The woman’s hair had been a fiery copper and her skin milky white. Could she be a European whom Hugh had caused to be dressed like a woman from a harem? It was even possible she was an Englishwoman, perhaps a local prostitute, someone he’d engaged after he’d visited his ship? Daphne groaned, her brain whirling. The only thing she knew for certain was that they’d been holding each other like lovers.
How could she ever have believed there was anything growing between Hugh and herself? He’d merely entertained himself with her because she was the only woman in the vicinity. And she’d been so eager for his attention and so . . . so . . . easy.
Anger joined mortification and shock and Daphne could almost feel her heart hardening in her chest. She hated him. She’d been an idiot to delay going to London, which she’d only done until she could conceive of a way to tell him the truth, to give him back his inheritance. Then she could take the boys and—
You are lying to yourself, Daphne.
“No.” She shook her head and whispered. “No, I’m not.” Daphne groaned and closed her eyes.
Yes, she was. And she didn’t need her nagging inner voice to tell her that. She hadn’t lingered at Lessing Hall for the correct answer to appear in her head—there was no correct answer. There was only the unavoidable, unpalatable truth. A truth she would tell him tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow she would end it all—her blind, foolish infatuation and her decade-old deception.
Daphne exhaled, suddenly—and bleakly—calm, now that she’d made a decision. She should thank him for what he’d done tonight rather than blame him.
Yes, she should thank him and be very, very, very grateful his actions had brought her to her senses before she’d done something inexcusably foolish. Something like fall in love with him.
Chapter Thirteen
Hugh had to bite his tongue to keep from yelling. How the hell was he supposed to explain this to Daphne? He glanced down at the source of his troubles, the silent woman on the settee.
Euphemia Marlington’s kohl-blackened eyes were speculative. “You are married, Hugh?” Her voice was low and musical, slightly accented from so many years speaking a language other than English.
“No, I am not married.” He shoved his hand through his hair, furious with himself rather than Mia, who’d done nothing wrong.
“She is your concubine?”
“Good Lord.” Hugh closed his eye and shook his head. Just wait until this one hit the ton.
Other than red hair and green eyes, Mia Marlington bore no resemblance to the girl who’d haunted him for seventeen years. She was as beautiful as any woman he’d ever seen and ten times more devious. Not to mention twice as dangerous as a nest of vipers and more exotic than one of his uncle’s rare orchids.
He gave her a tired smile. “English gentlemen don’t keep concubines, Mia.”
“Tsst!” Her sibilant dismissal and smoldering glance caused Hugh to step away and put his uncle’s huge desk between them.
Yes, the girl he’d met all those years ago was gone. In her place was a woman who’d entered a ruthless killer’s harem at fourteen, going from adolescent odalisque to mature, beautiful, and wily concubine. Hugh knew what it took just to survive Babba Hassan’s cruelty; he couldn’t imagine the strength of will she must possess to have actually flourished.
“Well-bred Englishwomen never mention such subjects as concubines in polite conversation, Mia. Nor do they make that hissing noise.”
Lady Euphemia, only daughter of the Duke of Carlisle, regarded Hugh with eyes as old as sin.
“Whatever she is to you, she is very angry. You had better make amends or it will not be safe to go to sleep under the same roof with her.” A knowing smile curved her lips.
Hugh supposed she knew as much about the nature of man as any woman alive, particularly the bad side. No woman ended up surviving a harem—as Mia had done until recently—unless she was as adept at deadly, Byzantine politics as her lord and master. Just thinking of her life among a group of women all fighting for the survival of their male children made Hugh shudder.
“You will come with me to the house of my father,” she ordered before yawning daintily.
Hugh sighed and massaged his temple, which hadn’t stopped pounding since meeting the woman he’d risked his men’s lives to rescue. Only a few hours in Mia’s company made him realize he could not entrust her to anyone else. She was a bloody force of nature.
Delacroix had all but thrown her into Hugh’s arms when he’d stepped aboard the Ghost.
“She is all yours, Captain. And if you know what is good for you—and your ship and crew—you will remove her immediately.” The old sailor had not looked so frazzled since their days under the sultan’s lash.
“Is something amiss?”
Delacroix threw up his hands and muttered a very vulgar word in French. “She brought the Ghost to the brink of mutiny—dangling her favors before the men, trying to convince one of them to seize the ship and return for her son after we dropped him where he’d asked.” He shook his head and made an angry clucking sound. “Thank God the boy left. He was on the verge of dueling with at least three of the crew for dishonoring his mother.”
Hugh had been with her for only a few hours and already understood what his haggard first mate had meant.
Right now she was staring at him with open displeasure, but at least she was no longer threatening him with mutilation, which was what she’d done when he had bodily removed her from the Ghost and told her, in no uncertain terms, that he was not sending his ship back for her son.
Hugh sighed. He would have to accompany her to her father’s; she would need somebody to serve as cultural translator, at least for a few days. Not that even a year would be enough for her to fit into the ton.
Hugh pitied the tiny woman. A high-stickler like the duke would tend and care for her, but she would never be accepted by society. No man among the ton would take an ex-harem slave as a wife—no matter how much money Carlisle heaped on her.
Hugh had seen it before with reconciliations between long-separated family members. They might cherish the memory of a lost loved one, but the person who came home was not the same one who’d left. How would her family reconcile their memory of an innocent daughter of fourteen with the reality of a woman steeped in sin and treachery?
While Mia’s contemporaries had been learning watercolors and the pianoforte, she had been learning the art of pleasuring a man as if her life depended on it: because it had.
“Hugh? Hugh! Are you attending to me?” Mia’s imperious voice broke into his thoughts.
“Hmm, what were you saying?”
Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits but she maintained her temper, no doubt saving the tongue-lashing for later, after she’d forced him to do whatever it was she wanted.
“I wish to go back for Jibril,” she said for the hundredth time.
Hugh sighed. “Jibril is almost a man grown and you must allow him to fight for the only birthright he knows. If he fails he can find his own way back here.” Privately, Hugh thought that would be disastrous. Mia, at least, had spent her first fourteen years in England. Jibril was the son of a sultan and the product of North Africa; he would never fit in here.
“Come,” he said, changing the subject, “we should both get some rest as we will be leaving before first light. I just heard horses—that will be Kemal arriving with your possessions. He will take you to your room, where a hot bath and food await you.”
She grudgingly nodded, the gray smudges beneath her green eyes mute testimony to her exhaustion.
Kemal was waiting for them when they entered the hall. “I will put her in the Rose Room, my lord.”
“Thank you, Kemal. Good night, Mia. Try to get some rest.”
Kemal bowed to the tiny woman and spoke to her in rapid Arabic. She rewarded him with a glorious smile and a stream of Arabic in return.
Hugh went to the library, half hoping to find Daphne. The room was lighted by two dozen candles, and drawings
and papers covered her desk, but she was not there.
His shoulders sagged with relief—he was such a coward. But what could he say to make things better? Nothing. He poured three fingers of brandy and put the problem of Daphne aside, turning his thoughts to Delacroix’s disturbing news.
The wharf master in Gibraltar said Calitain’s ship passed through only two days before—heading west. The scarred Frenchman had sounded both aggrieved and guilty.
You could not have pursued Calitain and made it to the rendezvous. You did the right thing, my friend. Hugh had meant what he’d said, but he couldn’t help feeling just as frustrated as his first mate. It was poor luck Calitain had returned from wherever he’d been hiding. Hugh had pursued that traitorous bastard around the globe for years, only catching sight of him three times. Each time blood had been shed—lots of blood—but never Calitain’s.
Hugh looked down and saw his knuckles were white just thinking the man’s name. Calitain was the turncoat responsible for the death of six of Hugh’s closest friends, not to mention the loss of Hugh’s eye and a great many other scars on his body and soul. Calitain was the lowest order of criminal and Hugh was burning to go after him. But that was his hatred speaking. To leave now would be to chase his own tail.
Instead he would do the wise thing and send word to the various ports—Hugh had friends everywhere—to keep an eye out for the Golden Scythe, Calitain’s ship. It didn’t surprise Hugh that Calitain had returned to the waters off the Continent, no matter how dangerous they were. Calitain had been involved in the slave trade since he’d quit being a slave himself, and Europeans low in morals and money often financed slave ships, especially since imported slaves now fetched a high price in the American South.
Delacroix would locate Calitain, and then Hugh would deal with him. He smiled grimly at the thought and took a sip of brandy. And then he remembered Daphne.
Hell and damnation! He could not tell her about Mia—at least not yet. After all, it was not his secret to tell. Mia deserved to be the one who decided how and when her story would be revealed.
Which left him with no explanation for Daphne, at least nothing that would keep her from believing him a swine of the lowest order.
Hugh gritted his teeth and took out a sheet of paper. Thank God he’d be miles from Lessing Hall when she read the weak missive.
* * *
Daphne was up bright and early the next morning, fueled by cold rage, humiliation, and determination. Like Samson bearding the lion, she marched down to the breakfast room. But when she flung open the door to the cheery, sun-filled room, all she found were Lady Amelia and a dozen pugs.
Daphne stared. The older woman never came to breakfast—ever. Why, of all mornings, was she here today? How was Daphne supposed to speak to Hugh with Amelia and her dogs in attendance?
The answer was simple: she wasn’t. She’d begun to back out of the room quietly—not that anything short of cannon fire could be heard over the pugs—when the old lady glanced up.
Daphne stopped and forced herself to smile. “Good morning, Amelia.”
The older woman’s usually vague eyes were as sharp as ice picks this morning. She lifted her fork, which had an entire fish impaled on its tines. “Do you know if these are the only pilchards Cook keeps? The pugs don’t care for these at all.”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that.” Daphne hesitated and inspiration struck. “Gates would know. I will go and—”
The butler chose that moment to appear, bearing a salver with a letter on it. “Lord Ramsay left this for you, my lady.”
Daphne frowned, something heavy and cold settling in her stomach.
“Where have you been, Gates?” Lady Amelia demanded. The butler opened his mouth but Lady Amelia waved her hand, forgetting she still had one of the offending pilchards on her fork. The fish sailed across the breakfast room and collided with a marble bust of some long-dead Redvers before slithering to the floor. The pugs skittered across the polished wood, toenails clicking as they descended, en masse, on the fallen pilchard.
Oblivious, Lady Amelia glared at the butler and held up her empty fork. “Who is responsible for this wretched pilchard business?”
Gates wrenched his eyes away from the grease-slicked bust, a slight notch between his eyes, his lips parted.
Daphne took pity on her long-suffering servant. “Please have Cook send in some pilchards.”
His gaze slid to the dish full of pilchards on the sideboard.
“Fresh pilchards,” Daphne clarified. “And a pot of tea, please.”
“Right away, my lady.”
A place had been set a safe distance from Lady Amelia’s chair. Daphne stared at the letter for a moment before opening it.
My Dear Daphne:
By the time you read this I will be gone from Lessing Hall. I apologize for the uncomfortable situation you encountered last night. Unfortunately I cannot say anything further on the matter other than to assure you things are not the way they seem. Please believe me when I say that I will explain everything when I am at liberty to do so.
I hope to be gone no longer than a week—two at the most—and I look forward to speaking with you on my return.
Your servant,
Hugh
She read it again, just to confirm it really said as little as she thought it did. It did.
“Is that from Hugh?”
Daphne looked up to find Lady Amelia had carried the chafing dish of bacon to her seat.
“Yes, it is.”
Amelia dropped a piece of bacon onto the floor and detonated an explosion of barking.
Daphne winced.
“Has he taken those odd dogs with him?” the old lady shouted over the din.
“He did not mention the dogs in his letter.”
“Did he say what he was doing with that Marlington chit?”
Daphne squinted, as if that would somehow help with the noise. “With whom?”
Amelia tossed another piece of bacon onto the floor. “That redheaded gel who climbed into the coach with him this morning.”
“You saw Hugh leaving?”
Amelia picked up another piece of bacon and Daphne fought the urge to scream—not that she would be heard above the dogs.
“Yes, the racket of carriage wheels woke the pugs.” Her silver eyebrows descended into a line as straight as the blade of a sword. “I hope he does not plan to make a habit of such uncivil behavior.”
More bacon hit the floor and Daphne soldiered onward. “You mentioned a woman, my lady?”
“The girl is his daughter, I would swear to it.” She paused in the act of distributing more bacon, a brief, sphinxlike smile curving her lips. “He was sweet on me, you know.”
It was all Daphne could do not to snatch the dish of bacon from the old lady’s hands and hurl it into the hallway. Instead she swallowed, took a deep breath, and tried again. “I beg your pardon, but who was sweet on you?”
“He was Thomas’s friend and spent an entire summer here. I’d recognize a Marlington anywhere. Red hair, the whole lot of ’em.”
“Marlington?”
“Yes, the Duke of Carlisle. He was sweet on me,” she repeated. “But I never liked him after he pulled one of my pugs’ tails.”
“And you say this woman is his daughter?”
“Must be—that hair, no mistaking it.”
A footman entered bearing pilchards, and Lady Amelia looked from her empty dish of bacon to the heap of fish, and frowned. “No, no, no! We’ve already got plenty of those—what we need is more bacon.”
Discussion ensued, but Daphne did not hear it. All she could think of was the woman Hugh had left with.
A duke’s daughter?
* * *
Daphne told herself she should be grateful for Hugh’s departure because it saved her a very painful conversation. She could hardly be faulted for her silence if he wasn’t actually here to confess to, could she?
Her conscience told her that logic was spurious, b
ut Daphne did not care.
Another thing his absence saved her from was further acts of foolishness. Because that was what she was, a fool.
She cringed every time she thought of her naïve infatuation. But that was all over now. Instead of mooning over the duplicitous rake, she began making plans for her long-delayed trip to London and arranging to have the house in Yorkshire readied for occupancy.
Without Hugh to distract her, she also completed the rough draft of her long-suffering paper in just under a week. She was astonished by how much she’d missed her work and rejoiced at the return of her peace of mind.
It was unfortunate that peace was short-lived.
Unlike Daphne, her sons were devastated by Hugh’s abrupt departure, their sorrow mitigated slightly by the discovery that Mr. Boswell and the parrot—and the two dogs—had remained behind.
Hugh had taken Kemal with him and left his disconcertingly attractive second mate, Martín, in charge of his animal entourage. Daphne doubted he was the best role model for two young boys, especially after Rowena told her of the seductions and fights his presence had sparked in the servants’ quarters. While Daphne did not entirely trust Rowena’s judgment on the matter, she had no doubt Martín Bouchard was a consummate ladies’ man. The combination of dark honey skin, golden eyes, and sun-bleached hair made him unusual, exotic, and extremely attractive.
He also had a magnificent physique, which he took pains to exhibit. He wore breeches of butter-soft leather—so tight as to be obscene—boots as highly polished as his captain’s, and shirts of fine lawn, which he topped with form-fitting waistcoats. His habit of forgoing a coat caused discontent and grumbling among the male staff and starry eyes and heaving breasts among the females.
Hugh had warned her that one must choose one’s battles with Bouchard, so Daphne had ignored his inappropriate attire and arrogant attitude.
Until now.
She was in the library selecting the books she would take with her to London when the boys crashed into the room, brandishing swords and engaged in a noisy duel.
Barbarous Page 16