Chapter Two

Chapter Two

R

owena

followed

a

house

slave through the eerily quiet halls, each more exquisitely decorated than the last. The light from the candle cast her shadow high, twisting it at the angle where the wall met the ceiling and curving it over her head. If only she could be so tall, her life would be different.

A strange tremor of fear and anticipation overcame her at the gruff reply to the knock. The house slave opened the door and glared at Rowena to enter. Inside, Mr. Sutton was sitting at an ebony desk too small to fit his large frame, his back to her. Rowena waited near the door for him to recognize her presence.

But the Englishman only continued writing furiously in his book. Rowena looked around at the silk cushions, the blazing fire, and then to the mountain of food on silver trays on the low table. The idea of eating something drew her forward, but she stopped short after only a few steps. She was uncertain if the food was for her. Or the cushions, for that matter. What a concubine’s rights were, she did not know.

A movement caught her attention. The ebony desk was now empty. Being left alone brought both relief and fear until the sound of tea being poured into cups penetrated the silence. Feeling much like a caged animal, she snapped her head to the right, finding Mr. Sutton across the room.

“I thought you might be hungry,” he said in Arabic.

Rowena found her heartbeat slowing at the man’s gentle voice, though her hands began to sweat when he looked straight at her.

“Master,” she said, bowing her head.

After a moment of silence, the tips of his black boots appeared before her. Cool fingers lifted her chin to force her to look into his eyes.

“Please, don’t lower your head,” he told her. “You are not my slave. I do not own slaves. What is your name?”

“Fatia,” Rowena answered, her throat dry and scratchy.

“Fatia,” he repeated, the name falling gently from his lips. “Please sit down and eat something before you waste away.”

Shame flooded her cheeks at his playful words, but his admittance to not owning slaves troubled her more than her pride. She needed to convince him to take her away from Algeria.

“My lord, in Algeria it is still legal to give people as a gift. To not take me would be a dishonor to Saed.” The moment the words spilled out of her, she gulped in fear.

Much to her dismay, she watched his face fill with anger instead of sympathy. The man marched towards the fireplace and violently deposited his goblet on the mantel.

“Damn it!” he growled in English. “This whole situation disgusts me.”

For the first time in her life, Rowena’s heart sank at hearing English words. She disgusted him. A slave. A woman who spent all day scrubbing or mending clothes. She looked at the traces of green streaked across her palms from the last vat of dye. A refined gentleman would not want to bother with her.

But he must take her. That much Sara had made clear. Renewed determination filled her, brushing aside her shame. She must do everything possible to convince him to take her away. This would be her last chance.

“Sit and eat,” Mr. Sutton said. It was obvious he was struggling to hold his irritation at bay.

Still, the small hint of sympathy in him made Rowena happy to comply. It seemed sincere enough. Perhaps if she could show him obedience, she could convince him to take her away.

She could feel his eyes on her as she chewed quietly, and was suddenly aware of how low the nightdress was cut. She squirmed on the cushion, keeping her eyes down as she finished her three dates. The man moved about in front of her, but she did not look up—not until he thrust a silver plate piled high with food at her.

“Eat a proper meal,” he said, his Arabic betraying his English grammar.

When she took the plate, their fingers grazed against each other subtly. The tension in the air, her revealing nightgown, and the knowledge of the duties expected of her all made her nerves crackle like a lit candle wick.

Mr. Sutton displayed no emotion as he leaned back, quietly smoking his cigarillo. His calm only spurned her nerves into a frenzy, making her breath catch and her fingers shake.

In all his years of doing business in North Africa, Christophe had never been in a situation like this before. A virgin. As a gift for doing what anyone would have done. Christophe blew the smoke out forcefully as he looked towards the fire. If only he had let the boy drown.

But, of course, that wasn’t a solution either.

He rose to pace back and forth, but being so close to the fire was suffocating, and he needed to think. In a fit of annoyance, he opted for the window and the vast desert night sky. The moon and all the millions of stars shone brightly everywhere he looked. It was an image he always missed whenever he was in London; nothing soothed more than the expanse of the black sky and the twinkling stars. Nothing made a man, or his troubles, feel smaller.

The calm of the night at least soothed his head. He was weary after the rather stressful day and needed sleep. Ignoring the girl and his predicament, he began the task of undressing, leaving himself in only the thin muslin shirt and silk dinner trousers. The nights were cool in the mountains, yet he still found the English-style clothing asphyxiating. He had worn them at dinner only because he knew Saed would wear the same. His gifts for Saed had included a few jackets and trousers from the latest styles in Europe. Since the French invasion, European-style clothing was scarce in Algeria.

A stirring near the fire reminded Christophe of his inconvenient reality. He looked to the stars for an answer, but heard nothing. For the next few weeks, he must once again travel over the mountains into Morocco with his fresh supplies. To get there safely, he would need to travel partway with a band of desert pirates who would guarantee his protection in return for a hefty payment. Bringing a girl with him was impossible.

Christophe turned to find the sofa empty. Before he could sigh with relief, he noticed candlelight moving towards him from the dressing room. He had been so deep in his thoughts that he hadn’t even noticed her entering it. Now she came out wearing only a simple white gown. The oil lamp she held out to light her way gleamed off the folds in the sheer fabric formed by her small breasts and curved hips. Her brown hair, glowing with red streaks in the light, cascaded in waves down her shoulders and back. Christophe noticed that her thin shoulders shook slightly.

When he said nothing, she stopped in front of the fireplace. There the light burst through her dressing gown, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Christophe immediately retreated to the window, disgusted at his body’s weak reaction.

“I will ring for someone to come and make another bed for me in the dressing room,” he said coolly, keeping her out of his line of sight.

“No!”

The force of the word stunned him into freezing mid-step. He turned to her and within five long strides; he stood in front of her, glaring down into her eyes.

“Do not say no to me,” he said in a low, controlled voice. Anger boiled within him at the situation of suddenly owning a slave, but he did not know how to explain something so complicated in Arabic.

“Please, my lord,” she whispered, throwing herself at his feet with a whimper. “I am sure I can please you, my lord. Please don’t throw me out. Just tell me what I am to do. I will do anything you ask. Please, give me a chance to please you.”

“Get up,” Christophe said, lowering his voice to what he hoped sounded gentler. “I cannot accept a gift like this. It is not my culture, but your own.”

He grasped her arm, noticing at once that she was thinner than a starving child, and pulled her to her feet. The thin fabric of the nightgown ripped, and she shivered in fear at the sound. Again, he cursed his dilemma.

“My lord, although it is not your culture, Master Saed has given me to you and you must take me,” she said. Her courage faltered soon enough, though, and she immediately lowered her head. “It would please my master and myself if you would take me as your servant.”

Christophe’s deep laughter surprised even himself. What a situation he was in.

“Would it please you, my dear, really?” he asked as he lifted her chin to see her expression. “Why are you begging me to do this to you? Do you really want a stranger to strip you of your innocence?”

“I am now yours,” she answered stubbornly.

Christophe noticed the anxious set of her shoulders and the ripple in her throat at the words. Fear and longing filled her eyes, as well as determination. Everything about her confounded him.

“I cannot do this to you,” he whispered as he let go of her chin.

To his surprise, the girl relaxed her face and rolled back her shoulders. She turned her lips up, and then took a step closer. He stood still as she took another, then another, until she stood just a few inches from him. Slowly she placed her palms on his chest, then leaned in and placed her lips on his mouth.

His traitorous body reacted immediately to that light touch. Almost instantly his breathing became heavy, and the desire to do the unthinkable flashed through him.

No! He could not.

And yet he could not move away. She closed the gap between them, her small breasts now touching his chest, her hands now moving up his neck. Without thinking, he opened his mouth and drew her lips closer with his own. Undoubtedly, she had no experience in the matter. But when his hands closed around her thin hips and his mouth pressed harder against hers, she responded with timid human instinct.

Just as the girl became soft and malleable, Christophe came to his senses. With more force than was needed for her slight frame, he pushed her away. He grimaced when she fell softly into the large pillows and cushions placed around the table.

“I cannot do this,” he repeated. The entire situation was too much. Traveling through the desert with a woman would be extremely dangerous. It would be much easier to leave her here.

“Please, sir,” she pleaded with him in Berber. “Saed will think there is something wrong with me.”

In spite of himself, his eyes roamed the silhouette of her naked form visible beneath the gown, taking in where she was soft and where she was angled from lack of food. From her collarbone up, her skin was dark, but below that, she had paler skin than he. It was not uncommon on the great Barbary Coast to find white slaves. Pirates had sold captured and sold European slaves for centuries, and he had seen many in his years traveling through here. Still, her paleness surprised him.

He looked into her eyes. They were brown, ringed with a bit of green. Like copper, oxidized on the edges. In them, willpower outweighed her fear of the unknown. The fear of her master punishing her was clearly more than the shame of her innocence being taken. Saed was a good man, but he still had to preserve his dignity. Sutton reached out to finger the torn material of her gown and sighed.

“Get dressed, Fatia,” he whispered, but before she could protest, he continued. “I will not allow Saed to think you displeased me, but I cannot do this to you. I will sleep at the foot of the bed tonight. In the morning, before the servants come in, I will lie next to you so there will be no rumors.”

He turned away from her to give her some semblance of privacy as she gathered the torn gown together. When he dared to turn around again, he found that she had gathered blankets from the large bed and made a small bed next to it.

“I think that might be too small for me,” Christophe chuckled. Strangely enough, he had laughed twice already with her.

“You will sleep on the bed, my lord,” Fatia mumbled. “It is more certain that I will wake up before another person comes in here than you.”

There was no use in arguing with the girl, who had already snuggled deep into the blankets. With a sigh, he lay down on the bed, feeling like a cad. A gentleman would never accept the bed and allow a lady to sleep on the floor. But then again, he was only a gentleman in name—and she was not a lady, but a slave. It didn’t seem to be a problem with a solution. Not a suitable solution, at any rate.

Christophe turned on his side. He watched the bundle of blankets rise and fall rhythmically until his eyelids closed and his own breathing slowly matched hers.

“Have a good night, Sutton?” José asked, leaning against a large tree. His attention moved to a slave nearby, packing dye in a trunk, before Christophe could answer. “Drop that, and I will see that you pay for it.”

Christophe sighed audibly at his business partner, choosing to ignore the earlier comment altogether.

“What?” José shrugged. “If they do not have someone yelling at them they do not do it correctly. Will you be ready to leave tomorrow morning, or will you be too

busy

?”

The glint in José’s eye turned Christophe’s stomach. He glanced at the window where he had left Fatia before taking the paperwork from Mohammed.

“Ah, she must be good, then,” José laughed, this time in Arabic for Mohammed’s benefit. “She kept you up all night and you still want more, eh?”

“

Cállate,

José,” Christophe retorted, looking over the numbers one more time. “Where is the aquamarine dye?”

Mohammed’s smile faded instantly.

“It will come in this afternoon, my lord,” the man said nervously. “Saed sent some of his men to make certain it will arrive.”

“Everything should have been here yesterday already. We need it properly packed in straw before we leave,” Christophe drawled, stepping closer to the shorter man. “And we leave tomorrow morning. Early.”

For a moment Mohammed looked back at him, his eyes shuttering every emotion.

“Yes, my lord. It will be here. Saed was very sorry to learn that it was delayed.”

José clapped Christophe on the back with a laugh. “Do not worry, Sutton. It will be here. Already the other dyes and materials are being packed. We should still be able to leave when we wish. You, wrap those tightly and make certain to put much straw around inside the crate. If I find one silver piece missing I will have your hand.”

“José,” Christophe warned.

“Do not worry, Sutton,” José said, flashing his yellow teeth. “I am not so serious. I do not wish to cut off another man’s hand. Come, look at this beautiful colt I bought for us from Saed.”

“Is he broken in? Perhaps Fatia could ride him.”

José’s brown eyes turned black at the mention of the girl. Knowing an argument was coming, Christophe turned his nose to the young horse, petting his black neck rhythmically to keep his pulse steady.

“She is coming? With us?”

Christophe tried to smile at his friend, but his attempt faded upon seeing José’s pursed lips.

“The desert is no place for a girl. She is just a slave. Leave her here.”

“Saed would be insulted. I do not know what will become of her if I leave her here.”

“Bah! Nothing will become of her more than her staying in Saed’s harems or being married to another slave. It is their plight. It is none of your business, and you should not make it your business.”

“She is coming with us.”

“Why?” José asked, leaning against the stall door.

“It’s already decided, José. I pay you to help me with the journey. I do not pay you for opinions on what I should or should not bring with me.”

“Of course, Mr. Sutton,” José said with a mocking bow. “But she will not ride this horse. I will keep the stallion for myself. Look, there is Youssef. Let us go talk to Saed.”

Saed paced from one argan tree to another, scowling at the goats stuck within the branches.

“Farouk!” he yelled, dashing his whip against the trunk where the loudest goat was bleating. “Get these ridiculous creatures out of this tree! Then make certain all the oil that Sutton wished to buy is properly accounted for and packed. Now!”

“Yes, Master,” panted Farouk, out of breath from running a group of goats down the trail. “Simon and Zahir are back, Master. They are coming up the long road.”

Saed left Farouk and the bleating goat to look down the road to his mansion. Two slaves were walking towards the houses, immediately changing direction and pace the moment they saw him. Farther down the road came a lumbering wagon, laden down with crates of dyes and other supplies he had ordered the slaves to find.

“A good trip?” Saed asked, grabbing the cypress paper scroll from Zahir.

The slave only gave a slight nod before stepping farther back—an experienced movement. When Saed’s eyes dropped to where the price of the dye was written, his whip rose and fell with a crash against the rock, skimming Simon’s foot. Simon jumped back in pain but chose to bite his lip instead of crying out.

Saed waited, watching. Simon knew what his master expected. He straightened himself up, shifting his weight evenly onto both feet.

Pleased, Saed turned back to Zahir. “Zahir. An explanation, please.”

The tall, dark-skinned man stepped forward, his eyes warily watching Saed’s whip. “The French, Master. They burned down a factory in Saida. Master Rachid says if you have the opportunity to sell yours out of the country, to do so. The price to smuggle it out of the country has also gone up. Right there, a note at the bottom, Master Saed.”

Saed waved his slaves away from his sight and cursed again—in Berber and Arabic for good measure. Sutton would not like this. Not at all. He must change the price from what they had agreed on. There was a good reason, but Sutton would not like it.

“Salam, brother,” Sutton said steadily. Saed looked up to find the Englishman atop a magnificent stallion and Saed’s son Amir next to him on his own. “Will you ride with us?”

“Yes, brother,” Saed said, his smile not quite staying on his lips. “But I think perhaps we should talk first. I have news from the village. And your dyes, you see?”

Sutton’s gaze followed Saed’s hand, waving towards the road. Several slaves now worked to carry the crates into a large building to package them correctly for the journey.

“The oil should be finished and packed as well, Sutton,” Saed said, his breath quivering, knowing he had to deliver the bad news. “But the price has changed. For the dyes, you see.”

Sutton turned his dark blue eyes to him, and Saed resisted the powerful urge to pull back.

“You think I am cheating you. I can see it in your face,” Saed said, his voice much calmer than his heart. “But I am not, you see. The slaves came back with the aquamarine dye and with news that prices are soaring everywhere. The French, they are to blame for all of this. They are making these prices rise.”

“Yes, I heard that a factory was burned down,” Sutton said slowly. “But then I heard that several smuggling ships were also burned. Getting the dye out of the country will become very expensive as well, brother.”

Saed stiffened, his hope that Sutton would not be so well informed now snuffed out. High prices were worthless if the dyes sat in his storage houses. Sutton was here, ready to take much of his inventory for a price that was already fair. And yet Saed could not resist negotiating. If the Englishman paid more, Saed would not have to worry about money for a long time.

“I wish things were different these days, my friend,” Saed said. “If they were, I would be preparing to leave for Paris soon. My wife would be happier there, buying new dresses and spending time drinking English tea with her cousins, and I would be smoking cigarettes and cigars imported from the Indies while making new business partners. If only the French were more comprehensive of the situation – if only they would simply pay back the debt they owe to Algeria for the wheat that they ate.”

Sutton only gave a noncommittal grunt. The silence weighed heavily on Saed’s chest as he smoked, looking at his English brother through narrowed eyes until the silence exploded within him.

“I must ask four hundred pounds, brother. I cannot go lower.”

Sutton leveled his black gaze at Saed, sending lightning bolts through the smaller man’s body.

“That,” Sutton said evenly, “is a fortune.”

Saed swallowed hard, gathering strength from deep within himself before countering. “It is fair. I cannot sell dye to you at one price and turn around to sell to my other friends and neighbors at another price. That would be deceitful. I must keep it fair to everyone. If I set a low price with you, I will not make it through the winter. If the fighting comes here, I might lose everything.”

Sutton made no show of surprise, and yet he said nothing for a moment. He took a long drag on his cigarette and looked at the sky. Saed’s stomach lurched with anticipation. Sometimes Sutton’s anger was worse when quiet.

Finally, he quoted another price.

“But that is so much lower!” cried Saed, wanting to appear dramatic even though the price was still a bit higher than that in town. “But as you are my esteemed brother and the one who saved my son from drowning, I will close the price with a shake of your hand, as we would have in London.”

“As you wish, brother,” Sutton said, thrusting his hand out.

Saed’s small hand disappeared into the Englishman’s large hand, and he instantly regretted suggesting the action at all. He eyed his son, who sat upon his horse, patiently watching them. Saed refused to allow his slight build to deflect from his victory in this negotiation.

“Let us ride a bit, Sutton. It is too hot to stay immobile for too long.”

Saed threw himself onto his beautiful gelding with grace, though Sutton did so almost as gracefully with his bulk. Still, he refused to keep comparing himself to the Englishman who was so staunch and cold. He had won, and winning always aroused him. The pinpricks running up and down his body brought him to a different topic.

“How did you find your gift, Sutton?”

“She is a beautiful girl,” Sutton said, keeping his stallion slightly ahead of Saed’s gelding.

“Ah, yes. She is pretty. But perhaps too pretty to travel the desert in the company of so many men?”

“She will be well cared for,” Christophe answered carefully.

Saed looked to the sky, thinking on how to convince his friend to leave the girl behind. “I was merely noting that you have a long journey ahead of you, and wondered if it was imprudent of Nadira to give you such a gift. Perhaps it is a gift more trouble than it is worth. How will you accommodate her during your journey? José made mention of the problems she might cause for Omar. If that is the case, I would not think it an insult if you did not want to take her with you. I do not wish to burden you on your journey.”

“She will work. There is no need for me to treat her as a wife when she is a slave,” Sutton said evenly, not seeming to notice how his answer affected Saed.

When the slave girl had stepped forward as Nadira’s gift, jealousy had instantly penetrated his bones, just as it was doing again at this moment. Nadira knew her place enough to never complain about Saed satisfying his appetite elsewhere, but he now knew that she did not truly love or understand him. If she did, she would have given

him

the slave girl to enjoy, not an Englishman. No matter his saving Youssef. A visit to the harem for Sutton would have been sufficient.

“Sutton, please. Do not try to tell me she is not a burden. I apologize for Nadira’s thoughtless gift. We will not be insulted if you must leave her here. She is still very useful to us.”

“I have already made arrangements to bring her along with us,” Sutton said smoothly. “If she works, she will not be a burden.”

“Do you think she is strong enough to work all day in the desert sun, sleeping little at night and affronting, perhaps, attacks from French soldiers or other tribes at the border of Morocco?”

“I expect no trouble, my friend, neither from the French nor from the native tribes on the border,” Christophe said with a smile. “It will be good to have someone else working with us, and I am eternally grateful to you for giving me an extra worker—something I would not have understood that I needed until it was too late. Besides, a female’s touch at the end of a long day is always welcome, is it not?”

Saed masked his disappointment with indifference. He could not push the subject further. He spurred his horse to a run, trying to bide his time until he could visit his harem.