by Marie Laval
The Lion’s Embrace
Marie Laval
Arrogant, selfish and dangerous, Lucas Saintclair is everything Harriet Montague dislikes in a man. He is also the best guide in the whole of the Barbary States and the only man who can rescue her archaeologist father, from kidnapping by a gang of Tuareg fighters.
As Harriet embarks on a perilous journey across Algeria with Saintclair and Archibald Drake, her father’s most trusted friend, she discovers a bewitching but brutal land where nothing is what it seems.
Who are the men intent on stealing her father’s ransom? What was her father hoping to find in Tuareg Queen Tin Hinan’s tomb? Is Lucas Saintclair really as callous as he claims – or is he a man haunted by a past he cannot forgive?
In the heat of the Sahara, dangerous passions engulf Harriet. Secrets of lost treasures, rebel fighters, and a sinister criminal brotherhood threaten her life and the life of the man she loves.
Does forever lie in the lion’s embrace?
A mes soleils, et à ma mère, toujours...
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Marie Laval
Chapter One
Algiers, April 1845
‘Fissa, fissa,’ Harriet urged as she followed the boy down the narrow alleyways leading to the harbour. It wasn’t dark yet but already a full moon lit the Algiers sky, shimmered on the surface of the sea, and steeped the walls of the old town in its silver light.
Drunken, rowdy sailors and soldiers on leave crowded the streets. Men lurked in shadowy doorways. She had been in too much of a rush getting out of Lord Callaghan’s palace to be scared earlier, but anxiety now knotted her stomach and tightened her throat. She gripped the dagger at her side. Coming here on her own might not be such a good idea after all, even if Lucas Saintclair was at the Seventh Star and she desperately needed to talk to him. Even if he was the best guide in the whole of the Barbary States, and the only man who could help her.
At least nobody gave her a second glance. With her indigo blue tunic and trousers and the turban she had bought at the souk, she looked like a Tuareg fighter—albeit a diminutive one.
In front of her, a man relieved himself against a wall and stumbled into a pile of rotten rubbish, his breeches still open. She wrinkled her nose in disgust and stepped over him.
The boy pointed to a blue door above which a crudely painted golden star dangled precariously. Harriet slipped a silver coin in his hand and was about to push the door open when it flew straight back in her face. A short, stocky man ran out into the street. Wheezing loudly, his eyes bulging with fear, he looked as if the devil himself was on his tail.
And it was.
A tall, dark-haired man entirely dressed in black strode out of the tavern and bumped into her.
‘Rood Bâlek!’ he growled, grabbing her arm to push her out of the way.
She tilted her face up to look at him. If there was something of a pirate in his strong, weather-beaten face covered with dark stubble, it was his eyes that sent a shiver down her spine. They were the coldest eyes she had ever seen; icy blue, and so pale they were almost transparent.
He stared down at her. She held her breath, fearful he had seen through her disguise and would rip her scarf off.
He shoved her aside, slid his hand in the pocket of his leather waistcoat, and pulled out a dagger with a curved blade. In long, supple strides he caught up with the other man and toppled him onto the ground.
‘Now, Rachid, you snivelling rat,’ he said in French as he pressed the tip of his black riding boot onto the other man’s throat. ‘You have five seconds to tell me where the map is. Un… deux…’ He flipped the dagger like a toy between his fingers.
‘Oh, my God,’ Harriet breathed out. She glanced around, but nobody was paying the two men the slightest notice. There was no time to think, a man’s life was at stake. With a muffled cry she hurled herself at the tall stranger, jumped on his back, and hooked her arms around his neck.
He let out a roar of anger and swirled round to shake her off. She wrapped her legs more tightly around his waist.
‘Bon sang! Qu’est-ce que...’
He dropped the dagger, twisted his body and managed to grab her waist to slide her to the front so she was now against his chest. Aware she was losing her grip, she lunged forward and sank her teeth into his shoulder.
He growled, held her at arm’s length and threw her off. She fell on the cobbles. The turban softened the impact to the back of her head, but a vicious pain at the bottom of her spine made her cry out. The man swore in French. Although she only caught a few words, she understood he was angry. Very angry. His victim had escaped.
She let out a sigh of relief. She had done it. She saved a man’s life. Her joy, however, was short-lived. The Frenchman leaned over, picked her up by the collar of her tunic, and lifted her as if she was no heavier than a bundle of cloth. The savage glint in his eyes dried her throat and made her heart hammer against her ribs.
‘Please, don’t hurt me,’ she pleaded, breathless.
His eyes opened wide in shock.
Since when did Tuareg fighters speak fluent English? Come to think of it, since when did they smell of Damascus rose soap?
He peered more closely at the face in front of him and saw two grey eyes bordered with long, dark eyelashes and the tip of a small nose above the dark blue scarf. He recalled the odd sensations when the soft, curvy body had thrust against him earlier. This wasn’t a Tuareg fighter at all, it was a … He ripped the headdress off and a mass of thick honey blonde hair tumbled out.
‘A woman? I thought as much. Who are you?’ he asked in English. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing just then?’ He shook her a little, not to hurt her, but enough to give her a fright.
The woman didn’t answer.
‘You’re not so bold now, are you?’ He narrowed his eyes, smiled his meanest smile, and was satisfied to hear her helpless cry. She had cost him days of patient stakeout. Now, because of her, Rachid was free to sell the map to the highest bidder. And he knew exactly who that would be.
‘Maybe you’d like to take another bite?’ he snarled, pointing to his shoulder.
She shook her head.
‘Actually, maybe I’ll be the one to take a bite. You look appetizing enough.’ He lifted her closer, until his mouth almost touched hers and he felt her warm breath on his skin.
He gazed into her grey eyes and time seemed to stop.
‘Please,’ she whispered.
‘You have some explaining to do, lady.’ His voice was hoarse and he felt dizzy, like someone pulled too abruptly out of a dream.
She was shaking like a leaf now. He let her down, keeping a firm hold on her arm. He didn’t trust her. She might stand in front of him, small and fragile, but h
e wouldn’t put it past her to run off and disappear into the maze of alleys of the old town.
She wouldn’t go anywhere before he had answers.
A curious crowd had gathered around them. The man’s fingers were a steel vice around her arm. Surely he wouldn’t hurt her in front of so many witnesses?
‘Get your hands off her!’ A man’s voice called.
Thank God.
‘Archie!’ she said, flooded with relief as her oldest, most trusted friend sliced through the crowd towards her.
The man let go of her. She ran to Archie, welcoming the strong, safe arm he wrapped around her. She noticed that he gripped the butt of a pistol under his jacket.
‘Are you hurt? Did he hit you?’ His face was flushed, his thick blond moustache quivered with indignation.
‘I didn’t touch her,’ the Frenchman said calmly. ‘She was the one who jumped on me like a banshee, bit me and set my man free when I finally had him.’
He clenched his fists.
‘You were going to kill him!’ Harriet cried out in protest. ‘
‘What I was doing was none of your goddamned business.’ He narrowed his cool blue eyes to stare at her. ‘You don’t seem the type to work for Rachid. Who are you? What do you want?’
Archie’s arm tensed around her as a warning but she ignored him.
‘I’m looking for Lucas Saintclair,’ she said.
‘Whatever for?’ He cocked his head to one side.
‘I have a proposal for him.’
A slow grin spread on his lips.
‘Then it looks like you found him, darling.’
There was a moment of stunned silence.
‘You are Saintclair?’ Harriet and Archie exclaimed in unison.
He nodded, bent down to pick his dagger and slid it into his pocket
‘What do you want with me? Apart from spoiling a nice evening, that is.’
‘Is hounding a poor man down onto the ground your idea of a nice evening?’ Harriet tilted her chin to stare at Saintclair.
‘Now I’m sure you don’t know Rachid.’ His lips curled into a cruel smile. ‘No one acquainted with that weasel could possibly harbour any sympathy for him. So I repeat, what is it you want?’
‘Monsieur Saintclair, we desperately need your help,’ she started.
‘Let me deal with this, Harriet,’ Archie interrupted, stepping forward.
‘My name is Archibald Drake, from the British Museum. I have been looking for you all over town these past few days.’
Saintclair shrugged. ‘I’ve been busy.’ He paused. ‘The British Museum? Has this anything to do with the English professor who was captured in the south of the country?’
‘He’s my father, Professor Oscar Montague,’ Harriet said. ‘He was abducted by bandits in…’
‘Tamanrasset,’ Saintclair finished. ‘Yes, I heard about it. So you’re Montague’s daughter?’
His eyes searched her face, went down her body and back up again. An uncomfortable heat spread across her cheeks.
‘What are you thinking of, Drake, taking your woman to the docks with you?’ he asked curtly. ‘That disguise wouldn’t fool a blind beggar.’
‘I’m not his—’
‘Harriet is my fiancée,’ Archie interrupted, laying a possessive hand on her forearm.
She tightened her lips. It did make sense to pretend they were engaged. She should have suggested it herself.
‘And you are right,’ Archie continued, ‘she shouldn’t be here.’ He turned to Harriet. ‘In fact, I expressly forbade you to leave Lord Callaghan’s palace tonight, so what are you doing alone in the docks?’
Two pairs of hard, disapproving male eyes stared at her.
She bit her lower lip, looked down and kicked the cobbles with the tip of her boot.
‘A boy came for you,’ she muttered. ‘He said he knew where to find Monsieur Saintclair. As you weren’t there I thought I would come down here to meet him myself.’
‘That was a very foolish, very dangerous idea.’ Archie sighed. ‘But now we’re here, is there anywhere we can talk?’
Saintclair gestured towards the Seventh Star.
‘In there. You’ll have to make it quick. I have plans for tonight.’
They followed him into the tavern. Inside, the atmosphere was so thick with tobacco smoke, alcohol fumes, and the stench of too many bodies pressed together in too small a space that it was hard to breathe. Saintclair found a table and gestured to a serving woman.
‘Is rum all right for you?’
Archie nodded. ‘Fine.’
Saintclair spoke to the woman in Arabic. She whispered something into his ear that made him smile and walked away, swaying her curvaceous hips. Harriet looked on in dismay. What kind of man was this Lucas Saintclair? Could she ever trust anyone who sweet-talked a tavern girl minutes after attempting to kill a man in the street?
‘I’m listening.’ Saintclair turned to Archie.
‘We need you to take us to Tamanrasset, find the Tuaregs who captured Oscar Montague, and help us rescue him.’
Saintclair let out a short laugh, raked his fingers through his dark hair. ‘Is that all? Do you have any idea who these men are—and more importantly, do you have any idea how angry they are?’
Suddenly serious, he looked at Harriet.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Miss, but I don’t think you have much chance of finding your father alive.’ His voice was almost kind now, his eyes softer.
‘But we have his ransom. Lord Welsford, the British consul, sent a message to the Tuaregs to let them know we are bringing a large amount of gold in exchange for his safe return. Surely they wouldn’t harm my father before we got down there, would they?’ Her throat closed, dread filled her heart. Saintclair’s words echoed her worst, unspoken fears.
‘These men are criminals.’ Archie slammed the palm of his hand onto the table. ‘I do hope the French catch them and deal with them as they deserve.’
‘I must disagree with you here.’
Saintclair reclined on his chair, stretched his long legs in front of him. Any trace of kindness disappeared from his face and he stared hard at Archie.
‘Montague desecrated a Tuareg tomb. And not any tomb—Tin Hinan’s, the ancient queen of the Tuaregs and the woman they refer to as their Mother. Rumour is that he stole precious artefacts, too.’
‘You are wrong!’ Harriet cried out, outraged. ‘My father is a respected historian, not a tomb robber. Everything he does is for the Museum.’
Archie patted her arm. ‘Harriet, dear, calm down. We all know how devoted to historical research your father is.’
He turned to Saintclair. ‘How can you defend what these men have done? Montague is being held against his will, his whole team was butchered and left to rot in the sun.’
‘They are dead? Archie, you never said…’ Harriet felt the blood drain from her face. The room became a blur and started to spin as she struggled to catch her breath.
‘I am very sorry, dear. I didn’t want to tell you, but Lord Welsford got the news from the French garrison in Tamanrasset. Every single member of the expedition apart from your father was killed.’
‘I thought they were safe,’ she whispered, ‘captive, but safe.’
She blinked back the tears. ‘Joseph? Alfred? Charles?’
Every time she mentioned a name, Archie nodded and sighed. A cry of anguish escaped her lips. Her father’s most trusted associates, men he had worked with for over twenty years, who had stayed at their London house… dead. Murdered in the desert.
The waitress came back with a wooden tray and placed tumblers of rum in front of them. Saintclair gave her bottom a slap and the woman let out a coarse laugh. She blew him a kiss before walking away. Harriet pursed her lips in distaste.
‘I see my father’s predicament doesn’t distract you from more pressing issues,’ she remarked, aware of sounding just like prim Aunt Elizabeth.
Saintclair arched his eyebrows but did
n’t reply. He pulled a cigar out of his waistcoat pocket.
‘All you have to do is name your price,’ Archie said. ‘My employer, Lord Callaghan, is a very generous man. He is paying for the rescue Mission and most of the ransom. One thousand gold napoleons.’
‘I heard about that, too.’ Sainclair leaned over the table to hold the cigar to the flame of a candle. ‘You should be more careful, Drake. It’s not wise to advertise the fact you are travelling across the country with so much gold.’
Harriet shrugged. ‘We’ll be armed and ready.’
Saintclair almost choked on his cigar.
‘You’re not thinking of going to Tamanrasset, are you?’ His eyes were cold as he stared at her.
‘Of course I am.’
‘Of all the stupid things I ever heard, this has got to be the—’
‘Why? Because I am a woman? I am as capable as any man, Monsieur Saintclair, and it’s my duty to help my father.’ She drank some of her rum. The liquid burnt her throat and brought fresh tears to her eyes, but she managed to swallow it without coughing.
Saintclair shook his head.
‘Your duty is to stay at home, do your needlework, or whatever it is you women do, and look pretty. If I lead the expedition, there is no way I’m taking you with us. You can’t possibly imagine the dangers we’ll face, and I am not talking about the heat and the harshness of the terrain. There’s the wildlife—lions, leopards, and Saharan cheetahs, snakes and scorpions, and the most deadly of all—men.’
‘I have to agree with you there,’ Archie cut in. ‘I tried to talk Harriet out of it, but she is very determined and…’ He raised his hands in a helpless gesture.
Saintclair raised his eyebrows. ‘If she were my woman, she would do exactly what I told her to do.’
‘Let’s be thankful I’m not, then,’ Harriet retorted. She crossed her arms on her chest and tilted her chin, defiant.
Saintclair leaned forward and she was faced with his icy, crystal clear stare once more.
‘I am not taking a woman to the Sahara, and that is final.’ He spoke slowly, detaching every syllable as if he was talking to a particularly silly and stubborn child.
He drew on his cigar, blew a few circles of smoke, and smiled. ‘And I’m ready to wager a hundred francs no other guide in Algiers will either.’