Barbarous

by Minerva Spencer

  The analytical part of her mind, which she’d formerly believed the largest, was fascinated by the variety of physical acts possible between a man and a woman. The other part of her mind, a part she’d never known existed before Hugh arrived, thrilled at her new knowledge of human bodies and what they could do with one another.

  Daphne was shocked and excited by how merely reading about lovemaking could cause such physical reactions. Her newfound knowledge of what men and women did in private made her regard men—Hugh in particular—in an entirely new light. She imagined him doing to her those things she’d read about. Would she look at every attractive man she met with this new curiosity? Was that how men regarded her?

  What a fascinating new world she had discovered, and it had existed beside the regular one all along. How glad she was none of that world had been contaminated by Malcolm and what he’d done to her on that long ago afternoon. She now understood what he had done, but was more confused than ever why a man would want to do such things with an unconscious woman. She was also more determined than ever to keep him away from every part of her life.

  Daphne sighed, too tired to think of Malcolm right now. Instead she pondered the man sleeping on the bed; Hugh was far more than a lighthearted rake. Tonight his mood had gone from carnal to cold in an instant. She should not be surprised to find dark currents beneath his genial façade. How could there not be after such a past—after he’d suffered such terrible physical abuse?

  Daphne swallowed. How would he react when she confessed what she’d done? Which expression would he wear then?

  And then the memory of the cut girth came crashing down on her.

  “Oh God.” The words slipped from between her frozen lips. Will Standish would see the saddle soon—if he hadn’t already. He would know what it meant and he would wonder who had done such a thing and why. And then he would tell Hugh, and Hugh would have those same questions.

  Questions that had only one answer, as far as Daphne knew: her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hugh woke to sunlight streaming through a small gap in the heavy drapes and blinked away the swirling dust motes. A quick survey of the room showed only Kemal, sitting beside the window, plying his needle on a garment.

  Memories of last night flooded his mind and Hugh closed his eyes, recalling his inability to restrain himself. It was neither the sleeping draught nor a concussion that had made him grab her. He’d woken from a troubled sleep and found Daphne wearing an expression of tenderness he had never expected to see—at least not directed at him.

  “You are awake, my lord.”

  Hugh opened his eyes. Kemal had approached in his silent way and studied Hugh from the foot of the bed.

  “Yes, I am awake,” Hugh agreed, grimacing as he levered himself into a sitting position so that he would not be looking up at people, something he was most unaccustomed to. Kemal arranged the cushions and bedding so that Hugh was soon comfortably placed to take a cup of tea and some fresh bread and butter Kemal seemed to have conjured from thin air.

  “What is the diagnosis, Kemal?” Hugh asked as he inhaled the fragrant bergamot tea, Kemal’s own blend.

  “We are looking for forgetfulness, disorientation, or nausea.”

  “Who are you? Where am I? I believe I may vomit,” Hugh said lightly, smiling and raising the cup to his lips.

  “Quite so, my lord.” Kemal nodded, reaffirming Hugh’s belief the man was entirely without a sense of humor and more interested in straightening bedclothes than engaging in conversation with his patient.

  He missed Daphne.

  “How long am I expected to endure such observation?”

  “Two days, my lord.”

  Hugh snorted and took a bite of warm bread and melting butter. “Not bloody likely,” he said thickly. He hadn’t rested that long when his face had been sliced in half. Even with the promise of Daphne’s company, Hugh could not submit to forty-eight hours of bed rest. He grinned: unless Daphne was actually in bed with him.

  “Is there anything better than hot bread and butter?” Hugh asked, helping himself to another slice.

  Kemal merely raised his eyebrows at Hugh’s rhetorical question.

  Hugh sipped his tea and thought about yesterday, trying to recall how he’d fallen off his horse—which he’d not done since he was a boy. The last thing he remembered was flying off Pasha, his feet still in the stirrups. He frowned. That couldn’t be right.

  He drained the rest of his rapidly cooling tea and popped the last of the bread into his mouth. He needed to get dressed and speak to William. And then he needed to speak with Gates about something. He blinked his eyes, his lids heavy. . . why did he feel so bloody tired? He raised the teacup and then realized he was no longer holding it.

  “Wha—?”

  Kemal was pulling the blankets up around him.

  “Kemal?”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  Hugh opened his mouth. And then forgot what he wanted to ask.

  Kemal leaned so close the pores on his nose were alarmingly huge.

  Hugh tried to shy away but his body was too heavy to move. “Uhh—”

  “You need to rest, my lord.”

  Hugh stared at one particularly stout hair, mesmerized. “No, I—” Kemal’s nose wavered and grew and Hugh couldn’t seem to blink it back into shape. “Ahh, I am going to take a quick nap. Don’t let me sleep past a half hour.”

  “No, my lord.” His normally serious servant was smiling and his voice came from very far away.

  * * *

  The next time Hugh woke, Kemal was reading at his bedside.

  “Good morning, my lord,” he said, his gaze flicking up and then back to the book in his lap.

  Morning? Hugh lifted his arm to push back his hair and gasped at the pain.

  “Bloody he—” A huge yawn came over him, which also caused pain. And his head felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton wool and then beaten with a plank.

  He stared accusingly at the other man. “You put a sleeping draught in my tea, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Hell and damnation!” Hugh winced and lowered his voice. “You are never to drug me again, do you understand?” he demanded, sounding weak and peevish.

  “Yes, my lord. No more drugs,” Kemal agreed, his eyes back on his book—as if Hugh were boring him.

  Hugh scowled. “What the devil are you reading?”

  Kemal held up Gulliver’s Travels but didn’t stop reading.

  So, Daphne had been here last night and Hugh had missed her visit, thanks to Kemal and his blasted sleeping draught.

  “Put down that goddamned book, fetch my robe, and ring for a bath! I’m getting out of this bloody bed.” He glared to let his servant know the matter was not up for debate.

  * * *

  Kemal bit back a smile as he went to arrange for his grumbling employer’s bath. He had witnessed his captain injured many times over the years, but never had he seen the big man submit with such grace to nursing as he had these past few days.

  His smile grew into a smirk; of course Kemal had seen that he slept through much of it. Lady Davenport had reported this morning that the captain had passed a night of uninterrupted sleep.

  Kemal liked the countess very much. Together they had nursed the fractious privateer with very little fuss. Although Kemal would rather have attended the captain himself, he’d realized the pretty, bespectacled woman was most interested in observing the baron—especially when it came to things the English doctor had not asked them to look for.

  Kemal chuckled as he laid out the shaving items. He’d been with One-Eyed Standish for a decade and a half—ever since Standish had escaped Sultan Babba Hassan. He had seen the man pursue—and be pursued—by many women. Some of those women had almost brought the big man to heel and some had merely made fools of themselves: like the Italian duchess they’d rescued from a corsair ship. The fiery noblewoman had been furious at the captain when he deposited her back wit
h her family without offering for her hand. She had shocked her proud brothers and amused the entire crew of the Batavia’s Ghost by throwing articles of clothing, shoes, and even a fish from a nearby vendor’s cart at the captain’s head as he made his escape.

  Yes, many women had set snares for the King’s Privateer. And they had all failed. But Kemal was beginning to think the baron might have finally met his match in this quiet, serious beauty.

  He chuckled and shook his head. He only wished Delacroix were here to share in such a fine joke and he cursed himself—yet again—that he’d not thought to wager with the first mate before he departed. It would have been a good opportunity to take money from the sage Frenchman who’d relieved Kemal of so much gold over the years.

  Thoughts of Delacroix and the Batavia’s Ghost sobered him. A big part of Kemal’s heart had wanted to leave with the ship when it sailed from Eastbourne. He had not been away from the ship for this long in years. Captain Standish had understood Kemal’s yearning.

  “You may go with the Ghost if you wish, Kemal. I would never ask you to stay on land.”

  The captain had offered to retain another valet so that Kemal might go back to the sea, his only mistress—an unforgiving one who’d long ago brought Kemal to his knees.

  Kemal had been torn by the offer, but, in the end, he knew his place was with the privateer he’d served so long. If not for One-Eyed Standish, Kemal would have spent the remainder of his days chained to an oar on Faisal Barbarossa’s ship, doomed to live and die in only a foot of space.

  Yes, that would have been Kemal’s fate. He had no wealthy family to ransom him. Indeed, he didn’t even have any family to return to since corsairs had kidnapped every person in his small village when he was a boy of eleven. He had spent another nine years on the Barbarossa’s ship before One-Eyed Standish beheaded the vicious corsair captain and commandeered his vessel.

  The crew of the Batavia’s Ghost was Kemal’s family now—and the only family he needed. Yes, it had been his lucky day when the baron entered his life.

  It had also been a bloody day, and the first time Kemal watched One-Eyed Standish fall under the sway of his demons and become one himself.

  Kemal knew firsthand the stories men told about the fearsome privateer—that Standish had fought as many as seven men at one time and vanquished them—were no exaggeration. He’d seen days when the captain’s demons would not be sated with any amount of blood; when his hatred of slavers and those who purchased slaves was so fierce he killed everyone in his path, even those who might have surrendered.

  Although One-Eyed Standish was greatly feared and had never been an easy man to understand, he had always been a favorite with his crew. No captain worked harder beside his men or divided the spoils more fairly. Still, those who had served him long enough caught a glimpse into the dark heart of the man and knew he was driven by something brutal and fearsome. Nobody who’d seen him plying his sword could fail to recognize the rage within him. Kemal had seen more than one man throw down his weapon when faced with the mere prospect of facing the maddened giant.

  He knew something terrible had happened to Captain Standish when he’d been the sultan’s slave. Something so terrible that even killing the Barbarossa—the man who’d captured him—had not banished the captain’s demons. In the fifteen years that followed his escape, the captain had pursued the men who’d betrayed him with a singlemindedness that crossed the border into obsession. Kemal knew only one man remained on the captain’s list—Emile Calitain.

  The Batavia’s Ghost had pursued Calitain for fifteen years, but Kemal had never even seen the man. He knew the infamous slaver had once been the captain’s closest friend and had betrayed him.

  Delacroix, who had been with Standish since escaping from the sultan’s prison, had once told Kemal he thought killing Emile Calitain would release the captain from the demons who possessed him.

  Delacroix knew Standish better than anyone, so perhaps he was correct. But Kemal did not think killing another man would be the answer. No, Kemal had hopes this cool, tranquil woman and this peaceful place might be the cure for whatever ailed the driven giant.

  * * *

  Doctor Nichols arrived not long after Hugh finished his bath. He gave Hugh a brief examination and declared him fit to resume non-strenuous activities. Hugh wasted no time taking advantage of his liberation. He’d just finished dressing, even allowing Kemal to tie his cravat since he couldn’t lift his arms high enough, when somebody pounded on his door like a madman.

  “Go see what that is all about,” Hugh said, fastening the remaining buttons on his waistcoat and wincing.

  When Kemal opened the door, two small bodies hurtled into the room, leaving Rowena Claxton standing stiffly in the doorway.

  “Hugh! Hugh! Hugh!” The yells were muffled by Hugh’s coat as both boys clung to him for all they were worth, unaware of the agony they were inflicting on his ribs and leg, not to mention the damage they were doing to his clothing.

  “Cousins!” The word tore from his throat with a yelp and Hugh was glad he was able to yell something that wasn’t an expletive.

  “Mama wouldn’t let us see you,” Richard said, by this time as distinct and recognizable to Hugh as if he did not share identical features with his brother. Hugh was amazed by how different two people could be even though they were mirror images of each other. “She said you were asleep all that time.”

  “She said you fell off Pasha,” Lucien added, his voice edged with a disbelief Hugh found flattering.

  “Well,” Hugh said, gently disentangling them from his bruised and tender torso, “I’m afraid it is true. Pasha is disgusted and refuses to allow me on his back until I can prove myself worthy.”

  Richard glared at his brother. “Lucien should not have mentioned it. Mama says even the best riders take a spill. Even Papa fell from his horse,” he added. Hugh knew that in Richard’s eyes this settled the matter.

  “Yes, that is true,” Hugh admitted. He wanted to deal carefully with the twins’ godlike image of the late earl. “Your father was perhaps the best horseman I ever saw,” Hugh said, speaking the truth.

  Richard flushed, his rosy skin causing him to look the very image of his mother, but for his brown eyes.

  The sound of a throat being cleared made Hugh look up.

  “Lucien, Richard. You’ve seen Lord Ramsay and now we should return to the schoolroom.” Rowena refused to look at Hugh.

  “Nonsense,” Hugh said, taking childish pleasure in contradicting the old crone. “The boys are welcome to relax in my chambers while I finish getting ready. I will see they return to the schoolroom after they’ve passed along any news I’ve missed while lounging in bed.”

  “The curate will be here for their lessons at the half hour, my lord.”

  Hugh could see she was burning to defy him but didn’t dare. “I’ll have them back before then.”

  She dropped a perfunctory curtsy and turned on her heel.

  Hugh smiled down at the boys. “I know Mr. Boswell felt your absence keenly these past days.” Hugh knew the opposite was true but couldn’t see why the odious little beast shouldn’t endure a proper mauling, just as he had.

  Mr. Boswell emerged from his boudoir at the sound of his name and stretched with majestic languidness. He gave the boys one of his most disdainful looks while putting on his fez, taking his time adjusting the red felt hat in the small mirror that hung beside the door.

  The twins loved the display and surrounded the monkey, peering into his house, opening and closing the cunningly designed doors and windows under Mr. Boswell’s gimlet eye.

  Hugh turned to find Kemal holding up a coat.

  He grimaced. “I suppose I must.” He gritted his teeth as Kemal helped him into the garment and then tied his left arm in a sling he’d made from one of Hugh’s old coats.

  Hugh grinned. “Very fashionable, Kemal.”

  Kemal gave Hugh a slight smile before handing him his signet ring and ruby fob.
<
br />   Hugh turned to the boys. “Shall we take a quick trip to the stables and assure ourselves Pasha has taken no harm from my ham-handed treatment?”

  “Huzzah!” Lucien yelled.

  They arrived in the stables to find Will speaking with a groom.

  “My lord.” The smaller man gave Hugh a genuinely pleased smile—the first one since he’d returned home. So, all he’d needed to do to regain William’s friendship was crack a few bones and rattle his wits.

  “We have come to see Pasha. He is well, I hope?”

  “Aye, my lord, fit as a fiddle.” Will led them past a dozen stalls to reach Pasha’s. The massive horse was lolling against the far side and chewing a mouthful of hay in a desultory fashion. Hugh clucked his tongue and Pasha ambled over. Hugh smoothed his muzzle, giving him words of praise before he spoke the command that meant he should remain still.

  “You may enter and pet him,” Hugh told the boys.

  He turned to Will but kept the twins in view. “Well? Out with it, I can see something is bothering you.”

  Will’s jaw worked as if he were chewing a mouthful of rocks. “Has Lady Davenport told you about your saddle?”

  “My saddle? No.”

  “Somebody cut your girth.”

  Hugh gaped. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Aye, somebody tampered with it.” Will kept an eye on the boys while Hugh studied him.

  “Somebody?” Hugh repeated. “Who in God’s name would do such a thing?”

  Will shrugged.

  “Who noticed it first?”

  “I did, after we brought you back.”

  Hugh chewed his lip. Had Daphne seen it? After all, she’d carried the saddle over to him. She was an experienced horsewoman, but perhaps she’d been too shaken at the time.

  “When could this have happened?”

  “Your saddle was in the tack room with all the rest; anyone could have tampered with it. It could have happened anytime—even before this last ride—and only broken after some use.”

  Hugh recalled the day of the accident, his mind running through the events of that morning until he came upon one that stood out.