On a Long Ago Night (15 page)

intend to give Russell time to be his rival, therefore direct methods

were called for. Finding out which room was hers should not be at

all difficult. And breaking into that room would hold no challenge

for the likes of Diego Moresco, now, would it?

"My lady?"

"Hmm?"

"You're humming."

Honoria turned to Huseby. "So I was. I am always as good as

my word, Maggie." She handed her maid her corset and took the

nightgown Huseby handed her.

Huseby eyed her with worried suspicion. "Are you all right?

You're flushed, and bright-eyed. You look like a cat that's been in

the cream, and a bit feverish at the same time."

Honoria adjusted her spectacles on her nose. "I do not have a

feverish nature."

"The devil you don't."

Honoria finally noticed that Huseby looked very, very

worried, and her ebullient mood dimmed somewhat. "I was

savoring a triumph. Now you're going to make me come back to

the real world, aren't you?"

"That man, my lady." She looked around as if afraid they

would be overheard here in Honoria's bedchamber, in the very

heart of the house, with no one else in the room. "Please tell me I

was mistaken about—"

"The Honorable James Marbury," Honoria supplied, "is half

Spanish, as you already know." She took an emerald silk robe from

Huseby and jerked the belt tight with one hard tug. Buoyed by a

sudden burst of elation, she had no memory of what had occurred

after she went back into the music room. No, she recalled her father

informing her that Viscount Brislay and his son had left, and telling

her she needn't look so relieved and that he wanted to talk to her

after all the guests had gone. Yes, she remembered that, but how

had she gotten from the music room to her bedroom, and when?

She suspected she might have floated there. She
had
waited a long

time to speak her mind to Derrick Russell; pity she hadn't had the

opportunity sooner. And to think she'd almost been afraid to face

the fool!

Well, however she'd gotten here, she was in her bedroom

now and dressed for bed. She might as well go to sleep. Huseby's

gaze on her was still anything but serene, though. "We will not be

bothered by any further intrusion by Captain Russell," Honoria

reassured her friend.

Huseby made an impatient gesture that dismissed Derrick

Russell. "The Spaniard?"

Honoria reached up and ran her fingers through the loosened

mass of her curly hair. The blasted stuff was altogether too thick

and difficult to manage; it fell halfway down her back. "I suppose

the Spaniard will have to be dealt with as well, Maggie."

"But how? What does he want? Why is he here? I thought

you said he must have been killed in Algiers."

"I have no answers. I suppose I'll have to find out. Why can't

those men leave me alone?"

Huseby glanced toward the bedroom door. "Your father sent

word that—"

"I'll speak to him in the morning. Get some rest, Maggie."

Huseby eyed Honoria worriedly. "Are you sure you wouldn't

like to have a tantrum now, my lady? You may not get another

chance for a while."

Honoria gave a breathless laugh. "I had a tantrum after the

ball. Another when I received Derrick's letter. I haven't had my

secretary check my engagement book, but surely two tantrums

within a week is more than the calendar can bear."

The closed cream-colored brocade curtains of the huge bed

invited her to rest inside them. The heavy carved bed had been in

this room for over a century. Though the bed might be antique, the

feather mattress was soft and new, the blankets warm and

comforting. "I'm going to sleep now, Maggie."

Huseby shook her head, then assumed the blank face of a

well-trained servant and came forward. Honoria waved her away.

She grasped two handfuls of her heavy hair. "I can plait this

myself, thank you.

Goodnight." Huseby frowned, but she didn't argue. Honoria

would have locked the door behind her maid, but there was no lock

on the door. On any of the doors leading into and out of this room.

"Foolish oversight on the architect's part, if you ask me," she

murmured.

She turned toward the bed, then away from it again. She

knew that sleep would not come just yet—or if it did, the dreams

would no doubt be of nights spent in bed in Algiers. Those sorts of

dreams were anything but restful. She had to calm down before she

attempted to sleep, or her passionate nature would slip its leash and

cavort with salacious memories of Diego Moresco while she slept.

She crossed the room but could not bring herself to sit down

before the mirror when she reached the dressing table. She did not

want to face herself. That was the point of avoiding closing her

eyes. She could always take her spectacles off, but having clear

vision was too precious a thing to lose so soon after an evening of

confronting her worst enemies at such a great disadvantage. Or

perhaps being unable to see their faces had made her less

vulnerable to them. She didn't know.

She restlessly walked to the window and pulled back the

heavy curtains. She looked outward, up at the moon, the stars that

showed bravely but faintly above the sooty city lights. Oh, Lord,

what a day! What a night!

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. As much as

she wanted to avoid it, her thoughts began repeating every word,

gesture, nuance, and possible meaning of the last several hours.

"You could not bear the public humiliation."

She had sounded so confident in her reply to Derrick's threat.

She laughed faintly, and pressed her hands against the glass, palms

damp with remembered fear, sweat making them slippery on the

smooth surface. Several shudders went through her, cold, then hot.

"Could not bear… ?" She made some faint sound, something that

was between laughter and a sob.

She was being looked at, but no one was actually looking at
her.

She was being talked about, pointed at, touched, and examined
—

at least, her body was
. She
was in no way involved in what was

happening to her. She was as much alone here, where the slave

dealers exhibited their wares, as she had been in the bagnio cell.

More alone, because the personality that made her who she was

had no meaning here, no place. She was fully dressed in the black

mourning dress she'd been wearing when she was captured, yet

Honoria felt naked and exposed. She had walked up a few steps,

been turned to face the front of the square, and lost all identity.

They had taken off the veils and enveloping robes and she'd wished

desperately to have their safe concealment back. They had unbound

her hair, which was considered a good selling point. Her freckles

were not. Someone had hefted her bosoms in his hands and

pronounced them favorable, as well. Her hips had been equally

squeezed and pronounced fit for childbearing. Her height was not

going to help her price, the men agreed. Her pale complexion was

something they couldn't agree on: one thought it interesting,

another could not see why anyone would be interested in a

European woman. He did think she might make a good enough

domestic servant, maybe even a field hand. At least they had left

her with her spectacles. Not because she needed them to see
—she

had no needs
—
but because one of the slave dealers thought the

lenses might add to her value as a European curiosity. The dealers

had agreed to snatch the spectacles off her face if someone didn't

make a bid soon
.

She should have been grateful that the sparse crowd gathered

in the barren square was so indifferent. The sun was too bright,

hurting her eyes as it threw heat and light off the pale stones of the

surrounding buildings. It had been dark inside her cell. It had also

been hot, but she now thought of the isolated bare room as a cool

haven. Dust stirred in a hot wind, and the dust stuck on her tear-

damp face. Water vendors moved through the square shouting their

wares with more effectiveness than the bored slave dealers up here

on the platform.

Someone pushed her from behind, forcing her to stumble to

the edge of the platform. A hand twisted in her hair and her head

was yanked back. Something was said about her throat being long

and beautiful. A hand stroked it as if proving the point. The dealer

shouted out a price, lower than the last one he had suggested as an

opening bid. Several people in the thin crowd glanced at each

other. A few comments were made. Someone shrugged. No one

cared.

Then, after a long, hot silence, someone in the back of the

crowd finally called out a price.

James had always been able to move silently, though as he

approached Honoria he knew he didn't have to. She was looking

out at the stars, but he could tell from her reflection in the glass that

her thoughts were turned inward. She looked vulnerable, all her

formidable pride stripped away.

He knew that she would not like to be caught this way, that

she would not be forgiving of anyone who saw her without the

shield of her sharp wit and intelligence. She wasn't likely to be

forgiving of him, anyway, but why make things worse than they

already were?

He smiled, though pain twisted his mouth into a grimace.

Why was he here? Why was he bothering? Because of a promise

made to his father?

Promises and honor were for fools. His father lived by a

quaint notion of chivalry. So did his mother. What had it brought

them but decades of anguish? Anguish they claimed had tempered

and refined them like Toledo blades. Perhaps they did have the

strength of steel, but James feared he was a creature of much cruder

iron. His parents had been unwillingly separated because of fate.

His and Honoria's separation had been a deliberate act of will. Still,

he had made a vow. He had no more to lose now than he had eight

years ago, and this time he was determined to claim and keep

something that was his, whether she wanted it or not.

He paused halfway between the bed, where he had hidden

behind the concealing damask curtains, and the woman who

clutched a matching window curtain tightly in her hand. Tendons

stood out starkly on those long fingers, the skin pale and bloodless.

Was she holding onto a lifeline? Was she even aware when her

hand had moved to grasp the sturdy material? He remembered her

hands, soft and long-fingered and skilled. He shook his head a

little, forcing memory to go back further. She had been clumsy and

fumbling and shy once upon a night long ago. And furious. And

proud.

The night had been so much warmer than this thin English

summer. She hadn't needed a heavy nightdress or a quilted robe. He

remembered the outline of her long, lush body in the glow of a

colored glass lamp. She'd worn a gown of gossamer thin cotton,

embroidered white on white. The gown revealed as much as it hid

in shadows and curves, the effect mysterious and seductive. He

recalled bare flesh in moonlight, hers and his, brown and pale limbs

twined together. But for the long fall of her thick hair he barely

recognized the woman in the shapeless satin robe and the

nightgown buttoned up to her neck.

She hid too much. Time for it to stop. He moved silently

forward again, crossing the physical gap between them. The first

thing he touched was her hair. It was spread out before him like a

river of molten copper, heavy in his hands, scented with prosaic

English lavender when he remembered sultry spice. The bright

curling strands were softer against his fingers, and more clinging

than memory, but then, his hands were not so hard now as they had

been then. If he burned at the touch of copper hair, he told himself

that it was a stirring of ashes, not some new spark in his blood.