She was simply startled at first, until a hand smelling of fish closed over her mouth, and then it was too late to scream, even if she were willing to risk it. Better to talk her way out of this so her plans could proceed, and with that thought in mind, she didn't struggle unduly as she was dragged forward to the beached boat.
It seemed an ominous portent that the moon should disappear just as she was brought face-to-face with the other three men. In near total darkness, it was impossible for her to see if she might recognize any of them from the nearby village. And when the hand covering her mouth wasn't lowered so she could speak, she began to feel her first inkling of uneasiness, which quickly increased when they all began to speak at once in some gibberish she couldn't make heads or tails of. The laughter at the end she understood, though, and her uneasiness turned to fear.
Chantelle began to struggle then, but it was too late. With five of them there, for the last man had joined them now, it was appallingly easy for them to get her into the boat. A sweaty cloth was stuck into her mouth, a rope was wound around her a half-dozen times so her arms became useless, and one man's bare foot pressed down painfully into her belly to keep her from rising from the bottom of the boat while the others settled in their places.
A fifth man pushed them off, staying behind on the beach. What difference? There were still four surrounding her, four still talking that gibberish she didn't understand. The foot was removed from her stomach, but she didn't try to rise, afraid to draw their attention back to her. She needed time to think, to calm her fear. There had to be a perfectly logical explanation for their taking her with them, for not allowing her the opportunity to explain what she was doing on the beach in the middle of the night. She need only explain—but to whom? What if none of them spoke English, or French either, which was her second language? Good Lord, if she couldn't understand them, or they her, how was she to find out what was happening?
At least she didn't have long to find out where she was being taken. She was rowed out to a ship riding high in the water, which allowed for its anchorage so close to shore. In short order she was carried aboard, still trussed up, and dumped in a dark cabin, the door slamming shut behind the two who had brought her in, leaving the room in pitch-blackness.
Fortunately, the rope wrapped around her had not been tied tightly, and with some squirming, shaking, and contortions, she was able to unwind herself. Unfortunately, the door opened again just as she had finished, candlelight blinding her for a moment, and then fear took hold of her again, for the man standing there was like no man she had ever seen.
Swarthy-skinned, foreign-looking, with a sharp, hawk like nose and black eyes that normally were slightly slanted, but at the moment were quite rounded in surprise as they looked her over. He was short, shorter than she, and thin. She might even be able to overpower him, which idea should have calmed her nerves a little but didn't. He wore loose trousers and a white cloth that wound around his head, but nothing else, not even shoes.
The bare chest offended her; his staring offended her; that she was here was the biggest offense of all. As she stood there facing him, she began to feel resentment in the worst way, which did wonders in making her forget to be afraid. Motionless until now, she recalled the gag in her mouth and yanked it out, noting only briefly that it was just like the cloth wrapped about this fellow's head.
"Do you speak English?" Chantelle asked imperiously. "Because if you don't, you had better get someone in here who does right away. I demand—"
"I speak English."
The fight went out of her as relief flooded in. "Thank God! I was beginning to fear no one would . . . but listen, sir, a mistake has been made. I must see the fellow who captains this ship immediately."
"All in good time, lalla." And then he grinned, revealing startling white teeth. "He will want to see you, too, you may be sure. By the breath of Allah, he will be delighted such a gift has fallen into his lap."
Chantelle tensed noticeably. "Gift? What gift? If you mean me—"
"Certainly you." His grin widened. "You will bring us a fortune in—"
"Don't be absurd," Chantelle cut him off sharply. "You don't know who I am. You can't know if I have the wherewithal to be ransomed or not."
"Ransomed?" He chuckled, a sound of genuine amusement. "No, lalla, women are rarely ransomed, at least not one as beautiful as you."
Chantelle stepped back a pace, as if his words had literally pushed her. She didn't understand. She was afraid she did understand.
"This ship—what is it doing here? Why have you brought me aboard?"
"There is no need to fear," he tried to assure her. "You will not be harmed."
She wasn't reassured. She was reaching full-blown panic. ''Who are you ?''
She jumped back when he took a step toward her, so he came no closer. Her fear disturbed him. Hakeem Bektash had never been called on to deal with a captive before, and this was no common captive. His first look at those aristocratic features told him that; her imperious manner confirmed it. She was a lady. But who she was didn't matter, not even her name, for she would be given a new one by her eventual master. Still, he was not used to having any dealings at all with ladies, which was why he had been intimidated into calling her lalla, the title for a wellborn woman, even though she was to be a slave.
He simply didn't know how to handle her. Rais Mehmed, his captain, insisted the truth should never be delayed, that captives needed as much time as possible to adjust to their new circumstances. Allah help him, why did he have to be the only one aboard who spoke English?
Before he could say anything, the ship shifted as the anchor was released. "What was that?" Chantelle squeaked, reaching for the wall behind her to brace herself.
"We are sailing."
"No!" she cried out, and then, "To where? Damn you, tell me what's happening!"
"We are corsairs, lalla. "
The word was so well known and feared, there was no need for further explanation. But she seemed not to understand.
In fact, Chantelle had heard the word "corsair" before; she was just so upset the meaning eluded her for several long moments. When it finally clicked in her mind what he meant, the remaining color in her face drained away.
"Pirates? Turkish pirates?"
He shrugged. "Pirates, merchants. It is the same on the Barbary Coast."
"The devil it is! Corsairs are white slavers!"
"Occasionally."
"Then you are . . . No, by God, not on top of everything else!"
He was so fascinated by the bright color rushing back into her cheeks, he gave no thought to what she meant. Nor was he prepared for her sudden leap forward. He was pushed aside so forcefully he lost his balance and landed on the floor, the candle flying out of his hand to become extinguished. In blackness, he just barely saw her disappear through the door. Panicked, he leaped up to follow. If she jumped ship, Rais Mehmed would probably throw him over as well.
He was too late. Running onto the deck, he saw her just ahead; saw a man dash forward to stop her, only to crash empty-handed to the deck behind her; saw her not even bother to climb the rail but simply dive over it. He rushed to the rail himself in time to see her silver head break the surface of the water, and miracle of miracles, she could swim. Few men aboard could claim the same, himself included, or he would have immediately jumped in after her.
Beside him, his shipmates were shouting, as amazed as he was that the English girl wasn't drowning but was heading for shore. And then Rais Mehmed bore down on him.
"You stupid piece of shit! I give you the simplest of tasks to do and you bungle it!" The captain's fist accompanied this setdown, and Hakeem skidded across the deck. Rais Mehmed came to stand over him, murder in his dark eyes. "I ought to—"
"Go after her."
"So you're crazy, too?" Mehmed shouted incredulously. "Go after one worthless female? The sharks can have her," he concluded in disgust.
Hakeem rolled aside to avoid Mehmed's kick and quickl
y held out a hand to stop any further attack. "She had silver hair and eyes like amethysts. A goddess would envy her beauty."
Mehmed stopped, but now his anger took a new direction. "Idiot! Why didn't you say so?"
Hakeem sighed as the privateer was ordered about and the boat readied to be lowered once again. He had saved himself from further abuse, but what of the girl? He half wished they wouldn't find her, though he didn't understand why.
Chapter Four
"There's a chap here to see you, my lord, waiting up at the house. Just missed you, he did. Wandered in on foot about five minutes after you rode out, but he's still waiting, far as I know."
The Earl of Mulbury dismounted, handing the reins of his prize Thoroughbred over to the head groom. Black brows came together above emerald eyes as he glanced up the narrow path toward the house. He wasn't expecting anyone, and his friends were all known to Harry, so for the moment his interest was piqued.
"Are you sure it's me he wants to speak with, not the Marquis?"
"Asked for you by name, he did. Didn't mention your grandfather. Didn't say nothing else, actually. In fact, I'd say he doesn't speak English. Had that look about him, if you know what I mean."
The Earl nodded, tamping down the urge to grin. Harry didn't trust foreigners, ever since his daughter had run off with a Frenchman many years ago. Anyone with the slightest accent was suspect as far as Harry was concerned. His friend Marshall Fielding had always complained about Harry, because the groom often gave his couriers a bad time when they delivered dispatches here. But the chap awaiting him couldn't be one of Marshall's agents, since at the Marquis's request the Earl was no longer involved with British intelligence, though he had never been seriously involved to begin with.
There was no point wondering about it when the fellow awaited him. The Earl headed up the stable path, coming out on the right side of the Palladian-style mansion, residence of the Marquis of Huntstable, his grandfather. The Earl had his own estate in York, but aside from a short yearly visit there to be sure the old manor house was still standing and the tenants were happy with his steward, he lived here in Kent with his grandfather. It was by mutual choice. Notwithstanding the fact that he was the Marquis's only heir, and so the old gentleman was frantic to keep him close and protected, they were also extremely fond of each other.
"Your lordship, there is—"
"Yes, I know, Walmsley," the Earl cut the butler short as he handed over his hat, gloves, and riding quirt. "Where have you put him?"
"I would have kept him here in the hall, milord, but the way he kept staring at the maids made them nervous, so I moved him to the little parlor."
"Rude, was he?"
"You would think he had never seen a woman before," was Walmsley's opinion.
Mobile lips turned up slightly at one corner. "Did he offer a card?"
"He didn't even give his name, milord," the butler replied with marked distaste. "If you ask me—"
"Never mind. I'll see him now. And send in my usual tray, Walmsley, with enough for two."
The little parlor was located to the right of the mammoth hall, down a short corridor there, and at the back of the house. It caught the morning sun, making it a cheerful room, at least at this time of year. The sun was sadly lacking this morning, however, but the rain had held off until after the Earl had enjoyed his morning ride. The room was still light enough with two ceiling-high windows so that lamps were not necessary, and the single occupant was quite visible, standing facing the left wall, clearly fascinated with a shelf of antique clocks.
The little fellow didn't hear him enter, which was fortunate, for the Earl didn't like being taken by surprise, but he certainly was. Even from this side view, he recognized his visitor's nationality, and a dozen questions popped into his mind, along with dread, for he could think of only one reason for an Arab's presence here, and it wasn't good.
With difficulty, the Earl brought his features into a bland mask, and in precise Arabic, he asked, "You requested an interview?"
Ali ben-Khalil jerked around abruptly at the sound of a familiar tongue in this foreign land. It was unexpected, unhoped for, but then Ali was beginning to think Allah had personally seen him through this whole journey, so what was one more blessing? Hadn't he made it safely out of Barikah? Hadn't the weather cooperated and rushed the little three-masted xebec across the seas in less than a month? Even the crew had been blessed in finding an unexpected captive on shore who would add to their profit from this voyage. Then there had been the sailor who spoke English and helped to teach Ali the words he needed to know to reach this place quickly. And there had been the clothes he had easily found hanging in a backyard and stolen, so that he wouldn't look so conspicuous when he had to approach strangers to ask directions. Everything had gone so well, too well, in fact, that he had begun to fear something had to go wrong just to balance the scales. But no, he was here. The tall man who spoke his tongue was obviously the one he sought. He had succeeded, to the very end. Pride and elation swelled in equal proportions within his chest.
"Derek Sinclair?"
At the nod, Ali quickly handed the letter forward, then stood back and waited, for what he had no idea. Perhaps there would be questions. Perhaps the Englishman could recommend where Ali could stay for the next six months. He still didn't understand why he should be banned from Barikah for such a time, but he couldn't complain. He was a rich man now. Besides his own purse, there was still a large balance left from the money he had used to hire the corsair.
He watched the Englishman move to a small desk in a corner and pick up a letter opener before sitting down. The letter itself took only a few seconds to read, it was so brief, and then he looked up to stare at Ali. It was those penetrating green eyes that finally broke through Ali's euphoria to send a cold chill down his back. The eyes, the height, the aquiline features. There was no beard, but . . .
Ali groaned, then immediately prostrated himself on the floor. "Don't kill me, gracious lord! Please, you must lock me away. I am willing, I swear!"
"Why?"
The question was so bland, Ali dared to raise his head slightly. "I—I have seen you."
"So you have. Very well, how long shall I detain you?"
"Six months," Ali replied instantly, finally understanding. "I was told not to return for six months."
The Earl swore softly. Six months? He was supposed to be married next month. Caroline wasn't going to like such a long delay. His grandfather wasn’t going to like it either. But if the courier was to be detained for six months, then Derek could expect to be gone just as long.
"Get up off the floor and tell me what you can about this letter.''
"I didn't read it," Ali protested as he slowly rose, warily watching his host.
"It wouldn't matter if you had. What else do you know about it?"
Ali briefly told him about the many couriers who had been sent out with the same letter, only to die by assassins. How he had volunteered and succeeded. Then he was asked about the Dey.
"I know only that there have been attempts made on his life, that he rarely leaves the palace now."
"Do they know who is trying to kill him?"
Ali shrugged. "I am not from the palace. That is why I was sure I could succeed in coming here, after so many others had failed. I don't know what goes on inside."
Derek smiled. "You did well, my friend. Now, what am I to do with you for six months?''
"Lock me—"
"I doubt that will be necessary, but you can stay here on the estate. I'm sure we can find something to keep you occupied. What do you do?"
"I'm a sherbet seller."
Derek chuckled. "A sherbet seller succeeding where trained soldiers failed. Well done. If only you could speak a little English."
"A little." Ali was finally able to smile, his relief overwhelming. Allah was still watching over him.
"Splendid," the Earl replied, and stood up just as a maid knocked, then entered with his morning tray.
"Coffee?" the Earl asked.
Ali nodded; then, after the girl left, he asked hesitantly, "She is part of your harem?"
Derek smiled, sipping the beverage he had acquired a taste for in his youth. "We don't keep harems here, more's the pity," he answered. "But if we did, I suppose you could say she would be a part of mine. However, she's not for my exclusive use, if you know what I mean."
Silver Angel Page 3