Taming Charlotte (27 page)

“He has a gun!” Charlotte shouted as Ahmed reached for the weapon.

Khalif sent the pistol flying from his half brother’s hand with one swing of his rapier. The sultan looked fierce, somehow more than human, as if he’d risen above his weakness and conquered it, however briefly.

“Give my brother your sword, Patrick,” Khalif said, his
eyes fixed on Ahmed. “I would not have him face me unarmed.”

Patrick didn’t hesitate, though Charlotte saw reluctance in every line of his body and face. He tossed the sword to Ahmed, who caught it deftly.

While the two brothers faced off for what would undoubtedly be a fight to the death, Patrick came to Charlotte and enfolded her in his arms. His strength flowed into her, like spiritual medicine, heightening her own powers.

“It’s high time you got back, Patrick,” she scolded as they watched Khalif and Ahmed engage each other in graceful battle. “As you can see, I have not been safe.”

Patrick squeezed her briefly, but said nothing. He was watching the sword fight, and Charlotte knew he was ready to jump to Khalif’s defense if the need arose.

Khalif had been ill, and he was not as fit as he would normally have been. The match seemed equal, however, probably because Ahmed himself had spent days languishing in prison.

The thin blades of the rapiers clanged together, and the sound reverberated horribly. Ahmed sliced open Khalif’s upper arm, Khalif drew blood by drawing the point of his sword across his half brother’s middle.

Charlotte shuddered and turned her face in to Patrick’s chest, clutching at his shirt with both hands.

The battle seemed to go on and on, but finally there was a scream of mortal agony, and Charlotte forced herself to turn her head and look. Ahmed, struck through the heart by his brother’s rapier, was dead before he’d folded to the floor.

Charlotte gave a little moan of horror and relief, steadied herself when Patrick left her to go to his friend’s aid. Khalif wavered on his feet as he gazed down at Ahmed, bloody sword in hand. His eyes brimmed with tears.

“This terrible day has been stalking Ahmed and me since we were boys,” he said gruffly. “My brother could not bear for peace to exist between us. Even as a child, he hated me.”

Patrick took the rapier gently from Khalif’s hand. “It’s over,” he told his friend. “Ahmed is gone and now you will have peace again.”

Khalif nodded, but he still stared at the corpse lying on the floor at his feet, his face gray with blood loss and grief.

Charlotte had recovered enough to think of practical matters. “The women and children are still in hiding,” she said. Guilt assailed her because she had not had the opportunity to return to Alev and the others with news and supplies, as she had promised.

“Rashad has released them,” Khalif said, turning away at last, staggering to a velvet-upholstered bench and sitting down.

Patrick tore a strip of cloth from the sheets on the bed where Ahmed had meant to rape Charlotte and made a tourniquet for the sultan’s cut arm. For all his efficiency, however, his indigo gaze fixed itself on his wife and not his patient.

“Are you all right, goddess?”

She considered for a moment, then nodded. “How did you find me?”

Patrick sighed, crossed the room to take her in his arms. “You’ve got a ghost, even though you’re alive,” he told her. He paused, brushed her temple lightly with his lips, tightened his embrace for a moment, as if to reassure himself that he was really holding her again. “I’ve been haunted by thoughts of you ever since I left for Spain. When I got here, Rashad and Khalif and the others had already taken the palace back, and when Ahmed didn’t turn up after a quick search, the eunuch directed us here.”

Charlotte rested her forehead against his shoulder and sighed. “Once,” she confessed, “I wished for adventure. Now I believe I’ve had quite enough excitement to last into my old age.”

Patrick chuckled, kissed her forehead. “I have a feeling, Mrs. Trevarren,” he said, “that our adventures have just begun. You draw trouble the way a summer picnic draws bees.”

Khalif had recovered enough to speak by then, and he did so, staring at Charlotte in weary bewilderment. “Rashad assured me you were safe with the harem, in the secret room—just before he drugged and imprisoned me. Did he compound his transgressions by lying, too?”

Quickly Charlotte shook her head. “No, he was telling the truth. I
was
with Alev and the others—until I found the tunnel under the floor. It seemed to me that, unless we were all content to grow cobwebs in that hidden chamber, somebody had to venture out and see what was happening. I managed to get to the dungeons and release Rashad.”

“Who then released me,” Khalif reflected, with a sigh, rubbing his temples. “I shall forgive my servant Rashad, then, for taking matters into his own hands as he did. There can be no question of his loyalty.”

“None at all,” Charlotte agreed.

Moments later, Rashad himself arrived, bringing a party of soldiers with him. When he saw that Ahmed had been killed, the eunuch gestured for two of the men to come forward and carry away the body.

“We have captured the traitors,” Rashad said to his sultan, his tone grave and formal. “What shall be done with them?”

“Behead them,” Khalif replied. “Let it be done now, in the main courtyard, under the bright light of the morning sun. Let all who live within these walls see the fruits of treachery.”

Charlotte’s eyes had gone round and her stomach had risen to the back of her throat, then plummeted into place again. She started to step forward, to protest, but Patrick stopped her by grasping her arm. An eloquent look and a shake of his head further discouraged her.

“Come, Mrs. Trevarren,” he said. “We’re not needed here.” With that, Patrick took Charlotte’s hand in a bonecrunching grasp and led her past Rashad and the soldiers and out into the passageway.

“You can’t let this happen!” she whispered.

Patrick didn’t even slow down. He just strode toward the main part of the palace, dragging Charlotte along behind him. “I can’t stop it,” he replied abruptly. “And neither can you. This is an ancient society, with rules of its own.”

Charlotte knew he was right, but it still went against her principles to see violence answered with violence. “I want to leave this place,” she said breathlessly, rushing to keep up with her long-legged husband, “and never come back.”

He looked back at her over his shoulder. “That’s one wish I can grant,” he said. “As soon as I know things are under control here, we’ll sail for the island.”

A surge of joy welled up inside Charlotte, but in the next moment she was overwhelmed by the backlash of all that had happened to her in recent hours. She let out a wail and burst into unceremonious, un-Charlotte-like tears.

Patrick stopped, lifted her easily into his arms, propped his chin on top of her head, and proceeded through the passageway. “Go ahead and cry,” he told her, with hoarse gentleness. “You’ve earned it.”

While the executions were taking place, Patrick and Charlotte were alone in his chamber, oblivious to everything and everyone except each other. They celebrated life, even while death held savage sway in the center courtyard.

Charlotte lay curled against Patrick’s side, her bare body glistening with perspiration, one finger playing idly with the hair on his chest. “I love you,” she said.

Patrick sighed and held her a little closer, but he did not offer the same pledge. He just closed his eyes and went to sleep.

Although she was happy to be with Patrick again, and although her body had certainly been satisfied, Charlotte’s soul still hungered. What would it matter—what would anything matter—if Patrick didn’t love her?

She laid one hand to her abdomen and closed her eyes. No matter what the cost might be to her, she would never raise her child in a loveless household. She would take her baby back to Quade’s Harbor first, to grow up in the light and warmth of her father and Lydia’s marriage…

For the next three days, Khalif remained in his quarters. Various members of the harem visited him at different times, Alev included, but he did not show himself publicly.

Charlotte was standing at one of the upstairs windows, gazing toward the sea with undisguised yearning, when Patrick slipped up behind her and put his arms around her waist. He bent, gave her a nibbling kiss on the side of the neck.

“Could it be, Mrs. Trevarren,” he teased, “that you have a yen for wandering, just as I do?”

She turned in his embrace and looked up into his eyes. “Yes,” she answered. “When will we leave?”

He touched her chin with an index finger. “Tomorrow, I think. Were you beginning to fret that I might send you back to the harem and sail off without you?”

Charlotte’s cheeks flared. “Considering that you’ve done it before, it wouldn’t be unjust of me to think such thoughts.”

Patrick laughed, bent his head, tasted her lips. “Not this time, my love. Once the
Enchantress
is under way, I may not even allow you to leave the cabin.” He touched her breast, making the nipple go taut against the fabric of her muslin camisole.

She smoothed the skirts of her sprigged cambric dress, one of the multitude of garments Patrick had brought from the dressmaker’s shop in Costa del Cielo. “You’ve spent too much time in countries like Riz,” she said loftily, hoping he hadn’t detected the slight shiver of anticipation his touch had stirred in her. “I was not designed to lie naked in your cabin and provide you with a never-ending supply of satisfaction, you know. I am an intelligent woman with a will and a life of my own.”

Patrick grinned and pulled her into a deep, shadowed crevice in the wall on the other side of the passageway. “I don’t begrudge your satisfaction,” he teased in a whisper, caressing her breasts as he spoke. “Why, pray tell, do you begrudge me mine?”

It took all Charlotte’s strength to reply, for the familiar, sweet weakness was flooding through her veins. “I don’t,” she said. “Perhaps I will confine
you
to the cabin and come to you whenever I want.”

He kissed her with leisurely command and great tenderness. “I will gladly be your prisoner,” he replied. He was lifting her skirts.

She leaned back against the stone edge of the dark alcove, closed her eyes. “Patrick, please…”

Patrick chuckled, “You needn’t beg, goddess,” he said.
He slipped gracefully to one knee, his hands under her petticoats, on her muslin-covered thighs. “If I were you, though, I’d try to be quiet. We wouldn’t want to scandalize the servants.”

Charlotte gave a soft cry of surrender as he brought her drawers down and off and nuzzled her once before taking her boldly into his mouth. She had meant to fight him, because the place of his conquering was so outrageous, but instead she ended with her knees over his shoulders and her back braced against the wall, in a near faint of ecstasy at his plundering.

The palace courtyard was strung with paper lanterns, and the women of the harem floated about like brightly colored birds, laughing and chattering. A small band of musicians played in a corner, and a series of tables, set end to end, held food and drink of every description.

Khalif had recovered, for the most part, and the insurrection had been dealt with, once and for all. He wanted to celebrate.

“I will be sorry to see you go, my friend,” the sultan said to Patrick as they stood drinking
boza
and watching one of the women dance, her pale blue dress floating as she turned, as insubstantial as fog. “I sense that you will not be returning to Riz in the near future.”

Charlotte was on the other side of the courtyard, talking with her friend, Alev, and Patrick felt a swell of happiness in his heart when his eyes found her. “It’s time I had a family and a home of my own,” he answered. “After this, I’ll be a planter, not a sea captain. The
Enchantress
will be at anchor, except when there are crops of sugarcane and indigo to be transported.”

Khalif cleared his throat. “While I was ill, and Charlotte cared for me, I began to love her.”

Patrick met his friend’s earnest and uncomfortable gaze. “I know,” he said, laying a hand on Khalif’s shoulder. “If you drink a lot of fluid and get some rest, you’ll get over the virus.”

The sultan blushed, something Patrick had never seen
him do before. He started to speak, and stopped himself, looking miserable and tongue-tied.

Patrick kept his hand on the sultan’s shoulder. “She carries my child,” he said gently. “Still, ask Charlotte to stay if that’s what you want to do. Should she agree—and I warn you, my good friend, that she won’t, because she could not bear to be just one of many wives—I will release her. Her happiness is more important to me than anything else.”

Khalif sighed, touched Patrick’s hand with his own. “I would not broach such a subject,” he said, “if I did not know that the marriage ceremony I performed will not be considered valid in your own culture. There has been no Christian service, am I right?”

A strange, defensive feeling gripped Patrick, but he replied evenly. “Yes.” He paused, studying his friend with a pensive frown. “I’m surprised you would want a woman you know is carrying another man’s child, Khalif. For all its good points, your society is not exactly progressive where such matters are concerned.”

“It makes a difference,” Khalif said, “that the child’s sire is as close to me as a brother.” The ghost of Ahmed moved plain in his dark eyes for a moment, then evaporated. “Closer,” he amended.

Patrick’s regard for Khalif had not lessened—they had been friends too long and the habit was entrenched—but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to knock the sultan through the nearest wall for lusting after the woman he loved. The captain gestured toward Charlotte. “Tell her what you feel. You’re going to go mad if you don’t.”

Khalif searched Patrick’s face for a moment, then proceeded across the courtyard. Patrick wanted to look away, but he could not. He leaned against the stone wall and watched.

It was true enough that he’d never told Charlotte how he felt about her, and when he’d had the opportunity to marry her properly in a Christian country, he hadn’t. Maybe he was still as much a rascal as ever. Maybe he would grow tired of her after a while, and hurt her.