Lady Of Fire AKA Pagan Bride

by Tamara Leigh

  A lesson, she mulled as she advanced on his cousin, not as dire as him being angry, but unwelcome, nonetheless.

  Aware of the strain between her and Nicholas, despite it having abated, she lowered herself several feet from him.

  Without looking up from the meat from which he was pulling a strip, Lucien said, “Closer.”

  “Why?”

  “Closer, Alessandra.”

  She edged nearer.

  “More.”

  She looked to Nicholas. Though his attention was on his goblet, there was a smile in the corner of his lips.

  Determined to upend his private humor, even at the cost of looking childish—surely even a woman could enjoy herself from time to time—she slid so near him their thighs touched. And gained what she sought.

  Mouth suddenly weighted, he snapped his gaze to her.

  It was Alessandra’s turn to smile. “This close?” She looked to Lucien.

  “No respectable English lady would sit so near a man in public,” he growled, “not even her own husband.”

  “I must remember that,” she said, though she did not move. Thus, it was Nicholas who put space between them.

  Shortly, the wiry old cook came out from behind the screen in the corner. Bearing two trenchers, he set one before Lucien, the other between Alessandra and Nicholas.

  She peered into the stale, hollowed-out loaf of bread that held a thick concoction in which unappetizing foodstuffs floated. “I fear I am not very hungry.”

  Lucien arched an eyebrow. “Still, you will eat, for there is no lesson otherwise. Now try the stew.”

  She lifted the spoon and reached to pull the trencher in front of her, but Nicholas’s hand shot out and prevented her from doing so.

  “Now what?” she exclaimed as she turned a frown upon him.

  “It is also Nicholas’s trencher,” Lucien said. “In England, sharing food between two is common.”

  It was difficult enough becoming accustomed to dining among men, but to also share food?

  “Did your mother not tell you of such things?” Lucien asked.

  She did recall Sabine speaking of it, but it had only been talk. How primitive the reality. “She did.”

  “Then I need not explain further.”

  She sighed and scooped up a spoonful of stew. The dish proved more palatable than it looked—indeed, it was tastier than anything she had thus far been served aboard ship.

  She dipped again, and her spoon collided with Nicholas’s.

  “You must await your turn,” Lucien said.

  She withdrew and watched as Nicholas took his time fishing for a worthy morsel. Finally, his spoon curved around a large piece of meat. And abandoned it.

  Alessandra looked up and found him watching her.

  “Mayhap you would like to choose one for me, my lady,” he said.

  She drew back. “Of course I would not.”

  “This is not a lesson in the code of love, Nicholas,” Lucien said sharply.

  “Most unfortunate,” his cousin said. “Though it could be. You must take care not to neglect that part of Alessandra’s education, Cousin.”

  “’Tis none of your concern, Cousin.”

  Alessandra reveled in what she read as jealousy. Was this what it would take to make Lucien reveal his feelings for her?

  Deciding it was not childish to test the possibility, reasoning that even a woman must know how well she was regarded by one she well regarded, she laid a hand upon Nicholas’s arm. “Tell me of this code of love.”

  His lips thinned as he considered her hand upon him. But when he gave her his gaze, there was light in his eyes, as if he understood her game.

  “Let me think.” He took another bite of stew, slowly chewed and swallowed, then said, “The code is a fine thing. A lover must submit to his lady the same as a knight would his lord. He swears loyalty and enduring service.”

  “And?”

  “The lady offers him some favor. Of course, she must not submit too soon, for her lover must suffer, at least a little. And once she accepts him as her lover—”

  “Enough!” Lucien rose so abruptly that had the bench not been secured to the floor, it would have been upended. He rounded the table, took Alessandra’s arm, and drew her toward the door. “We will speak of this later, Nicholas.”

  As he pushed Alessandra ahead of him up the steps and into sunlight, from below came the sound of his cousin’s laughter.

  Skirts raised, Alessandra struggled to match Lucien’s stride as he led her toward the cabin. But then he changed direction and steered her into the shadow of the mainmast.

  Guessing he did not trust himself alone with her, hoping he feared he would be tempted to kiss her as she longed to be kissed, she was almost breathless when he halted.

  He released her, braced his feet apart, and said in a low, strained voice, “Have you learned naught from what I have taught you?”

  She also secured her footing. “I have learned plenty, and found little of it enjoyable—excepting the dances we shared and Nicholas’s talk of love.”

  “Which he knows little enough of, he who loves none but the ocean.”

  “And you know more?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I know what a lady does and does not discuss with a man not her husband—that the only lover a true lady takes is the one to whom she is wed.”

  “We have discussed such things,” she retorted, “and if you would have me be a true lady, why do you not wed me?” She gasped as words she had not intended to speak soared from her like birds taking to flight.

  Lucien’s lids rose, jaw eased, furrowed brow smoothed. Then he stepped close and swept the hair out of her eyes. “Twice I have been betrothed, Alessandra, and twice I have broken my betrothal. Marriage does not bode well for me.”

  She could hardly breathe. He was opening himself to her—giving her a small piece of who he truly was. And she wanted more. “Why did you break your betrothals?”

  “Neither woman was faithful.”

  “You were cuckolded?”

  “Nay, but I would have been.”

  She frowned. “How can you know this?”

  His eyes grew distant. “The way they looked at my brother. Once they laid eyes upon Vincent, it was certain they wanted him.”

  Though Lucien was not the most handsome of men, Alessandra thought him generous of looks and, especially, character. “You think I would do the same?”

  “Likely.”

  So he not only regarded her as a child, but as a frivolous one. “Then you do not know me.” She turned away, stiffened when he pulled her back against him, melted the moment his arms wrapped around her.

  “But I do know you,” he said into her hair. “I know you set out to make me jealous of Nicholas, and you did it because you believe it is me you want. But as you know, not only is there division between our families, but you have too little experience with men to know what you truly want.”

  Sinking more deeply against his body, she dropped her head to his shoulder and peered up at him. “I have never been more certain of anything.”

  His gaze stroked her face. “You are not acting the lady, Alessandra.”

  “Surely,” she whispered, “I do not need to pretend when it is just you and me.”

  He tilted her face higher, breathed, “You do not,” and lowered his head.

  Alessandra did not feel the strain in her neck as he lingeringly kissed her, but she felt the absence of his mouth when he drew back. “Truce?” he asked as he turned her to face him.

  She smiled. “Truce.” And, hopefully, more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Storm a-comin’!” cried the seaman as he monkeyed down the mast.

  Hands clasped behind his back, Nicholas turned and stared at the horizon that had been open and clear when last he had looked. Now, advancing storm clouds blurred the line between ocean and sky.

  He had thought it would come to this—that here, in the Bay of Biscay, his dark mistress would m
ake him pay for his betrayal with the Mediterranean. For two days, they had navigated the bay off the French coast. It was difficult and dangerous due to the prevailing winds and a strong current, but now it might prove disastrous.

  Knowing he could not chance hugging near the coast and the rocks upon which his ship might be crushed, he called down to the helmsman, “Take her out!”

  It would require vast, open water for Jezebel to weather what would surely be a severe storm. It might not prove so terrible had it come upon them in daylight, but there was only an hour remaining before night descended.

  Nicholas drew a breath of the heavy air and began ordering his men. The sails were adjusted and ropes corrected, all with a deep awareness of peril—and excitement that only men of the sea could appreciate.

  Once more, Nicholas considered the sky and the agitated water. “Harlot,” he muttered. “What will be my reward if I win this one?”

  Might he reach England before the ships that had set sail before him? Might his cargo recover the value by which it had been reduced when Alessandra’s rescue had delayed his departure from Tangier? A slim possibility, but a grand challenge.

  “It looks serious,” Lucien called.

  Tempering the smile that would betray his grave expression, Nicholas turned to where his cousin mounted the steps. “A tempest. Every hand will be needed to beat it back. Think you are up to it, Cousin?”

  Lucien considered the gathering clouds and remembered other storms he had braved. On the galley he had slaved on, wind and rain and saltwater had beat upon him as he and his fellow slaves fought to save themselves and their masters from the wrath of a vicious sea. Indeed, had he not been chained to his oar for a recently committed offense, one of those storms would have gifted him the same watery grave as several of the oarsmen who had rowed in front and in back of him.

  “I am up to it,” he said.

  “Good. Where is Alessandra?”

  “In the cabin.” Where he had left her to practice her writing. Though her Arabic lettering was beautiful, her English penmanship was almost appalling. As usual, she had argued with him over the necessity of the exercise, but had yielded after extracting a promise that she would have a day free of lessons on the morrow.

  “She is to remain there,” Nicholas said.

  “I will tell her and return to assist in securing the ship.”

  When Lucien opened the cabin door a short while later, the sight that greeted him nearly made him laugh.

  “That is quite a feat,” he said.

  The ink-dipped quill slipped from between Alessandra’s toes and landed on the floor.

  “Oh!” She sat up straight. “I did not expect you to return so soon.”

  “Most obvious.” He bent and retrieved the quill. “Is this how you earn your day free of lessons?”

  She scrambled for the parchments upon which she had been practicing. “My hand cramped. Thus, while I waited it out, I thought I would see if I could hold the quill between my toes the same as I hold it between my fingers.” One by one, she raised the three examples of writing for him to see.

  He grimaced. “Surely you can do better than that.”

  She turned one around, frowned. “What do you mean? It is much improved.”

  He shook his head and said, “A storm is headed our way. You are to remain here until I tell you it is safe to come out.”

  “Oh, but I would see it!” She swung her legs over the cot.

  Lucien stayed her with a hand to the shoulder. “You need only feel it, which you most certainly shall.”

  “But—”

  “If need be, I will lock you in.”

  She groaned. “I shall stay put. But you will come tell me what is happening from time to time, will you not?”

  “If I am able to.” Which was unlikely. “Remain in the cot. It will take much of the turbulence.”

  As if to demonstrate, the ship lurched to the side, back to midpoint, and to the side again.

  “It has begun,” Lucien said.

  Alessandra turned, pillowed her head on an outstretched arm, and peered up at him. “You will take care, will you not, Lucien?”

  “All will be well,” he said and strode to the lantern and blew it out. “’Twill be safer unlit.” He crossed to the door and stepped out into the tempest that had begun to show its teeth.

  Alessandra stared at the door, on the other side of which was Lucien. “Lord, protect him,” she whispered, “and the crew, and Nicholas.”

  She smiled at that last. Though she and the enigmatic captain would never be boon companions, she had a liking for him. And she was fairly certain he liked her—grudgingly so.

  Over the next hour, she tried to doze, but there was no rest to be had as the squall built, nor an easing of her troubled stomach.

  Staring into the dark, straining to make sense of Nicholas’s shouted orders overhead, she gripped the ropes of the cot as it pitched hard.

  “Down the mainsail!” she heard.

  “Down the mainsail!” another repeated, surely for those who could not hear the captain above the wind’s howl.

  There came a screeching sound, then a thunderous clapping as the sailcloth dropped from on high.

  Immediately, the ship righted and there was calm as if the storm had ended.

  Just as Alessandra eased her hold on the ropes, the ship slammed to the left, tossing her out of the cot. She threw her arms out to break her fall, slid across the floor on her belly, and came to rest in the cradle where floor met wall. Then she began to backslide.

  “Dear Lord,” she gasped, frantically searching for something to catch hold of. “Save us.” She hooked an arm around the leg of the bolted-down table she came up against and listened for sounds above. All she heard was the pounding of the ocean against the creaking hull.

  Had all been swept overboard? Lucien with them?

  She prayed more fervently, promising all manner of better behavior if God would deliver them out of death’s hands. Then she heard voices again, but before she could slump with relief, there came the cry, “Man overboard!”

  “Lucien!” she cried.

  She peered across the dark cabin to the door, wondered if she could make it there before the next swell knocked her down.

  Releasing her life hold, she used the roll of the ship to move her across the floor, then scrambled upright and wrenched the door open.

  Staggering down the narrow passageway, hands to the walls on either side, she wet her feet up to the ankles in water that leaked through the hatch. Finding the steps before her, she lowered to her hands and knees and began to crawl upward.

  Each time a sharp listing slammed her against the wall, she righted herself until, finally, she threw back the hatch.

  Spray lashed at her face and hands, the frigid wind seized her hair and whipped it into her eyes, and before her, men who were little more than shadow ran to unknown places in their bid to survive the storm.

  Holding the hatch with one hand to maintain her balance, she cupped the other alongside her mouth and shouted, “Lucien!” But his name sounded like little more than a sigh on the wind.

  Fleetingly, she thought of her vow to stay below, then dragged her skirts out of the way and stepped onto the deck. She gripped the nearest handhold—one of several casks lashed together. Holding to it with both hands, she suffered the storm’s rage as she looked for Lucien.

  “Please God,” she once more called upon Him, “let him not be the one lost to the ocean. Let him show himself to me.” But one shadow looked much like another, none differentiating itself by great height or breadth.

  With the arrival of another great swell, Alessandra’s feet slipped from beneath her, and though she held to the cask, she fell hard to her knees. It was then she heard the shout of what sounded like her name.

  As she made it to her feet, a wave backhanded her, ripping her hands from the cask. Carried upon cold, salty water that swept into her mouth and nose, certain she was bound for the railing, she f
lailed for something to turn her hands around, but there was nothing.

  I am going to die, she silently acknowledged. Dear Lord, do not also send Lucien to this watery grave. He needs to go home.

  Something slammed around her waist and thrust her to the deck.

  The wave that had aspired to sweep her into the ocean passed over the rail, but before Alessandra could drag a breath of air, another wave hit and beat upon the one stretched over her. When it also passed by, the man surged to his feet and wrenched her upright.

  “Lucien?” she gasped.

  He tossed her over his shoulder and ran for the hatch, reaching it just ahead of the ocean and slamming it closed behind them.

  As soon as Lucien stepped into the cabin, he dropped her to her feet. “You gave me your word,” he growled amid darkness. “You were not to move from here.”

  Vaguely aware of how cold and wet she was, she flung herself back into his arms. “You are alive!”

  He disengaged her hands, only to snatch her back to prevent her from tumbling with the ship’s lurching.

  “Alive,” he said, “but only by the grace of God are you.”

  “I am sorry.” She pressed her face against his cold, soaked chest. “I heard the shout that a man had gone overboard and feared it was you.”

  “An unfortunate soul,” he said, then more gruffly, “What you did was foolish. Even had I been the one to go into the water, there was naught you could do.”

  “I had to know!”

  He grumbled something, then drew her with him to the cot and lifted her onto it.

  She reached for him. “Lucien—”

  “We will talk later.” He removed her hand from his arm and laid it upon her breast, then surprised her by finding her mouth in the dark. “I will come back to you,” he said against her lips.

  Then he left her again, and she heard the scrape of metal on metal as he locked her in.

  Shivering more from the fear she would not see him again than the cold of a wet, beaten body, she dragged the blanket over her, curled up, and let prayers tumble from her lips.

  He came back to her, pressing his forehead to hers, touching her mouth, nose, and eyes with soft kisses, feathering fingers down her neck. But not until the cot swung and his damp body stretched out beside her did she realize it was not a dream.