On a Long Ago Night (12 page)

as the resentful tavern maid's son inside him accepted the

aristocrat's dare to challenge her superiority. She had grown cold

and hard since they had parted, become a woman of ice and pride.

Both could be broken, but was it a shell or who she really was?

Her voice was quite steady and sarcastic when she said, "I

have a vague recollection of some minor activity we were engaged

in at the time."

He twined his fingers with hers beneath the table. Her hand

was icy cold, like the hand of a marble statue. "In the garden," he

whispered seductively. "Remember? The birds sang."

"The birds were caged."

"The fountain played."

"The base was cracked. It leaked."

"I sang to you."

"Was that what that caterwauling was?"

"There were jasmine and roses."

She gave the slightest of nods. "I do recall studying the

garden in some detail."

"You were flat on your back on a bed of flowers." He ran his

thumb slowly across the back of her hand, and received no

reaction. So he said, "We will finish what we started."

The gaze she turned up to meet his sparked with hot anger,

and equally hot memory. "Why?" she asked, tart and tense.

"Haven't you managed to get your member to relax after all these

years?"

James threw back his head and laughed, uncaring of the

attention it brought from everyone who had been openly and

surreptitiously watching them. The man on the other side of the

table, who had been making no secret of trying to eavesdrop,

leaned even further forward across the table. James noticed the

snarl on his pale English face, and seeing that the cuff of Russell's

coat rested on a slice of mutton added to his amusement. Having

Russell jealous of him for once brought a certain amount of

satisfaction. It was almost a pity that Captain Russell did not know

who he was. Russell had always been blinded by his vanity and

self-involvement, far less aware of the world around him than

Honoria on a dark night without her spectacles. How odd that

Honoria had been blind to Russell's true nature. Blinded by love.

And how odd, James discovered, that it still hurt.

He slanted a warning look at his rival, which Russell didn't

even notice. The man's angry gaze centered on Honoria. He looked

for all the world as if he blamed her for speaking to another man.

That Russell wanted Honoria was blatant, and infuriating, and it

added a dangerous edge to James's humor. Were they to make a

game of it, he and the English fool? Oh, that's right, he was

English, too. He was as much of a fool as Russell: for he intended

to win.

Honoria jerked her hand from his clasp, regaining his full

attention. Twin spots of bright color burned in her cheeks. He was

very tempted to kiss them. Would that serve to unleash the

passionate fury she held so tightly under control? Even the blush

faded quickly, leaving her expression as bland as before. Her eyes

still sparkled with memory, with deep-feelings, with fury. In a

blink those feelings were gone, as well. Locked away, or had he

imagined something he wanted to see in her look? Was there

passion left inside her for him? Or for Russell?

He would have asked her outright, if the Duke of Pyneham

had not chosen that moment to speak. "Whatever is so amusing,

Mr. Marbury?" He smiled indulgently at his daughter. "Will you

share your wit, my dear daughter? In your native tongue, perhaps?"

"Mr. Marbury and I were discussing gardens," she replied,

prevaricating with an ease that brought a fresh smile to James's

lips.

"An Islamic garden," he added, joining easily in her

dissembling. "I was telling her of the one I had planted for my

mother at our home in Malaga ." The garden was the truth, at least.

"When one speaks of Persian roses, blue-tiled fountains, and caged

desert doves, it is best to discuss them in a language they

understand." He looked apologetically at the people seated nearest

him.

"How—fanciful," the duke said, rubbing his chin

thoughtfully.

"How thoughtless on my part," James responded. "I was

teasing Lady Alexandra a bit."

Honoria lifted an eyebrow at him. "Teasing?" Her expression

was sardonic, but outrage underlined her one-word question. "And

I remember now," she continued in Arabic. "We were finished in

the garden. Finished for good, if you will recall."

"You were finished, perhaps," he responded, with more

bitterness than he intended to show. "I was interrupted."

"A pity you did not achieve your heart's desire."

"I intend to rectify that."

"You'll not have my help this time."

"You gave me very little last time."

She picked up a glass of wine with her left hand. He thought

for a moment that she was going to hurl it at him, but she took a sip

and placed the crystal goblet back on the damask tablecloth with

delicate precision. She then picked up a gold knife, and held it like

a weapon instead of an eating utensil. Honoria, he recalled, was

left-handed.

"Your father is very proud of you, James," the duke

interjected. "We talked a great deal about you when we met at our

club yesterday. He told me that you had studied many languages,

traveled the world."

"Did he?"

"Honoria likes that sort of thing. Girl's looking for a husband,

you know."

"Father!"

"I'm sure she will make a wonderful wife. My father knows a

great deal about your lovely daughter." He spoke to the duke, but

his gaze was riveted on Honoria's.

He saw that she understood his meaning. The sudden fear in

her eyes was like a dark bruise. "He does?"

"He tells me he was at your christening," James went on

smoothly. "Please put down the knife," he added in Arabic. "You

should never draw a weapon unless you plan to use it."

Honoria responded by slicing a piece of meat and eating it.

"That's true," the duke spoke up. "I remember it well."

James took quick note of the fond glance the duke bestowed

on his daughter before he turned back to Honoria. "My father

knows that you and I have much in common."

"It seems that you do," the duke said, before Honoria could

recover from the sharp breath she took to answer. The thoughtful

tone of his voice pleased James. It caused Honoria to drop the knife

and turn her head swiftly toward her father, which was just as well.

It hid James's smug smile from her. He and the Duke of Pyneham

exchanged an understanding glance.

"Mr. Marbury and I have nothing in common," she insisted to

her father. "Truly. Nothing."

"You speak the same language," her father said.

"Well, so do I," Russell spoke up suddenly.

"Why would anyone want to speak more than the Queen's

English?" He was ignored.

"Our families have been friends for generations," James

added, and the duke beamed.

"So have ours," Russell persisted.

Honoria squinted, peering at James's face for the first time in

years. He was tempted to smooth away the frown line that formed

between her eyes. "I don't want to think about it," she said.

"That your family and mine—" She shook her head.

"Amazing, isn't it?" James asked. "It must be
kismet
that we

met. Meant to be," he added, looking directly at her father. "Fate."

"Hmmm." The duke stroked his chin. "Yes. I think I see."

Honoria glared at her father. "No. You don't." Beneath the

table, she kicked James in the ankle.

"
Kismet
," Russell spoke up louder, drawing the attention of

all the guests seated at this end of the long table. "That's a heathen

concept, isn't it, Marbury? Foreign nonsense's bad enough, but

where'd you pick up such heathen drivel, old man?" He added an

edgy smile with his last words, to keep them from sounding too

much like the insult he meant them as. He looked around as though

he expected applause for having just said something endlessly

witty.

James saw no reason to pay the man any mind. It was

Honoria who replied, "The Moors ruled Spain for centuries. I'm

sure Mr. Marbury has knowledge of Islamic philosophy from his

own land."

He doubted Honoria was trying to protect his identity with

her explanation. From her furtive glance toward her father, he

guessed that the Duke of Pyneham was ignorant of her adventures,

and that she intended him to stay that way. That would be useful.

"And Malaga is a Mediterranean port," James added, to help her

story. "We've had trade with the Barbary ", Honoria kicked him

again—"cities for centuries."

"I know the town," Derrick Russell replied, with a sneer. "A

none-too-savory place. Your mother's from there, is she?"

James ignored any implied insult. He ignored Russell. "The

Moors were before my time," he said to the duke. "But I have some

vague memories of the French occupying the city."

"Ah, yes, the French," the duke said. "Your father and I were

both in Spain during the Napoleonic wars. We were young." He

chuckled. "And your father was very much in love with the lovely

Lady Graciela."

James and Honoria spoke as one.

"You met my mother?" James asked.

"Do you know his mother?" She looked back at James.

"I'm afraid I never had that honor."

"Any moment now I am going to discover that Mr. Marbury

and I are long lost cousins, aren't I?" Her voice was remarkably

pleasant, though James recognized her blistering anger.

"No," he answered quietly, only for her to hear. "But we are

long lost from one another." She jerked as if she'd received a hard

blow. Her hand was cold in his. It was in that moment that James

realized she hated him; hated him with her heart and soul. She must

have hated him even while they were lovers, even on that last night.

Her heart was cold as well. Only toward him? he wondered. He

glared at Russell. Did she still want that fool? Why couldn't she

need
him
? Perhaps she hated him, but he knew how to make her

want him. He would take great pleasure and revenge in reminding

her of that. Perhaps he would be the one to do the abandoning this

time, vow or no vow.

Revenge did not matter, he reminded himself. Let her heart

be cold; he would warm other parts of her soon enough, and it

would achieve his purpose. A streak of pleased anticipation ran

through him at the thought. Honoria must have felt it, too, because

her skin warmed beneath his touch. "Soon," he said in Arabic, and

stroked the back of her hand with his thumb once more. Honoria

ignored him, speaking to her father instead.

James looked around him, hating the necessity of attending

another pointless social function when he had in mind a far better

way to spend the evening. The long dining room glittered, and so

did everyone in it. The women's elaborate gowns sparked with

jewels, and the chandeliers were of scintillating faceted crystal. The

array of glasses before him were crystal as well, the china pattern

was etched in gold. Flowers arranged in huge silver bowls marched

down the center of the enormous table. The floor was of shining

white marble, the painted ceiling portrayed a multitude of ancient

gods and fantastical beasts feasting in a sunny garden. Footmen in

bright blue coats moved around the table with exquisite precision,

serving course after endless course of heavy English food.

James could hardly wait for the meal to be over—though

there had been a time when he would have killed to be accepted as

an English gentleman. Truth was, there was a time he
had
killed for

the chance to return to the life of being a Spanish tavern maid's son.

Killed, and worse.

She would be all right, Diego told himself as he accompanied

Salah, the captain of Ibrahim Rais's third galley, through the

arched doorway, moving from the midday heat of the courtyard

into the cool interior of the house. Memory guided his silent steps

through Ibrahim's mansion while his mind whirled with

unaccustomed concern for the woman he'd sent to the slave market.

He could not forget the fear in her eyes, or the moment when the

pleading look she'd turned to him changed to anger. She'd finally