Love Storm (45 page)

Moving stealthily through the small, walled gardens behind the buildings, they were alarmed to discover the back door was also posted with a black-robed figure. A worried frown appeared on the earl's fine brow. "I think we should look into this, Ridgely," he said with growing apprehension. "Do you have your knife with you?"

In a swift flash of motion Ridgely produced the double-edged Persian dagger he kept in his boot. "Aye, yer honor. At yer service." He grinned momentarily, disturbing briefly the dour, staid lines of his craggy Scot's face.

Alistair's eyes searched the roof with a rapid, fleeting glance. Then his mouth quirked in an answering grin. "Best up and over it seems, Ridgely, if we're to avoid the Turks."

"Like in
Marrakech,
eh, yer honor? Up it is." The pale, gray eyes of the earl's man glinted with a rare and animated excitement. Ridgely had been with the Earl of Glenagle since Alistair had been the young heir sent down to Cambridge. He had continued serving as valet after his marriage, had followed him with Kitchner in Africa and after the earl's wife died two years ago accompanied his master on a year's trek across Turkey, Persia, and Bashan to China. This past year after their return from the East had been too tame to suit Ridgely, and he smiled warmly in anticipation of some stimulating sport.

The earl, as was typical of gentlemen of his class, was a sportsman of note. His leisured life was regularized only by the calendar of sporting seasons: salmon fishing in the summer, grouse and partridge shooting in fall and early winter, fox hunting until the spring rains made the ground too muddy and treacherous, then skiing and mountain climbing in Switzerland. During the brief lull in late spring when other people enjoyed London's season, he usually went abroad. All in all the outdoor life had developed and honed the earl to a peak of faultless, physical excellence.

Executing a furtive, chary detour around the bodyguard at the back, Alistair and Ridgely entered a building two doors north of Zena's pension and took the several flights of stairs three at a time to the roof. Letting themselves out onto the small walkway flanked by the surrounding expanse of red tile, they carefully made their way across the slick surface, lowered themselves the few feet to the roof next door, and then repeated the slow, cautious procedure until they dropped quietly onto the roof of Zena's building. Ridgely pried open one of the dormer windows of the attic, and both men passed through, gaining access to the barren fourth floor of the pension. Alistair unobtrusively lifted the trapdoor to the attic and peered into the third-floor hallway. Seeing nothing in the hushed, darkened hall, he dropped lightly to his feet onto the landing below. Ridgely followed like a silent shadow.

Hugging the wall, they stole down the carpeted stairs to the second floor. Motioning Ridgely to halt, Alistair eased his head around the corner of the stair landing and searched the dimly lit hallway that passed Zena's door.

Another black-robed Turk was stationed before Zena's door! The earl's blood pounded to his temples as mad rage leaped into his normally rational mind. Zena was in danger! His first wild impulse was to sink Ridgely's dagger in the bloody dog's back, but sensible considerations overcame his disordered fury.

Softi was lounging against the wall with his back to Alistair. Using sign language, Alistair issued his instructions to Ridgely, and with an expertise acquired over many months from the North African Bedouins, the earl and his man crept silently to within striking distance of the unapprehending guard. With stunning, snakelike speed Ridgely clamped his left hand over Softi's mouth at the same time his right hand held the double-edged dagger against the jugular of the astonished Turk.

Alistair quickly secured Softi's hands with his leather belt and efficiently gagged him with his neck scarf, while Ridgely bound the guard's ankles with the silk cord of his own burnoose. In less than a minute the trussed Turk was carried down the hall and deposited inside a supply closet.

When they returned to Zena's door, Alistair hesitated. If they broke down the door, and someone was inside, Zena might be seriously harmed. Several seconds passed as the earl considered his alternatives. He had just decided there was no choice but to break the door in when lady luck intervened. The doorknob began to turn.

The earl and Ridgely leaped aside, flattening themselves against the wall on opposite sides of the door that was slowly opening.

From inside the darkened apartment Abdul stepped out to engage Softi's help in carrying the unconscious Delilah and the young boy. Alistair's temper rose irrationally, and black outrage gripped him as he saw the tall Turk emerge from Zena's apartment. Wanting to lash out and destroy this alien, he didn't wait for Ridgely to move with his dagger. The earl clasped his hands tightly together into a fist, swung his arms back to shoulder level, and drove from the height of that sweeping movement with all the force of his body, smashing his clenched fists into Abdul's Adam's apple.

Ibrahim Bey's young and handsome nephew dropped like a slaughtered sheep.

Without so much as a glance Alistair stepped over the still body and ran to Zena's bedroom. Entering the lamplit room, he perceived immediately what had happened. Alistair slammed the door shut.

Zena lay unconscious on the rumpled bed. Although her hands were free, Alistair discerned the silk cord tossed carelessly aside and saw the red welts on her wrists. Her night dress had been pulled down hastily over her thighs, but vestiges of Abdul's passion stained the silken fabric.

Alistair was seized with a sudden urge to kill the savage animal who had violated this woman who meant so much to him. A tremor of uncontrollable fury gripped him, and his hands clenched and unclenched convulsively at his sides. He whirled on his heel, intent on murdering the fallen Arab in the hallway if the cur wasn't already dead. The beast deserved no less. As his hand touched the door latch, Zena moaned weakly.

Dashing back to the bed, he gently raised the half-conscious, half-clothed woman into his arms. Zena's eyes fluttered open. The earl exhaled a sigh of relief and tightened his hold on her soft shoulders.

"Alistair," Zena whispered shakily. "Oh, Alistair." She trembled under his fingers while tears streamed down her cheeks. "Thank God you came. He . . . he . . . was taking me away."

"Hush, hush, my sweet," he soothed. "It's all over. I'll take care of you. I'll always take care of you." He tightened his grip on her. "You must marry me. You can't live alone. Say you'll marry me now. Say yes, my darling."

Zena looked up into his kind, warm eyes and shuddered at the frightful memory of what had just passed. If Alistair hadn't come to save her, she would have spent the rest of her life in a Turkish harem.

"Say you will, dear Zena," Alistair insisted gently.

Zena had never felt so dreadfully alone and helpless as in the past hour. She had always prided herself on being resolute and persevering, always able to cope with her many problems. But tonight the feeling of utter, appalling despair had been overwhelming while the thought of being spirited away to spend the rest of her life as a brood mare in some faraway seraglio had been terrifying in its imminence. The possibility of that long, dreary, endless life in such a prison had broken her proud spirit. She was at the moment truly afraid to be alone, and she suddenly needed the affection Alistair offered or maybe the security, or maybe the passion.

Zena gazed into Alistair's gentle eyes and out of weakness and fear whispered, "Yes, I will." Her future lay not with the dream of Sasha, who was lost to her forever, but with the reality of Alistair, and she wisely accepted the fact. She purposely reminded herself of the deep wound of Sasha's savage rejection, and the pain helped her face the future. Today she began a new life.

Alistair's face lit with unadultered joy at her acquiescence, which he had waited for so long. "You won't regret it, darling," he murmured. "I'll see that you're happy."

Oh, God, Zena thought, I have to tell him about Sasha, about the need for a divorce, about all the complications of my life. Not now, though, she considered wearily. Tomorrow I'll tell him, tomorrow
...
or the next day.

In the jubilation of his triumph the Earl of Glenagle was inclined to disregard his previous bloodthirsty urge to brutally kill. After tucking Zena into bed with the promise that he would stay with her until morning, Alistair instead called the police superintendent. Upon his arrival, the earl succinctly described the events that had transpired in a mild, prosaic fashion, editing the details that would prove awkward to Zena.

There was a man in the hall closet as well as the one lying in the hallway, he said, and apparently the two guards outside had discreetly disappeared as the police arrived. The earl explained in well-bred, quiet accents that he wished to avoid scandal for the lady's sake and would press no charges if he could be assured the Arabs would be out of the country by morning.

"All will be accomplished, my lord," the gravely courteous police officer had guaranteed.

With good-tempered amiability and manners the earl thanked the diplomatic police superintendent and bid him a cordial good night.

As Nice's police superintendent walked back down the stairs, he reflected pensively on the singular peculiarities and incongruities of the phlegmatic English. It was remarkable to contemplate that quiet, calm, civil earl conducting himself like the most perverse Marseilles cutthroat. That young Turkish sheikh would be lucky if he could talk at all for several months. Indeed, the Frenchman speculated pragmatically, the young scoundrel was fortunate to still be alive.

Alex arrived in Nice two days later. It was the middle of September. Although he hadn't been there in three years, his villa was fully staffed and in readiness. Only his valet accompanied him from St. Petersburg.

Detectives were hired immediately to determine whether Zena was still in the city. During the following days as the search was in progress, Alex was feted by society. A rich, young bachelor was always welcome at any social event and a handsome, rich, young bachelor could discard more invitations than he could accept. Prince Alexander Kuzan's picture was splashed across the society pages of the local paper, his elegant figure shown at a ball, a garden party, at the races, and on his yacht.

Zena unfortunately read the paper and saw those photos. Her husband seemed to be amusing himself very well without her. She had always been aware of that, though. Tears spilled over onto her cheeks and traced silent paths downward. Why, oh, why did she have to be reminded of that fact just at a time when she had regained some control over her feelings and her future.

Sasha was as startlingly handsome as ever, his easy air of assurance and patrician cast of countenance evident in every photo: standing bronzed and poised in white flannels at the rail of his yacht; entering the enclosure at the races in Cagnes-sur-Mer; or leaning casually against a veranda support at some afternoon party. Staying home in staid seclusion while he sought Zena had never occurred to Alex. He was born and bred to participate in these society amusements; and he partook of them through force of habit and as an alternative to drinking alone.

Four days later the detectives discovered Zena's pension and reported to Alex. He left immediately to see her. His carriage drove him to the area of town in which Zena's lodgings were located. As they passed by the little park near Zena's apartment, Alex caught a glimpse of his wife.

Ordering the driver to stop, he descended from the vehicle and paused briefly.

Bobby was playing with a ball on the grass near Zena. She was seated on a bench under the shade of a lime tree, apparently weeping. A man sat intimately near her, and as her shoulders shook with sobs, the man placed his arm around Zena and drew her head onto his chest.

His wife! And in the arms of another man! Alex's temper flared dangerously. God damn it! Some other man fondling his wife! A white heat of rage ignited within seconds as his proprietory impulses surged.

I'll kill him! I'll kill him! The incendiary malediction coursed through his raging brain.

With a conscious effort he regained control of his rationality. Consider now, he reflected reasonably, you've been far from virtuous these past few months trying to forget Zena. It's a two-way street; Zena had need of companionship, too. You couldn't very well expect her to be chaste while you were sampling every erotic pleasure in St. Petersburg.

This reasonable, logical recapitulation of the common-sense motives influencing both his and Zena's behavior lasted precisely four seconds. Sensitive, moderate judiciousness had always eluded him. Touch my wife, will he?

I'll kill him! the prince repeated violently. He was smiling now, and his eyes blazed. In a white-hot fury Alex started across the busy street, oblivious to the flurry of vehicles on the congested thoroughfare. Alex dodged the first phaeton successfully and blindly avoided the second vehicle with the luck reserved for small children and angels, but even the providential good fortune of inveterate gamblers is subject to occasional reverses. The street was much too crowded with dashing conveyances, while his ferocity obscured any caution he might have had. The driver of a speeding curricle sawed back cruelly on his reins in an attempt to avoid the tall figure who had dashed out in front of his team. Despite the driver's urgent measures, his best efforts were futile. The horses veered sharply to the right, screaming wildly, convulsed by the pain as the bits tore into their tender mouths. But the desperate action was a fraction too late as the left forward wheel of the curricle crashed into the chest of the sprinting man.

All was tumultuous confusion as vehicles of every description screeched to a halt in a muddled hodgepodge of turbulent pandemonium: drivers cursing, animals squealing, panic-stricken pedestrians surging out into the center of the street to gawk at the victim who was lying unconscious. Several small pools of blood began to form under this head and legs.

Zena jumped up at the uproar and called warning to Bobby before he rushed off to view the spectacle.