On a Long Ago Night (23 page)

same room as the Queen of England as Honoria Pyne, who hadn't

seemed to look at him tonight. He wondered if she had seen him

make his formal bow before the tiny young queen. Or if she had

watched him dancing with other women as the evening slowly

passed. Of course, she couldn't see very far without her glasses.

The room was overheated and stuffy, crowded with

dignitaries and bejeweled ladies. The orchestra was loud, if not

particularly good, loud enough to be heard above the roar of

laughter and conversation. James was not here to have a good time,

but he was pleased that the palace ball was not the staid affair he'd

feared it would be. Refreshment tables were set up against walls

which were painted a garish shade of mustard yellow. Huge flower

arrangements decorated the tables and were set on marble plinths.

White velvet curtains trimmed with gold draped across tall

windows that he longed to throw open to let fresh air into the

overcrowded room.

Honoria's gown of vivid green-blue and her crown of copper

hair stood out like a beautiful beacon in the crush, where most of

the women were in fashionable white and pastels or the dark shades

suited to matrons. It didn't hurt that she was the tallest woman in

the room.

James did not think she was aware that he and Russell were

not the only men who took long, slow assessing looks at her. Of

course, she couldn't see that anyone looked at her with admiration.

That was not such a bad thing for him, perhaps, but what about

Honoria? He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and moved swiftly while

Russell waited impatiently in front of Honoria for an answer. The

Navy captain preened in his threadbare uniform and looked as

though he was doing Honoria a great favor by deigning to consider

her worthy of sharing one little dance.

Honoria was glaring at Russell and trying her best to pretend

James wasn't there at all. This made it even easier for James to

make his move. A boyhood on the streets of Malaga and

adolescence in the souks of Algiers had helped him develop swift,

deft hands. A fan and small reticule dangled from Honoria's wrist,

easy prey for even his rusty purse-snatching skills. He slipped the

delicate straps off her in an instant, and had the pretty embroidered

bag open as she whirled to him in outrage. He had her spectacles

perched on her nose even before she could open her mouth to

protest.

"Much better." James tilted his head to one side as he studied

his outraged Honoria.

"You have the most beautiful eyes, duchess mine," he added.

He used a finger beneath her chin to gently close her slightly

opened mouth. It took an act of will to close her mouth with his

finger rather than cover her lips with his.

Someone behind them tittered. Someone else gasped. An

elderly lady smiled benignly and nodded, then swatted the tittering

girl discreetly on the arm.

The duke beamed proudly, and crossed his arms. "Well done,

son."

"What have you done, sir?" Russell demanded. "Such

effrontery!" He held out a hand imperiously. "Honoria, come away

from this rude fellow and dance with me. And put those things

away." Both Russell's outrage and his orders were completely

ignored.

James watched Honoria's cheeks and throat color a

becoming, kissable pink. The humiliated blush was quickly gone,

but the banked fury remained, arcing like lightning between them.

She glared at him from behind the lenses of her spectacles, and he

grinned, knowing that she was thinking that at least for once she

could see him while she looked daggers at him.

And he knew that she knew that he knew what she was

thinking, because a bright and wicked smile broke through her

controlled features for just the briefest of moments. For that

moment the room lit around them far brighter than the glow of the

crystal chandeliers overhead. Far hotter, as well. Lightning,

familiar and sweet.

James wordlessly took her by the arm and led her forward.

She came with him without hesitation or protest. Within moments

they were amid the crowd on the dance floor, with his arm around

her waist just as the waltz began. For once they did not argue, they

did not banter—but they did dance.

"
I won't dance to your tune, sir. I will not." She stamped her foot as

he made himself step back
—
and looked as surprised as he did at

the childish gesture. Her expression was adorable
.

Diego came closer, and he was already quite close. "We will

dance," he whispered, and did not know whether he spoke a threat

or a promise.

The girl's eyes widened, and her lips parted in shocked

response that was the most tempting thing he had ever seen.

The intention had been to loom threateningly when he

crossed the room to stand close to her. But it was very hard to loom

menacingly over a stately, courageous woman who was only a few

inches shorter than he was, especially when she came so

desperately into his arms. He hadn't meant to kiss her when he

came stalking toward her, or to even hold her. He truly hadn't.

He'd been determined to keep his emotions out of their dealings. He

had to be cold, hard, ruthless. There wasn't much time. He had to

take care of himself and escape. The last thing he needed was any

sort of entanglement with a woman to cloud his
—

He kissed her.

Her mouth was rich and warm and innocent. Innocent, but

eager. Her lips were so soft, the inside of her mouth so sweet and

heated. He felt her surprise, and her need, and matched it. He

found himself as eager as any untried boy, but with the skills of a

man who had kissed many women. Yet somehow it felt like this was

the first kiss for both of them. A shudder went through him when

she made a small noise. Perhaps her dear Derrick had never tasted

her, not as a man kissed a woman. He smiled at the notion
—
and

felt her instantly misunderstand what the smile was for
.

She pushed against him.

He let her go, though a part of him raged that the kiss was

only a beginning, that he should finish what he had started.

Another part of him asked when he had started wanting her. It

seemed like he had wanted her even long before they had ever met.

He ran his hands through his hair in confusion and forced his feet

to take a step back.

Honoria backed away as well, blinking back tears. He had

not meant to make her cry. He would have wiped away the tears

that she fought not to shed, but knew she was too angry to let him

touch her again. Angry and humiliated, because she thought that

kissing her had meant nothing more to him than a moment's

amusing diversion. Perhaps it should have, if he had any sense. If

he was as pitiless a man as he needed to be to escape from Ibrahim

Rais. "I did not mean to make you cry," he said.

"I'm not crying."

"Of course not. You never cry."

She lifted her head proudly. "I cry. But not for you."

Anger, and something that was uglier than anger, shot

through him. "For dear Derrick?" he sneered.

For a moment she looked as if she didn't know who he was

talking about, then her pale cheeks reddened. She tossed her head,

and the veil that he'd knocked askew while kissing her fluttered

gently to the floor. "Derrick. Yes. Of course, I'd cry for Derrick."

Diego looked from Honoria's shining copper hair to the veil

now at her feet, and found it hard to breathe. He wanted to touch

her hair, to feel the shining curls slide like silk through his fingers

while he kissed her lips and her throat, and found his way down the

long length of her to those lovely full breasts. She was wearing far

too much clothing. For a moment all he could think of was a

dancer he'd once seen; a woman who wore many veils when the

music first began. She had worn nothing when the music ended. He

had never seen anything so arousing as that dance, until now. And

he wondered
—

"What are you smiling at?"

He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, glanced away from

Honoria, and tried to think of something less arousing. Ibrahim

Rais came immediately to mind, and the gruesome scene when

Salah had tried to leave the vicious old man's service.

"You are going to help me leave Ibrahim Rais's service," he

told Honoria, not looking at her to keep from being distracted once

more. "This man is a murderer and a criminal."

"As are you."

Her voice was calm, yet it stung him painfully. "I have not

hurt you," he told her. "I have not taken you by force." He had only

cheated her of her freedom so that he could regain his own. His

conscience flayed him more for what he was doing to Honoria

Pyne than for any crime committed at the corsair admiral's order.

Because
he
was wholly, selfishly responsible for any pain she

suffered. He did not have the excuse that he had no choice but to

obey, this time
.

"I am not afraid of death," he heard himself say. "I even tried

to die once, when I was younger, though it is a sin. He would not

let me. He nursed me back to strength with his own hands."

Tenderly, Diego remembered. Like a loving father. Only to

beat Diego to within an inch of his life when he'd recovered enough

to survive the punishment. The lesson had been quite clear: life was

something that only Ibrahim Rais could give or take away. "The

city will fall soon, but Ibrahim Rais has powerful friends in the

Turkish court. He has a place waiting for him in Istanbul. He has

told me that I am to come with him, and I have thanked him while I

make my own plans to escape." He looked back at her now, fierce

in his determination. "But I am not going back to Malagaa poor

man. I will have what is rightfully mine." He gestured toward the

tattered scrap of paper on the table. "Decipher the code for me,

Honoria."

His
explanations and pleading did not move her. "I think

not." She crossed her arms, emphasizing the round curve of her

bosom. "Oh, I'll help you," she said. "I have my own price for it

though, and it is more than a few paltry coins
."

It was Diego's turn to cross his arms. Fiercely angry, he

demanded, "What is it you want? A jewel-hilted silver sword,

perhaps? A bag of Ibrahim Rais's gold?"

She laughed. "Nonsense. I have no need of money."

He laughed in response. "Then you are a fool."

"Some things are more important than treasure."

"
Name your price, woman!" Why was he doing this? Why

was he letting a slave he'd bought with hard-earned coin get away

with such insolence? And what the devil did those glorious breasts

look like when they were laid bare? What did they feel like weighed

in a man's hands? What did they taste
—?

"Derrick."

Diego heard the jealous snarl, but it took him a moment to

realize the sound came from his own throat. He didn't know when

he'd moved to grab her shoulders, but he shook them a little as he

angrily demanded, "What?"

"I want Derrick Russell. That's his real name. The Scourge of

Barbary."

"You belong to me."

She pretended not to hear him, or not to understand. She

certainly pretended not to notice his anger, or that he was touching

her. He knew she was afraid because he could feel her shaking

beneath his hands. She was brave. She was foolish. She was
his. He

didn't know when she'd become so very important to him, but it was

a fact
.

He had heard of Captain Russell. His lying tales of pirate-