBrec is no more.”
Everything in Lucien tightened as he looked upon a face that hardly resembled the one she had worn at auction when men had vied to buy her for their pleasure and her pain. Though he knew it would be best not to feed the jumble of feelings he had for this beautiful, freckled waif, he could not.
“Give me your hand, Alessandra.”
Though a suspicious light entered her eyes, she slid her fingers over his. “Aye?”
“I will teach you the European style of dance.”
“Here?” She swep
t her gaze over the crew, most of whom made no attempt to hide their interest in the only two passengers aboard Jezebel. “Would that not be unwise?”
“There are private dances, and there are public ones. Naturally, I will not demonstrate that which is best learned behind closed doors.”
She blushed prettily. “Oh.”
Lightening his grip on her left hand, he led her forward. “This is known as the estampie, the noblest of all dances.”
“A rather dull dance,” she said a short time later as, side by side, they once more worked through the slow, grave steps. The instruction was not going well, and Lucien suspected the reason for her stuttering stops and starts was her yearn for lively movement.
“Relax,” he said. “You make it more difficult than it needs to be.”
“If only it were more difficult,” she bemoaned as he led her across the deck. “Can we not dance closer, with your arms around me?”
He laughed. “’Tis not the manner in which English nobles dance. Such things are not permissible, except, perhaps, among the peasants.”
“As we are not yet in England, what harm in affecting we are peasants?”
“You will like the farandole better,” he said. “Though it is a group dance, it has more movement.” To demonstrate, he whirled her around, turned her again, and swept her across the deck.
“Lucien!” she gasped as he passed her under his arm.
He coiled her into a spiral and unwound her. “Better?”
“Much!”
Within minutes, she had mastered the half-dozen steps that always came back around to the first.
“Can we not dance the peasants’ dance?” she asked when next he came near her.
Lucien looked to the crew, most of whom had turned their attention to their duties, then reeled her to him and slid an arm around her waist. “Never in England,” he said and settled a hand to the small of her back and urged her forward until they were nearly chest to chest.
He moved her across the deck, their bodies pressing, withdrawing, and pressing again. No more stuttering steps, no more muttering, no more scowls. And when he brought her to a halt, she said, “Again!”
“First, a break.” He released her waist and, holding her left hand, led her into deepening shadows where none could see and eased her back against the mast.