Lady Of Fire (36 page)

Quickly, she donned the cloak and hood that had allowed her to attend the tournament unnoticed. Of course, it had not fooled Sir Gavin.

Keeping him in mind, she descended to the hall. From the shadow of the stairs, she searched for him and found him absent. She continued to the kitchens where some of the servants looked up from their toil, but allowed her to pass without question.

Night’s crisp air greeted her when she stepped outside.

Rubbing her hands over her arms, she traversed the inner and outer baileys. At the portcullis, it proved easy to merge with a group of departing nobles, and moments later she skirted them and ran toward the encampment.

She paused as she neared the red-and-gold striped De Gautier tents, looked cautiously around, then toward Lucien’s tent from which light shone. Smiling, she hitched up her skirts and hurried forward, only to stumble.

She thought she had tripped on her skirts, but instead of falling forward, she was dragged backward.

Her cry of surprise caught by a hand that clapped over her mouth, fear cut a jagged path through her. Desperate to free herself, she twisted and thrust her elbows into the chest of the one behind—a man, as told by his grunt of discomfort.

Gripping her more tightly about the waist, he continued to drag her opposite Lucien’s tent.

Alessandra kicked a leg back and connected with a shin. When that failed to result in her release, she sank her teeth into the fleshy palm that bruised her mouth. But to no avail. Her captor held tight as he maneuvered her from the camp toward the bordering wood.

Did he intend to violate her? Murder her? Who was he? Had he followed her from the keep? Had he been among the nobles she had trailed out of the bailey?

The crunch of leaves and the shadow of trees alerted her to their entrance into the wood. Heart beating so hard she thought it would burst, she reached over her shoulder and raked her nails down the man’s face.

He growled and shifted his hand so that it also covered her nose.

Alessandra tossed her head in an attempt to dislodge the hand, but it bit more deeply into her face. She opened her mouth and screamed against it, but the sound was heard only in her head.

As unconsciousness crept over her, weakening her struggles, one lucid thought made it through. Embracing it, she became deadweight in her captor’s arms.

As she hung there, she sensed his uncertainty. Then, blessed air. Desperation entreated her to gulp the precious stuff, but she forced herself to draw slow, shallow breaths. Her hazy senses slow to clear, it was not until she felt the cold, moist earth that she realized she had been lowered to the ground.

Fearful the night was not dark enough for her to risk opening her eyes, she lay still and waited to discover what the man intended.

He whistled softly, and she heard the sound of approaching horses.

Lifting her lashes slightly, she saw the dark silhouettes of three horses and two riders heading to where she lay. Her captor, his back to her, motioned them forward.

Struggling to keep her breathing even, Alessandra commanded herself to devise a plan before the man’s accomplices reached them. But all she could think to do was run and scream in hopes of drawing the attention of someone in the camp.

She rolled to her stomach, jumped to her feet, snatched up her skirts, and lunged toward the flickering lights.

A shout sounded behind her, then she heard her captor give chase.

Her hair flying out behind her snagged something. A branch? Or the grasping fingers of the one in pursuit? She ran faster, felt the roots of her hair pull free, and knew it was the man.

The blood pounding in her ears echoed by the hooves of riders bearing down upon her, she sent forth a prayer that just this one time she would not trip over her long skirts. Then she screamed. It sounded pitiful, wheezing from her and cut short by the need to draw more breath to fuel her flight.

When her feet touched meadow, her heart soared.
Nearly free
, she told herself, then an arm turned around her waist, lifted her, and held her like a rag doll against the side of a galloping horse.

As the animal was wheeled around, Alessandra saw the woods rise up before her again—refuge for those who meant to steal her away.

Shortly, she was dropped to the ground.

Where she lay in a heap, she heard voices that sounded strangely and impossibly familiar.

Am I dreaming?
she wondered and rolled onto her back and stared up through her tangled hair at those above her.

“I want her gone from here,” spat one of them. "Now!"

Though she was certain she knew the voice, she could not place it.

There was an answering murmur, then one of them dropped to his knees beside her.

Alessandra knew the face, but it made no sense. Closing her lids, she whispered, “I always could outrun you,” then yielded to unconsciousness.

“She did not come?”

Lucien dragged his gaze from Corburry’s darkened keep, took up the reins, and looked over his shoulder to Jervais. “She stayed true to her word,” he said.

Jervais urged his horse near. “She will change her mind. Within a sennight, you will have word from her.”

Lucien tapped heels to his destrier and maneuvered to the head of the De Gautier procession. As it had been nearly impossible to sleep through the night, they would be the first to depart Corburry. It suited him, leaving ahead of the dawn and ensuring their arrival at Falstaff before the noon hour.

“Even so,” Lucien said when Jervais sidled near, “’tis probably best Alessandra remain a Breville.”

“For whom?”

“Both of us.”

“But—”

“She has made her decision, Jervais. Leave it be.” Lucien jabbed his heels into his mount’s sides and left his brother and the others behind.

Falstaff, he told himself as the cool air ran through his hair. His former holdings restored, it was there he would find peace. In time, Alessandra would fade from memory until all that remained would be the occasional encounter that was bound to happen as long as there was peace between the De Gautiers and the Brevilles.

However long that might be.

“She is awake, my friend.”

The accented voice drifted into Alessandra’s consciousness. She groaned, blinked against the light of a sun muted by cloud cover, and turned her head toward the man who rose from beside a campfire. Not until he knelt beside her and pushed the hair out of her eyes was she able to bring him into focus.

Thinking she must be dreaming, she closed her eyes in hopes of awakening in her warm chamber at Corburry.

“Alessandra,” he gave her a shake.

Funny that his voice is so clear
, she thought.

“Do you hear me?” His warm breath caressed her cheek.

She lifted her eyes again, peered into familiar black orbs. “Go away,” she breathed. “You do not belong in England.” Rubbing her hands up and down her chilled arms, she curled into a ball to try to warm herself.

“Neither do you belong here,” he said and shook her harder.

She returned her gaze to him and found his features undeniably distinct. His black eyebrows drawn together, mouth a tight line, he looked more real than any dream she had ever had. And the four lines scoring his right cheek…

“Rashid?”

His mouth softened. “Yes, Rashid.”

She sat up so abruptly, her head clipped his chin. “It cannot be,” she switched to her native language with an awkwardness that surprised her. Though she continued to think in Arabic, more and more she spoke the English language without conscious effort.

Rashid caught her hand. “It is me,” he said and placed her palm against his jaw.

“What are you doing in England?”

“I came to take you home.”

The events of the night past rushed at her. It was Rashid who had abducted her from the camp. He who had stolen the breath from her when she had fought him. But what of the other two? She had known one of them—or thought she had—but could not recall who it was.

“Why did you come for me?” she asked.

His nostrils flared with a hint of the anger she had glimpsed the night he had beat Lucien. “Algiers is where you belong. As my bride.”

His bride, not Lucien’s. Realizing Lucien had likely departed Corburry by now, she closed her eyes. He would have gone believing she had spurned him.

“Alessandra?” Rashid jogged her. “We are returning to Algiers.”

That was what she had wanted when Lucien had forced her to accompany him to Tangier, but now she wanted something different. She could not return to the life she would have as Rashid’s wife. She needed freedom, not to be cosseted and locked away without consideration of her own feelings.

Even though women were also regarded as chattel in England, their lives seemed fuller—running the household, checking the accounts, enjoying outings where they were not required to hide their faces, and all other manner of independence she was not permitted in a harem. Despite England’s cold weather, strange food, and primitive means of men proving their valor, she belonged here. More, she belonged with Lucien, even if he would not have her.

“I cannot,” she said and pulled her hand away. “Algiers is no longer my home, Rashid.”

Abruptly, he stood. Coloring suffusing his face, he said, “You think you belong in this godforsaken country of little sun and accursed cold?”

She deserved this. After all, he had come across an ocean to return her to Algiers.

He reached down and yanked her upright. “Are you still mine, Alessandra?”

“Yours?” Had she ever truly been his? Regardless, now she was not, for he was not Lucien. Wishing there were an easier way to tell him, she said, “I am sorry, Rashid, but England is my home.”

He thrust his face near hers. “I have asked if you are still mine!”

“I am not.”

“Then it is true you lust after De Gautier. Have lain with him.”

The truth would hurt him, but it would be worse to lie. “I am still chaste, but ’tis Lucien I love.”

Only the fury that leaped in his eyes and her quick reflexes saved her from the hand he raised to her. Gripping his wrist, she stared into his eyes and tried not to tremble with fear.

“I will not allow you to strike me, Rashid,” she said as evenly as she could manage.

His nostrils flared, then he thrust her back so that she dropped to the blanket she had been lying on. “You are a witch and a whore, just as my mother tried to tell me.” He gripped his forehead. “I should have listened.”

Alessandra pushed to her feet. “You know that is not so.”

“What I know is that you betrayed me. And for that, I would not be faulted for ending your life.”

His words frightened her, but she calmed herself with the reminder of who he was to her and put a hand on his shoulder. “You could not do that to me. We are friends, and shall always be.”

“Friends!” He threw off her hand and lurched away.

It was then Alessandra saw who had accompanied Rashid to England. Perched on a rock, a knee drawn up, an arm draped over it, Jacques LeBrec gave her a slow smile.

Once more, she considered this must be a dream, for what else would bring together these two men?

Jacques stood. “
Cherie!
” He sauntered to her, caught up her hands, and brushed his lips over the backs of her fingers. “You are surprised, no?”

“This is not possible,” Alessandra whispered.

“But it is! I am here.” He laughed. “The same as your betrothed.”

She glanced at Rashid, felt his anger, then returned her gaze to the very real person of Jacques LeBrec and snatched her hands from his. “You sold me into slavery!”

He shrugged, said, “
Pardon
,” then attempted to coax understanding from her with the same smile he had used to gain her trust in Tangier. “But now I am redeemed, eh? Soon you will be back in Algiers, as was your wish.”

Drenched anew in memories of the slave auction, she spat, “Redeemed? Never!” and launched herself at him.

It was Rashid who saved him from her fists. He grabbed her from behind, forced her to the ground, and straddled her. “I demand your obedience, woman!”

“You demand?” she gasped. “I am not your wife, nor am I of your faith that I must obey your every word.”

“You are not my wife yet, but you shall be.”

“I am not leaving England!”

“Indeed, you are,” he said, then covered her mouth with his.

Alessandra was too stunned to move, but when he began to grind his mouth against hers as if that might evoke a response, she jerked her head aside. “Cease, Rashid!”

“You wanted it once.”

When she had kissed him on the rooftop to prove she was not attracted to Lucien. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Not like this.”

“How?” he demanded. “Tell me how De Gautier pleasured you, and I will do better.”

When she did not answer, he put his mouth to her ear and nipped her lobe.

Alessandra would have protested anew, but Jacques dropped to his haunches beside them and said in lingua franca, “Rashid, my friend, this is not the time or place to tame her.”

Although Alessandra expected Rashid to turn his anger on Jacques, he stood and stalked away.

“Heathen,” Jacques muttered as he helped Alessandra up to sitting. Then he put an arm around her as if to offer solace.

She pulled free and scooted away.
 

With a rueful smile, he gained his feet. “Eventually,
cherie
, you will have to forgive me.”

“Never!”

He tsked. “That is a very long time.”

“It is forever.”

He sighed, returned to the fire, and picked a piece of dried meat from the platter beside it. “I thought I was making amends by leading your betrothed to you,” he mused, then held up the meat.

She shook her head, asked, “How did you come to be with Rashid?”

He popped the meat in his mouth, chewed. “You must know I suffered terrible guilt selling you at auction.”

“I know nothing of the sort.”

“I did,
cherie
. But when I saw the English captain had bought you, I knew you would be fine. You had family in England, and I thought it likely you would escape once you reached its shores.”