Devil's Daughter by Catherine Coulter
“Was?”
Adam closed his eyes for a moment, seeing the astonished look on Gervaise’s face. “Yes, he is dead.”
“You killed him?”
He heard fear and disbelief in her voice. Violence of any kind was unknown to her. “Yes.”
“Good, he deserved it.”
Adam could only stare at her. Then he said, “I must get you back home, Rayna. Arabella has been taken to Oran. I am leaving tomorrow morning on the Malek.”
“But it will be dangerous, will it not?”
“I don’t know. I will come for you when all this is done.”
“Did the comte send her there?”
“No. It was the Contessa di Rolando. I am certain now that my father holds the answer to her motives. You will likely see him when he arrives here. I expect he will follow on a ship after me when he learns what has happened.” He shook his head. “Had I hired the Malek sooner, I would have come upon the contessa. You see, she had hired the ship some days ago, and had sent a message to the captain early this afternoon that she no longer required his ship.” He paused a moment, then added more to himself than to Rayna, “She is clever. Were I she, I would travel overland northward to another port.”
“I’m going with you, Adam.”
Adam grinned down at her, his white teeth gleaming. “You begin to sound like Arabella. No, sweetheart, you will remain here in Naples, safe with your parents.”
“I will not argue with you if you kiss me.”
To close her mouth and divert her mind, he did what came quite naturally to him. He grasped her chin and lowered his mouth to hers and she slid her arms around his back. He knew he would make love to her if he didn’t stop. He clasped his hands about her arms, but she resisted him. Suddenly all that had happened for the past days surged through his mind, the betrayal, the death. He realized he might never see her again. He fumbled with the buttons of her gown and she helped him, her own breathing urgent, her fingers clumsy.
Adam stood over her, watching the firelight play over her. “You are so damned beautiful,” he said. He strode to the parlor door and locked it, then shed his own clothes, leaving them strewn behind him.
Adam dropped to his knees beside her. It was the trust in her eyes as she looked up at him that made him slow.
And when Adam felt the power of her climax, the wild shuddering of her body, he cried out, burying himself deep within her.
Rayna lay quietly beneath him, nearly senseless.
Adam lightly caressed the tip of her nose. “I hope I did not hurt you, petite.”
“No,” she said as she shifted slightly. Adam clasped her to him and brought her onto her side against him. “I am exhausted,” she said as she kissed his throat.
“You should be.”
“Adam, what will you do when you reach Oran?”
“I am not yet certain,” he said.
“There will be danger.”
“Perhaps.” Adam pulled her more tightly against him. “I am a tough lout, Rayna, I will have men with me. You mustn’t worry.” She squeezed him to her with a fierce protectiveness, like a lioness with her cub. “You will stay safe with your parents, love. I want nothing to happen to you.”
“Since I have let you ravage me, I suppose I must trust you to settle with my father.”
“Excellent,” he said, and leaned down to kiss her. He felt her arm tighten around his neck and his kiss deepened. He felt the quickening in her and smiled against her mouth. “You will kill me,” he said. “This time, we will go slowly, very slowly.”
“Whatever,” Rayna said, and tugged him back down to her.
Chapter 16
Captain Risan pushed open the door of the hold and stepped in. It took him several moments to adjust to the dim light, and even longer to accustom himself to the foul air. He heard a thready voice whisper from the corner, “Who are you?”
He saw her then, a wretchedly bedraggled woman crouched against the wall. Allah, he thought, his stomach tightening, he should have allowed the girl time on deck. The way she looked, he wouldn’t have had to worry about his men keeping their distance. He shook his head, wondering at the contessa’s orders to keep the girl in confinement. After she had thrown the bowl of stew at one of his men, Risan had ordered them to stay away from her. Her one meal each day was set just inside the hold door. He knew only that she was a lady, Arabella Welles by name, who had earned the enmity of Kamal’s mother, and was to be made a slave to Kamal, his half-brother.
“I am Captain Risan,” he said in accented English. He walked closer and stood over her, his booted feet spread. “We have arrived, girl. Are you able to stand?”
Arabella had moved in the last two days only to relieve herself. The rats left her alone if she stayed quiet. She struggled to her knees, grasped the man’s outstretched hand, and pulled herself upright. She swayed against him.
“I will feed you before we go ashore,” the captain said. “My orders are to deliver you alive, and you are scarce that now.”
“Must I share with the rats, captain?”
“So you’ve still a sharp tongue, even after six days in your own company. Perhaps, girl, you would like more time by yourself.”
“No.” Her fingers clutched his sleeve, and she nearly collapsed against him. He smiled over her head and hauled her over his shoulder. It was pity she was so ugly, else he would have enjoyed her, despite the contessa’s orders, and tamed her spirit in a way more pleasurable to both of them. He smiled as he carried the girl to his cabin. He hadn’t had a woman in over a week, and Kamal would likely give him one of his lovely concubines for the night, once he delivered this creature to him.
Arabella felt the sting of bright light against her eyelids. She blinked and opened her eyes. After nearly a week in shadowed light or complete darkness, the world of bright sun was harsh and painful. She lay very quietly for a moment, marshaling her strength. A shadow loomed over her and she stared up at a man not many years older than she. He was dark and swarthy, with wide-spaced brown eyes. The white wool shirt he wore was parted to reveal great clumps of black curly hair on his chest. His trousers were loose and sashed at his waist by a wide black leather belt. A huge dagger dangled from his waist.
“Captain Risan?” She forced herself to sit up.
“You like what you see, eh, girl?” Risan laughed.
Arabella felt a flash of anger, but firmly repressed it. She was hungry and weak and this man would feed her. “Yes,” she said.
“Such a pity,” Risan said, looking away from her. The supple young body he had felt against him when he had carried her here had made his loins tighten.
“Come and eat, wench, and then it’s off to the palace.”
She meant to ask him what he was talking about, but the smell of roasted pheasant filled her nostrils and she quivered with hunger. He helped her to the table and sat opposite her as she ate. The pheasant was delicious, as were the steaming rice, the stewed collards, and the sweet wine. Finally sated, Arabella sat back in her chair and glanced at the man across from her beneath half-closed lids. She felt her strength returning, and her spirits rose. She picked up a small china cup of thick black coffee, and realized it was laced with brandy when it burned its way to her stomach. She gasped and coughed, but it warmed her.
“Where are we, captain?” she asked.
“In Oran. I am to deliver you personally to his highness.”
“What are you talking about? What highness?”
His hand snaked out and closed about her arm. “Careful, girl. Your master and mine, his highness, Kamal El-Kader, the Bey of Oran.”
Kamal, she thought, the contessa’s son. She looked up at Risan and whispered, “Please do not. I am Arabella Welles. My father will pay you whatever you demand if you will but take me to Genoa.”
The captain grinned. “I know who you are, wench. We’ll see if my half-brother wants to keep you.” He studied her face a moment. “I doubt he will. You are the ugliest female I’ve ever seen
Arabella stared down at her mud-colored hands and touched her fingers to her face. What had the contessa covered her with? Her stiff, filthy hair touched her cheek and she shook it away.
For a moment she felt the despair that had threatened to overwhelm her in the old. Stop it. You have been a great fool, but even fools can save themselves. Perhaps this Kamal wasn’t the villain his mother was. Perhaps.
“The tender’s ready, captain.”
She looked up to see a young sailor staring at her.
“Well, my lady,” Risan said, standing. “Must I carry you again? If you would know the truth, I don’t wish to soil my clothes.”
“I am coming, captain,” Arabella said. She looked at his dagger as she followed him along the deck, but thought better of it.
“This is Oran, my lady. Look yon.”
Arabella stared toward the bustling city beyond the docks. It looked nothing like Genoa or any other town she had seen. Its close whitewashed huts were nestled under the dazzling bright afternoon sun in a narrow valley between two hills.
“You cannot see the market from here,” Risan said as he steered her down the wooden gangplank, “or the treasures that may be found there. The slave auctions are held there. You, I venture to say, would bring more hoots of laughter than piastres.”
“That is a warming thought,” Arabella said. She looked about the dock at the men lounging about. Adam was right, she thought. Pirates were not a romantic lot; they were loud, dirty, and brutish. She saw no women until Risan guided her onto a wide street. They stood in small groups, clustered in doorways, dressed like crows, covered from head to toe in coarse black robes. They pointed her out to each other with obvious distaste, in Arabic, she supposed.
They began an ascent through winding streets, streets so narrow that the houses touched each other, forming a vault overhead. They walked through a dark passage and emerged in an open square, where the noise was deafening. No one seemed to pay the slightest heed to them. Arabella saw merchants crouched beside their motley wares, their strings of pepper pods and dried fish hanging beside silken robes and embroidered sandals. Sacks of green henna, destined, Risan told her, to dye women’s fingers and feet, were set next to huge sides of raw meat. A scent of decay was heavy and mingled with the aroma of spices and the perfume of flowers. She saw women, different here from the ones that had huddled in the doorways. Their dark eyes were ringed with kohl above the wisps of their veils. They kept to themselves, away from the men. The Arab men all wore turbans and long black cloaks with full cut hoods.
“You are surprised at the attire of our people?” Risan asked. “The ubiquitous long cloak is called a burnoose.” He cocked a dark brow at her. “You show no fear. Perhaps you need to witness a slave auction.”
“No,” Arabella said. “I believe I have witnessed enough.”
They emerged from the bazaar at the base of the hill. “That is his highness’s palace, up there,” Risan said, pointing to the huge building sprawled high atop a hill above the city. “The forts below house his Turkish troops. We will ride up on donkeys. I suggest you hold on tightly.”
Arabella clung to the rough saddle horn as the donkey weaved his way upward. As they grew nearer to the palace, she could make out the figures of men patrolling the perimeter. It looked to be impregnable. She felt a knot of fear so intense she might have fallen had Captain Risan not turned in his saddle and called back to her, “Almost there, girl. I can’t wait to hear what my brother has to say to you.”
Brother. Another of the contessa’s sons?
Her donkey came to an abrupt halt, and as if by habit, jerked the reins from her hands. Oddly uniformed Turks surrounded them. They looked at her with sneering laughter, likely making coarse jests about her. She slid from the donkey’s back and squared her shoulders. A huge gate swung open, and Risan prodded her through.
He said on a half-laugh, “Come, girl, it is time to meet your master.”
She gazed over her shoulder at the glistening Mediterranean below her. It seemed as distant as Genoa, and home.
Kamal leaned against the thick embroidered pillows at his back and gazed at Señor Ancera, a Spanish merchant. The man’s jaw hung slack as he watched a swaying dancing girl.
“Shall we conclude our business, señor?” Kamal asked. “Then you may have the girl for the night.”
Señor Ancera nodded, his eyes still fixed on the girl. She wore only two veils now, one over her face and the other about her waist. Her chestnut hair was loose to her waist, falling in thick waves over her shoulders to her breasts.
The tambourines and cymbals quickened their tempo. The girl whirled closer and let the veil slip down over her smooth belly.
The Spaniard would sign over his mother to have Orna, Kamal thought, watching the man clutch at his drink. Kamal nodded to Orna, and she let her veil fall slowly from her hips. The cymbals suddenly stopped and she sank to her knees before the Spaniard, her glorious hair spread about her like a rippling fan.
Kamal clapped his hands. Orna rose to stand before him, her head bowed.
“Take off your veil,” he said.
The veil fluttered to the floor, and Kamal watched the Spaniard’s eyes widen in appreciation.
“Orna is quite skilled, señor,” Kamal said dryly. “She will await you in your chamber. You will join her once we have finished.” At his nod, Orna slipped once again to her knees and kissed the toe of his soft leather boot. A eunuch appeared to lift the girl to her feet and lead her away.
Señor Ancera wiped the sweat from his upper lip. “Yes,” he managed, “let us conclude our business, highness.”
Kamal looked over the parchment once it was signed, nodded affably to the older man, and watched him disappear through an arched doorway. The pious Spaniards were the easiest to deal with, he thought, but it gave him no sense of mastery. “Hassan,” he called to his minister.
“Yes, highness.”
“See that the Spaniard visits the baths.”
“I will see to it the old man gets a dousing of cold water, highness.”
“My thoughts exactly, Hassan. Send Orna back. I would enjoy her dancing before she spends the rest of the day and night on her back.”
“The Spanish know no better,” Hassan said, and bowed himself out.
Kamal nibbled at a date offered him by a slave girl and settled back, waiting for Orna to return to ease his boredom. “Do you wish anything more, master?” the girl asked softly. As Kamal turned his head, her silk-covered breast brushed against his cheek.
“No,” he said abruptly at her ill-disguised attempt to gain his notice. He turned his attention to Orna, who had begun to dance before him naked, bending her ivory body to the beat of the music. She was indeed well trained, he thought objectively, some of her movements so suggestive that they captured even his eyes. When the music stopped, Orna dropped lightly to her knees.
“You may stay for now,” Kamal said, motioning her beside him.
Hassan returned, a frown puckering his forehead. “Your half-brother Risan has arrived, highness, with a present for you from your mother.”
Kamal grinned. “I haven’t seen my randy brother in a good two months. Show him in.”
The guards at the main doors stood at attention when Risan strode into the room.
Hassan stepped aside.
“My most noble master,” Risan said, and bowed deeply.
“Straighten up, brother, before I have one of my guards kick you onto your smirking face.”
Risan laughed easily. “You may yet give that order when you see what I’ve delivered to you from your esteemed mother.” He turned toward a guard at the door. “Bring in the wench.”
Kamal watched a scraggly figure struggle futilely against the grip of his Turkish soldier. “Arabella Welles, brother.” Risan roared with laughter and flung her to her knees at his brother’s feet.
Kamal stared at the crumpled woman. Her hair was filthy and matted to her head. When she raised her head
“Arabella Welles?” Kamal repeated. He came gracefully to his feet. “Is this some kind of jest, Risan?”
“No, highness. Your mother sends you the wench. I bring you a letter from her.”
Kamal quickly unfolded the quartered piece of paper and read: “My son, this is Arabella Welles, the daughter of my betrayer. She is a whore who has bedded many men in the court of Naples. Enjoy her, my son. I have written to her father. Though she is a worthless creature, he will feel bound to come for her.”
Arabella was breathing heavily, momentarily stunned. She forced her eyes away from the man reading the letter and quickly took in the dancing girl who was wrapping thin veils about her body, and two other, even younger girls, dressed in outlandish veils, giggling behind their hands. She began to shake. She heard a man’s voice ask, not unkindly, “Can you stand up?”
Arabella pulled herself to her feet and looked straight at him. He was taller than she had first thought, clean-shaven, and deeply tanned. His hair curled about his ears, the color of ripe wheat. His blue eyes seemed out of place in this land of dark swarthy people, and at the moment, were narrowed on her face.
“Who are you?” she whispered, though she knew well who he was. But he had no look of the contessa.
Her arm was suddenly grasped from behind and twisted. “This is your master, girl, Kamal El-Kader,” Risan said.
Kamal saw a flicker of pain in the girl’s eyes. “Let her go, brother,” he said. “You are the daughter of the Earl of Clare?”
“Does your honorable mother’s letter not tell you so?”
“My mother’s letter also tells me your morals were a blessing to many of the gentlemen at the court of Naples.” He saw a flash of fury in her dark eyes, and added slowly, “She suggests you might use your talents to amuse me until your father arrives to claim you.”
Arabella looked about at the barbaric luxury, then back at the man who was looking at her with contempt in his eyes. She said, her voice filled with furious calm, “You must have the morals of an animal, if you are stupid enough to believe lies from a woman who beds men young enough to be her son.”