Taming Charlotte

by Linda Lael Miller

  Deliberately Charlotte calmed herself. She sat on the edge of the bed she’d shared so happily with Patrick and tried to think. Only a single idea came to her, though she racked her brain, and it was a desperate one, hardly better than stowing away. Still, since it was the only plan she’d been able to come up with, Charlotte decided to follow through.

  She waited until the household had settled down for siesta, then sneaked out, carrying a pouch of gold coins Patrick had given her one day, for incidentals. The sun was mercilessly hot as she walked down dusty, stone-paved streets toward the waterfront.

  There were plenty of boats moored in the harbor; surely she would be able to hire someone to take her across the water to Riz.

  Charlotte paused outside the first in a row of shoddy-looking taverns, working up her courage. She hadn’t thought to bring her parasol, and the skin on her nose was starting to tickle with the beginnings of a sunburn.

  She was just about to climb three stone steps and enter the place when a barmaid came out and hurled a bucket of slops into the street, barely missing Charlotte’s pretty skirts. “You might look where you’re throwing things!” she protested.

  To her amazement, the barmaid replied in English. “I might,” the dark-haired woman said pertly, “and then again, I might not.”

  Charlotte placed her hands on her hips and stared at the woman resolutely, but her tone was moderate when she spoke again. After all, she was there seeking a favor. “I need passage to Riz,” she announced, “and I can pay. Is there anyone in this…establishment who can take me across?”

  The servant turned, addressed the interior of the tavern in strident Spanish. Her words brought seedy-looking sailors of all sizes, shapes, and nationalities to leer at Charlotte from the filthy windows and crowd the doorway.

  “You choosy about the sort of people you sail with?”

  Charlotte swallowed. “Well, I wouldn’t want a criminal,” she replied.

  The raggedly dressed woman shrugged. “Then there’s nobody here—or anywhere on the waterfront, probably—who can help you.” She started to close the door, though the grizzled faces remained at the windows.

  “Wait!” Charlotte cried. She couldn’t bear the thought of staying in Spain, watching and waiting, full of fear that Patrick might never return. “I’ll hire anyone who’s never raped or committed murder.”

  The barmaid translated, and subsequently the crowd thinned. There were murmurs. One man stepped forward, however.

  Charlotte retreated a step herself, and tried to smile. “Hello,” she said, as cheerfully as she could.

  “Hello,” the sailor answered, smirking a little, and Charlotte recognized his accent as American. He was of medium height and indeterminate age, with a wiry build and short brown hair that bristled around his head like the quills of a porcupine. “What business do you have in Riz, miss?” he asked.

  Charlotte was scared, but she was also eager to be on her way. After all, the sooner she set out, the sooner she would be able to catch up with Patrick. “It’s quite personal,” she said. “All you need to know is that I want to go there and that I can pay for my passage. What is your name, please?”

  He looked surprised—evidently he had assumed he was the one in control of the situation. Charlotte would waste no time in disabusing him of that notion. “Mabrey. Jack Mabrey.”

  “My name is Mrs. Patrick Trevarren,” Charlotte replied, with a cordial smile. She enjoyed watching the color drain from Mabrey’s pockmarked face. “You may call me Mrs. Trevarren, if you have cause to address me, though I imagine you’ll be too busy steering your ship to chat.”

  The feral gleam had faded from Mabrey’s small eyes, and his throat worked visibly. “Why are you tryin’ to hire a boat, if you’ve got a rich sea captain for a husband?”

  Charlotte sighed philosophically, and her collected manner was pure sham. “His ship, the Enchantress, is in dry dock for repairs. I’m sure he’s already commandeered a craft—no doubt he wasn’t nearly as polite about it as I—and sailed without me.”

  Mabrey rubbed his chin, which was as bristly as the top of his head. “How much?”

  Charlotte brought out two gold pieces, held them up for the seaman’s perusal. “I’ll pay half when you agree to take me across, and half when we arrive,” she said. She had other money in the pouch, but she expected she might need that in Riz, particularly if it took her a while to locate Patrick.

  “You leavin’ your man or somethin’?” Mabrey persisted, though he quivered visibly with the yen to reach out and snatch away the first coin. “I don’t want no trouble with the likes of Trevarren, not even if the job brings in a month’s drinkin’ money.”

  “He’ll never know who brought me across, I promise you.” Charlotte assessed the man again; he wasn’t at all presentable, and under ordinary circumstances, she wouldn’t have crossed the street with him, let alone a body of water. “Let me warn you, however, that if your behavior toward me is at all questionable, before, during, or after the journey, the captain will learn of it. And he will not rest, I assure you, until you’ve paid for the error in blood.”

  Mabrey wet his lips with his tongue, hesitated a moment, then nodded. “He’ll not find cause to come after me,” he said, and Charlotte felt she had no choice but to believe him.

  “Where is your vessel?” she asked, shading her eyes from the sun as she turned to gaze at the fleet of disreputable scows and fishing boats in the harbor.

  Mr. Mabrey led the way down to the shore and pointed out the worst-looking craft of them all. The boat was barely bigger than the dinghy she and Millie had used for fishing on the pond back home, when they were little girls. It listed to the starboard side, and even from that distance, Charlotte could see that its timbers were rotting.

  She almost backed out, so intimidated was she by the thought of passing through shark-filled waters aboard such a pitiful affair, but at that moment she spotted a clipper moving toward the horizon. It was a smaller ship than the Enchantress, sleek and fast, and somehow Charlotte knew Patrick was at its wheel. She had to act immediately, and with boldness; if she did not, she might well spend the remainder of her life wishing she’d followed her husband.

  “Quickly!” she cried, tugging at Mabrey’s filthy sleeve.

  Mabrey summoned one of his drinking companions to row them out to his boat in a dinghy. Charlotte hesitated again when she saw the vessel at close range, then set her teeth and climbed up the rope ladder behind Mabrey, careful to keep her skirts close around her legs for modesty’s sake.

  The boat smelled even worse than it looked, and the single mast creaked ominously as Mabrey set the sail, but by that time there was no going back. Charlotte gave the man one gold coin, as agreed, and stood in the bow, trying to keep the clipper in view as they lumbered awkwardly in its wake.

  All too soon, the fleet vessel disappeared, however, and Charlotte’s courage faltered a little. Suppose she failed to catch up with Patrick in time? Even worse, what if she did, and he was furious, and he sent her back to Spain, or locked her up in the house of some friend in Riz?

  The farther they traveled from shore, the rougher the water became. Charlotte’s stomach shivered as the boat pitched and rolled upon the waves, and she feared she would retch. After a while, however, she settled into a sort of rhythm, and her midday meal stayed down.

  It was full dark by the time they completed the crossing, but Charlotte figured that was a good thing. She would need to buy shawls to cover her arms, head, and face if she didn’t want to be arrested for indecent exposure.

  Since the tide was in, Mabrey was able to moor the craft at the wharf, and there was no need to row ashore. Charlotte hid behind some barrels and crates while her unlikely protector went off in search of the garments she needed to move about in an Islamic society.

  The marketplace was nearby, and like the waterfront, it was lit by torches. While she waited for Mabrey to return with her veils, she craned her neck and squinted, looking for the fa
st clipper that had brought Patrick across. She couldn’t make out the ship, but at the sound of a familiar voice, she turned her attention back toward the souk and there was Captain Trevarren himself, arguing loudly with a horse merchant.

  Charlotte wanted to call out to him, but she didn’t. She wondered now which fate would be more dangerous—traipsing around Riz without the required covering or facing Patrick.

  She was still in the throes of indecision when Mabrey came back, bearing two tattered, moth-eaten shawls made of mud-colored cloth. Charlotte hastily draped herself, gave the old sailor the other gold coin, as agreed, along with the price of the wraps, and hurried toward the horse merchant’s tent.

  There was a corral beside it, filled with horses of broadly varying quality. Evidently a bargain had been struck, for Patrick was paying the merchant, and his crewmen were bridling the animals and mounting them.

  Charlotte came to what she hoped was a modest and unassuming stop at Patrick’s right elbow, keeping everything but her eyes veiled. Still, she knew she must have been conspicuous in that pink dress.

  “Captain Trevarren?” she said, hoping the effort at politeness would work in her favor.

  Patrick froze—for a moment, even the noisy souk seemed silent as the remotest desert—then slowly turned his head to look at her. His blue eyes looked black as night, she thought, and not just because of the darkness.

  “Charlotte?” he rasped, after a long, shocked interval.

  She nodded. “I’m afraid so,” she said, in a quiet but bright voice.

  He muttered a string of colorful words, took her arm, and shuffled her into the shadow of the horse merchant’s tent. “How dare you disobey me like this?” he demanded, in a terrifying whisper. “Are you completely fearless, or just plain crazy?”

  Charlotte swallowed. “There’s no need to be rude,” she pointed out, assembling her dignity. “I’m not a person who sits and waits, Patrick. I’m a person who goes out and does things.”

  “I can see that,” he snapped, and then he swore again.

  Charlotte figured she might as well press on toward the mark. “Furthermore, if you try to send me back or leave me behind again, I will simply find another way to follow you.”

  “I ought to turn you over my knee!” Patrick growled, giving her a shake.

  She smiled, sensing that she’d won. “But you won’t,” she replied reasonably. “If you were the sort to strike a woman, even on the…bottom, you would surely have done it by now.”

  His nose was almost touching hers, and his eyes glittered with torchlight and fury. “Don’t be too sure of that, Mrs. Trevarren,” he told her. “If I weren’t in a hurry, I’d take down those ruffly drawers of yours and give you a blistering you’d never forget!”

  Evidently Patrick had finished his lecture, for the time being at least. He dragged her back toward the paddock without requiring an answer to his remarks, and Charlotte didn’t have a reply ready anyway.

  An Arabian stallion had been saddled for him, and he hoisted Charlotte onto the animal’s back without ceremony, then swung up behind her.

  “Give me trouble, Mrs. Trevarren,” he challenged, through his teeth, “and I’ll make good on my threat. Here and now, in front of God and everybody else!”

  Charlotte believed him. Besides, she’d used up her allotment of bravado for the day, just hiring Mr. Mabrey and crossing to Riz in his leaky, stinking boat. She sat still and kept her mouth shut, and even though there was no telling what perils she might be facing, her spirit soared with joy.

  Whatever happened, she would participate, and that was so much better than waiting in some dull, safe place to hear a secondhand account. Charlotte leaned back against Patrick’s chest, absorbed the strength of the arms that encircled her, and slept.

  When she awakened, it was near dawn, and the party was far out in the star-washed desert. Arabs, probably guides Patrick had hired, were setting up tents in the white sand, while the other riders drank from flasks and speculated on the difficulty of taking the palace back from Ahmed.

  Patrick lifted her down from the stallion, and even though he wasn’t rough with her, there was no tenderness in the motion, either. Without speaking, he propelled her toward one of the tents.

  Skins had been laid out on the floor of the tent, soft and smooth as kid, and Charlotte stretched out to sleep again, exhausted. Still, on some level she was aware of the war council being held outside.

  As the night turned to dawn, the air grew hotter. Charlotte squirmed fitfully out of her clothes.

  “Here,” Patrick’s voice said, with grudging gentleness. “Have some water.”

  She was barely conscious, but her thirst was as real as her weariness, so she sat up and sipped slowly from the canteen he held to her mouth. The heat was intense, even in the shadowy shelter of the tent, and Charlotte saw that Patrick had taken his clothes off, too.

  He stroked damp tendrils of hair back from her forehead when she sank to the skins again. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked, in a hoarse whisper. “You’re completely incorrigible.”

  Charlotte sighed, squirmed to make herself more comfortable. Her camisole was wet with perspiration, and felt sticky against her bosom. “I won’t be left behind,” she said sleepily. “Let that be a lesson to you.”

  Patrick chuckled, and something in the sound made Charlotte open her eyes and look at his face. He was lying on his side, his head propped on one hand. “I give the orders in this family,” he replied, untying the ribbons at the front of her camisole and idly peeling the cloth away from her breasts. “And if anybody’s going to learn a lesson, Mrs. Trevarren, it’s you.”

  All of Charlotte’s muscles ached from being on horseback most of the night, and she couldn’t remember a time when she’d been more tired. Even so, when Patrick leaned down to touch one of her nipples with his tongue, she was instantly ready for him.

  “And you called me incorrigible,” she gasped.

  Patrick took his time answering. He enjoyed her breast for a good long interval, then gently parted her legs and aligned himself between them.

  Charlotte whimpered, raising her hips, wanting him inside her. They could save the preliminaries for another day.

  He chuckled and moved to her other nipple, drank stubbornly from it, ignoring her low, frantic urgings. Finally, finally, he slanted his mouth over hers and kissed her deeply, swallowing her cry of welcoming passion as he lunged inside her.

  It seemed to Charlotte that all the heat of the desert had gathered in her body. Every stroke of Patrick’s hips drove her closer to madness, and she pitched violently beneath him. They came together, their tongues battling, not daring to break the kiss until the last moan of pleasure had been sounded.

  When it was over, Charlotte cried because it was over, because it had been so beautiful, because she loved Patrick so much. He kissed her eyelids until she quieted, and then they both slept.

  At sunset, Patrick awakened Charlotte. They ate a meal of nuts and pitted dates, accompanied with small amounts of water, and then they made love again.

  Charlotte was weak-kneed and a little dazed as she dressed for another night of hard riding, but Patrick seemed to have energy to spare. He whistled as he helped break camp, and Cochran and the other members of his crew teased him in low voices.

  While Charlotte blushed to imagine what they were saying, Patrick laughed at their jokes.

  All too soon they were traveling again, and the muscles in Charlotte’s thighs throbbed in protest as the stallion galloped tirelessly over the sand. She would have died before complaining, though. Patrick would surely gloat and say he’d been right to leave her behind if she grumbled at all.

  The hours passed with the leisure of decades, it seemed to Charlotte, and when they reached an oasis and stopped, she wanted to sob with joyous relief. Instead, she found a small pail and filled it with water from the spring, which was fringed with palm trees and lush grass. Keeping her shoulders as square and straight as she co
uld, she waited until the tents had been set up, then went inside the one she and Patrick had shared the day before.

  She was naked, having just bathed herself, when Patrick tossed the tent flap aside and came in. His gaze was arrogant as he looked at her, but his words were humble.

  “You are so remarkably beautiful,” he marveled, in a broken whisper.

  Charlotte did not try to hide herself; she stood before Patrick, feeling as pure as Eve before the fall from grace. In those moments, she could believe that they were the only two people on earth, and that the oasis was the fabled Garden.

  She went to him, opened his shirt, kissed the hard, salty flesh beneath.

  Patrick drew in a sharp breath, gripped her shoulders as if to push her away, then entangled his fingers in her hair and held her close instead. “I haven’t forgotten that you disobeyed my orders,” he warned breathlessly as she continued to taste him. “If we get through this without being killed, I might well murder you myself.”

  Charlotte touched his nipple with her tongue, smiled when he groaned in response. “I’ll remember that,” she whispered, trying to sound properly chastised.

  11

  ON THE THIRD NIGHT, AFTER THE TENTS HAD BEEN ERECTED, one of the Arab scouts rode out of camp. Returning within the hour, his expression excited and grim, he told Patrick that Khalif’s palace was nearby.

  Patrick’s crewmen were heavily armed, and it was plain to Charlotte that they were spoiling for a fight. As for Patrick himself, well, he just looked resolute.

  “Since I would only be wasting my breath if I told you to stay behind,” he told Charlotte, his features chiseled and hard in the cold light of the stars and moon, “you will ride with me. But be warned, Mrs. Trevarren—if you undermine my authority over these men by disobeying me, you will be punished. That, my beloved, is a solemn vow.”

  Charlotte shivered, well aware that Patrick was serious, that his tender regard for her would not stop him from disciplining her if she interfered with his plans. She was frightened of the upcoming battle with Ahmed, being no fool. At the same time, however, Charlotte could barely stand still, so great was her anticipation of an adventure.