Caversham's Bride (The Caversham Chronicles - Book One) (2 page)

“So far, so good.” The woman chuckled. “If she isn’t dead yet, finish her off. Then take the body and toss it into the sea. Remember, weight the bag so it won’t be found.”

Ottavia! Her aunt’s housekeeper. The despicable old woman spoke of her dead body so casually, without a bit of remorse or care. Her aunt was behind this. She should have known.

“
Sì, signora
,” the male voice answered.

The cart rocked beneath Lia as the man took his seat on the bench. She heard the clink of coins as Ottavia counted them out.

“This is what we agreed to, is it not?”

“
Sì
,” the man answered.

“In a few months come back for another one.
La Contessa
wants them all out of her house.”

Blessed Virgin in heaven. The men were coming back for her brother and their old nurse, too!

“We’ll gladly take care of it for you,” said another voice. “For a price, of course.”

Another man. There were two of them. God, her head hurt. Lia had thought she might at least have a chance fighting off one kidnapper. Her odds stood far slimmer with two, but she wasn’t going to die without a fight. And now, she needed to rescue her brother and Maura as well.

The cart swayed again, as the second man climbed up on the seat. She heard the reins slap against an animal’s back and the cart jolted forward. After a few minutes, the two men began to talk. Lia listened intently.

“You know, she’s got a decent enough face, and her body ain’t none too bad either.” One of the men spat. “I’m thinking we sell her to Najjar and make ten-fold the money that old witch paid us.”

“Who is he?”

“Some Arab trader that collects women and sells them over there as slaves. If they’re virgins, they get sold straight to a harem of some sultan.”

“It’d be a shame to let
sta bellezza
go to waste as a slave. Let’s have a tumble or two while we got her.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” The first man shouted. “She’s pretty, and if she’s a virgin she goes straight to a harem.”

“So? What’s that do for us?”

The second man didn’t sound too bright, Lia thought. Even she knew what this meant. They weren’t going to kill her. She still had a chance to escape, to save Luchino and Maura.

“So? They pay double or better for a virgin!”

“How do we know she is one?”

“Just a hunch,” the first voice said. “You weren’t there when I caught her.
Sta puttanesca
fought me like a wild animal. She couldn’t have known I was out to kill her. No, she was protecting her
virtù
. I’m sure of it.”

The second man was silent a moment. “You might be right. How much would this Arab pay for one such as her?”

“Well, it’s been a while since I had unused goods to sell, but that one brought two thousand lire. I’m thinking with this one’s background and looks, she’d bring three to four thousand easy.”

Lia heard the second man whistle at the amount. How dare they consider her no more than cattle? Angry though she was, she didn’t have long to think about it. She had to figure out a way to escape before they met with this Najjar person. Her chances for success were greater now, because the men currently holding her sounded as though they were a pair of bumbling idiots. Large, but dimwits nonetheless.

She worked the leather strap binding her wrists until it was loose enough to pull one hand free. After rubbing the life back into her hands, she tested the knot at the top of the canvas sack. This one was tighter than the other. More difficult, but not impossible. Lia squeezed a finger through the opening. Then another and another, until she hooked the rope with a finger.

She waited a moment to make sure no one paid attention to her, then pulled the ends of the rope through the top of the sack and began loosening the knot.

Lia felt the cart leave the smoother, brick-paved road of the city for the softer, rutted dirt road leading into the countryside. This was her chance to escape. As soon as they were well away from the sounds of town, she moved cautiously toward the back of the cart. Each time the cart bounced over a rut, she scooted back a little further so it would appear the sack was being jostled about.

As she expected, the rear of the cart had no rail to prevent her from falling off the back. Bracing herself for the drop to the ground, she rolled off the edge. The fall itself wasn’t too bad, and she was fortunate to land on squishy mud. Still, it knocked the wind from her.

Lia waited a moment before making a move to open the sack. She wanted to be sure the cart continued traveling down the path and the two men were far enough away for her to get a head start.

Pushing her way out of the sack, she looked down the path for the cart. A sliver of moon in the sky gave her just enough light to make out the back end of the cart and its two passengers some thirty yards away. With her black dress and cloak, it would be easy for her to slip into the trees and disappear. Lia reached over to grab the sack to take with her so as not to leave a trace of where she disappeared.

Then she heard a voice cry, “She’s fallen off the back, and is running for the woods!”

“Get her, you big oaf,” the first man shouted. “Don’t let her get away. That one’s going to make us rich.”

Dropping the sack, Lia ran into the heavy brush along the road. Winter-dried vines clawed at the exposed skin of her face and hands, tearing at her clothes. The thorny brush pulled at her cloak as she continued her way into the woods. Working the clasp at her neck, she let the cloak fall away, hoping to move faster without it.

A clearing ahead looked to be a farmer’s pasture. She lunged forward. If she could reach it, she could lift her skirts and run.

“
Minchia.”

She heard the curses of the man chasing her as he, too, was scratched by the prickly barbs. Her heart racing, Lia glanced over her shoulder. How close was he? Oh God, too close. And getting closer. She screamed, batting at the vines in her path.

“No!” she shrieked. She reached the pasture, snatched up her skirts and ran. Ran for her life.

Her hair had long ago loosened from its coil and now flowed freely down her back, making it too easy for her captor to.... Lia’s head snapped back, the burning in her scalp ripping a scream from her. She fell onto her pursuer as his beefy arms grabbed her about the waist, his other hand, still holding her hair, covered her mouth.

Struggling and kicking, she fought furiously. The heel of her boot connected with his leg, forcing a string of foul curses from his sour, stinking mouth. He released her in an attempt to readjust his grip, and she pulled away to run, only to be caught by the first man, who’d arrived with more rope and the sack she’d dropped by the road.

The stinky one, the bigger of the two, held her while the shorter one, obviously the leader, grabbed her dangling, kicking feet and tied them together. He then jerked one arm behind her back while the big smelly one attempted to keep her still as she struggled. The short guy succeeded with one arm, but when he reached forward to get her other one, Lia bit into it hard, drawing blood and more curses from him. She spat the salty filth onto the ground as the big smelly one grasped for her free hand to help his friend. Lia slammed a fist into his face. Instinctively, he reached back to punch her, but was stopped by the short one.

“
Non tocare,”
he said, clutching his wounded arm to his chest. “Don’t touch her. If you ruin her looks, we don’t get as much for her.”

He shoved Lia into his partner’s arms, then turned his fury on her. “Listen you crazy bitch, I could have thrown you in the sea like the lady asked, but I thought I’d give you a chance to live the good life in some cozy harem.”

Anger seethed from every pore in her body. “You think only of your own purse!” She spat at his dirty, toothless grin.

He slapped her. “Another word out of you and you’ll be fish food for sure,” he told her as he tied a gag in her mouth.

Wrenching her arms nearly from their sockets, he bound her hands behind her back, thrusting her chest forward. Pain ripped through her body, but Lia refused to flinch. She would not shed a tear of fear or pain in front of these men.

The giant who held her began to pant heavily onto her neck. His wet tongue moved over her skin, and Lia felt bile rise in her throat. His hands came forward to grab her breasts and squeezed. It hurt, but the pain was secondary to the revulsion boiling within her. How dare these filthy animals touch her?

“You can’t do much to fight us now, can you,
Signorina?”
One of his hands traveled down to cup her most private place. He tried to raise her skirt but it was tied down around her ankles. He tugged harder, but the first man stopped him.

“We don’t got time for that. If we hurry we can catch the Arab before he leaves Genoa. I hear he’s waiting on the tide.”

The sack came down around her head and instead of stuffing her whole body in, the smaller man tied it around her waist. “Carry
la signorina
back.”

The giant lifted her effortlessly over his shoulder. The pain in her arms was excruciating, but Lia still refused to cry out. She seethed with intense anger as his hands rubbed over her backside and stroked the back of her legs. He tried to pry between her thighs but she gave him a swift, well-placed kick, then grinned under her gag at his curses when she realized she’d hit her mark.

Satisfaction was only short-lived as he tossed her into the cart like a bag of rocks. Her head hit the back of the bench and she sank into the murky blackness that opened before her, forgetting how uncomfortable she was, forgetting the pain in her body, and even forgetting her plans of escape.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Tangier, Morocco, February 1819

M
arcus Renfield Halden, ninth Duke of Caversham, stepped off the gangway and onto the pier just before sunset, expecting to be greeted by someone, as arranged, from Hakim’s household. The crowded red-tiled roofs of terra cotta buildings and the smell of spices and leather from Tangier’s port greeted Ren with the familiarity of an old friend. With his ships unloaded and secured, he forwarded his trunk to the palace and arranged for the watch on each vessel.

He scanned the crowded pier. Hundreds of dockworkers and sailors of all nationalities were transferring cargo to and from the ships docked alongside his, with more resting at anchor in the bay. Everyone seemed to have a purpose or destination. Everyone except the pathetic creature leaning lazily against a building across the wharf, his dirty white turban knocked askew. Ren didn’t know why this particular vagrant stood out in the crowd, certainly this man garbed in a stained, coarse kaftan and worn-through babouches, was not his escort to the palace of Prince Hakim. His friend’s servants were always impeccably groomed.

Sure that Hakim had simply forgotten him, Ren drew one last puff from his cheroot and tossed the stub into the water. He started to walk, intending to hire a cart to take him to the palace outside Tangier. He hadn’t gone a quarter of a mile when he sensed someone following him. Every instinct in him told him it was the vagabond. With his hand on the pistol beneath his jacket, Ren turned to face his stalker.

The man’s stooped posture indicated a life of hard work, and Ren was sure the beggar simply wanted coin or food. As the poor wretch drew closer, he noticed the filth on the other man’s hands and face, and the foul odor of his body. He pulled a coin from his pocket, meaning to toss it his way once the other man was near enough.

With his head bobbing, the man began to speak in an unfamiliar tongue. There was something about the scrounger—he couldn’t quite place it, so he shook off the feeling. Knowing most Arabs in this part of Morocco spoke fluent Spanish, Ren asked if he did.

His follower shook his head.

The possibility was remote, he knew, but he tried French.

Again, the hunched-over man shook his head, his turban falling to the side, threatening to come unwound. Something wasn’t quite right, Ren knew, because a Muslim man’s turban was always wrapped tight. Ren held out his hand with the coin, ready to toss it, when he got a most unusual response from the man.

“I speak English, Your Grace.” The miscreant stood straight, nearly as tall as he, and his laughing cocoa-brown eyes met Ren’s, his brows arching. “Almost as well as you.”

Ren’s eyes narrowed, then he recognized the man. He was momentarily stunned, but not completely surprised, by the garb his friend was wearing. He reached out to greet Hakim in an embrace, but the noxious odor made him cringe and step back. Ren held out his hand to shake instead.

“I know,” Hakim said as they shook hands. “It offends me as well. Let’s go to the palace so I can bathe this stench from my person.”

“What was the purpose of the disguise? A joke?”

“When I heard you came alone, I wanted to surprise you. Did your bride not make the voyage with you?”

“There is no bride,” Ren said tersely. He ignored the topic and continued walking, not wanting to think about, much less talk about, his aborted engagement and his own cousin’s role in the whole nefarious and villainous plot. The pain from the betrayal was still too new, the wound still too fresh. “Have you waited long?”