The Book of the Seven Delights (31 page)

But soon they were out there with me, staring up at the sky, learning the stars' stories and how to navigate by them. It was the first of several books I bought and shared." He paused. "Ironic, really.

When I arrived in Morocco I was trying to escape books. And tutors. And examinations—"

"You were at a university for a while," she prompted.

"Oxford. Three interminable years. I was ready to start my final year when some friends asked me to go with them on a 'grand tour.' My father was furious and demanded I stay at home with my shoulder to the wheel of the family business." He expelled a deep breath. "I told him to take the Calvinist pole from up his arse and quit hounding me about 'preparing myself.' And I ran off to join my friends in cutting a degenerate swath through Paris and Marseille and Mallorca. Then Tangiers."

"Is that where you…"

His arm tightened around her, betraying the potency of those memories. "I had no idea that my father's health and the family firm were both in decline. That was why he drove me so hard to do well at university and prepare myself. He needed me to take the reins." He paused for a moment. "But he also wanted me to
want
the reins."

"When you went back to England, did you see him?"

"He died two and a half years into my contract with the Legion." His voice flattened. "I didn't find it out until almost a year later… when I spotted my uncle LaCroix in Marrakech. He seemed surprised to see me still alive and was more than pleased to give me the news of my father's death."

"He told you… just like that?" She reached up to stroke his face. "Apollo. I'm so sorry." She paused before asking: "What about your mother?"

"My mother was from the south of France and never did well in the English climate. A year or so after my father's death she took to her bed, ill."

"You didn't get leave to go home to see her?" she asked.

The harshness of his laugh was blunted by the warmth between them.

"There's a saying in the Legion that Legionnaires have no family except their brothers-in-arms." He paused seeing events again in memory. "I wrote my mother after I learned of my father's death, but I received no reply. I learned from the family solicitor, when I was in England, that she was heartened by my letter and longed to see me. He said she wrote me back, but by that time I was in a mounted company and constantly on the move. I never got her letter. She died before I made it back to England."

"Oh, Apollo." She gazed into his luminous eyes and glimpsed the pain that he carried on account of his lost family. There were more questions to ask, but guided by a surge of feeling, she kissed him instead.

He took a deep breath and set aside those painful memories.

"It's just ironic that it took five years in the Legion… starving, scorching, working myself into a stupor, and spilling my blood all over North Africa to make me finally appreciate the privileges of an upbringing and education that had once been handed to me."

She was deep in thought as they descended the stairs later with their arms around each other. As they strolled along the loggia toward their room, he ran his hand up to the side of her breast and gave a chuckle.

"I've been thinking about this golden breastplate of yours."

"I can tell," she said as she trapped his fingers against it.

"Strictly speaking, it's spendable treasure. Which means Haffe and I are entitled to half of it."

"Hmmm." She canted her head. "This may require some delicate negotiations."

"And speaking of gold," he said more slowly and deliberately, clearly bracing for a reaction, "I'm thinking about going back to the oasis with Haffe and some diggers to retrieve the artifacts from the tunnel."

"What?" She entered the room and turned to look back at him. "You can't be ser—"

A hand clamped over her mouth. Apollo saw a human shape materializing out of the darkness and seizing her. He reacted out of pure instinct, bolting across the room after her.

"Abigail!" Before he could reach her, a second force came roaring from the shadows by the door and blindsided him. It felt like his skull exploded and by the time his knees hit the floor, he was fighting paralyzing flashes of pain to stay conscious.

He managed to deflect part of a second blow, and heard scuffling and a string of oaths, and the hammer of a gun being drawn back.

"Not here, idiot!" a graveled voice snarled in French, just before a third blow—to the back of his head—caused everything to go black.

"Wake up!"

Water splashing over him caused Apollo to struggle back toward consciousness. He lifted his pounding head and found himself lying facedown on a dirt floor with his hands bound behind him. The place looked like an abandoned house; it had numerous layers of old paint on the walls and crumbling stucco everywhere. From the dingy light of a battered lantern hanging overhead, he could see a dust-covered bench nearby, but otherwise, the room was empty. He dropped his head back to the muddy floor.

"Wake up, damn you!" A pair of worn boots appeared and delivered a fierce kick to his ribs. "Wake up so you can see how you are going to die."

He rolled as far as he could to lessen the force of a second kick and clenched his jaws as pain exploded like fireworks through his belly.

There was a pause, then the battered, bloodied face of Sergeant Gaston appeared above him grinning.

Another kick produced a spear of pain through his ribs and kidneys. Gaston grabbed him by the collar and jerked him up.

"Surprised to see me?" He gave an ugly laugh. "You hoped I died back there in that hellhole with the rest of them."

"Not at all, Gaston," Apollo gritted out. "I was hoping you
lived
… for several days… trapped under tons of rock…"

Gaston's fist plowed into his mouth and felt like it was stripping flesh from bone. His head snapped back, and he saw starbursts of light after Gaston dropped him back on the floor.

"Stop—leave him alone!" Abigail's voice galvanized him. He fought to focus his gaze and locate her. She was being held at the far end of the room by two men dressed in torn and bloodied clothes what had once been Legionnaire uniforms. One of the men he recognized, a tall, emaciated fellow called Schuller.

"Boston—are you all right?"

"Better than she will be," Gaston said, stepping into Apollo's line of sight. "After I get through with her, she'll be fit for nothing but dog meat."

"You hurt her and I swear I'll—"

"You'll do what, Engleesh? Bury me alive? Steal my horse and leave me afoot in the desert? You tried that." He leaned closer. "But then, you were never good at murder. No killer instinct. You always had to have a little help." He leaned closer and his lips pulled back over his foul teeth in a parody of a grin. "Like the night you killed a man in a bar fight." He gave a vicious laugh. "How does it feel to know you spent five years in hell for
nothing
?"

"What do you mean—nothing?" Apollo said, struggling past the pain to think. Gaston knew what happened that night… knew he wasn't a killer…

"You don't remember." Gaston seemed pleased as he squatted before him to better view his face. "It was my men and I who 'arrested' you and took you to the constables. They took my word that you had killed a local—one of their own—and were more than willing to throw you in 'the box.'"

"Why?" Apollo demanded, fighting the temptation to succumb to the wretch's taunts with paralyzing fury or despair. "I'd done nothing to you."

"Money. What else? I was paid to see you found your way into the Legion."

"Paid by whom?" He needed to keep Gaston talking.

"You cannot guess?" Gaston laughed, clearly relishing his power. "Think harder."

The ropes binding him felt stiff, new. Schuller and the other man had been in a hurry and hadn't bothered to pull them tight enough on Apollo's wrists. He began to work his hands back and forth.

"You think you are so smart." Gaston delivered him another nasty kick. "Who in Tangiers would care about a drunken English schoolboy?"

Apollo spit the blood from his mouth and answered.

"LaCroix."

"It took you long enough." Gaston straightened and inserted his thumbs in his belt. "Despite your books and fancy airs, you are a fool." Another kick took Apollo's breath and caused a stabbing pain in his lower chest. Cracked ribs, he realized, feeling as if his lungs were being squeezed with each breath he took.

"Algeria," he managed to pant out. "Up north. He paid you then, too?"

"Good money," Gaston boasted. "Though, by then I hated you enough to kill you for nothing." His face twisted as he leaned closer. "Son of an aristo whore… you think the world owes you… others should listen and follow you… because your blood is blue and you read your fancy books." He ripped his knife from his boot. "Let us see the real color of your blood…"

Abigail watched in horror as Gaston slashed Apollo's shoulder, wringing a grunt of pain from him and sending a stain of crimson spreading across his shirt.

"Red. Like the rest of us," Gaston said on a growl that caused the back of her neck to prickle.

"Stop!" She was able to shout by thrashing her head enough to escape the hand across her mouth and digging into her cheeks. "I'll tell you about the treasure. Leave him alone and I'll tell you how you can find the treasure!"

Apollo gritted out her name in warning as Gaston shoved to his feet and wheeled on her. "
Tresor
? You think Gaston ees stupid, eh?"

"Abigail—don't," Apollo said, though his words were less than distinct.

"There is a treasure," she blurted out. "Gold beyond your wildest dreams. And precious stones…

artifacts just waiting to be claimed…"

"Lying whore," Gaston sneered, glancing back at Apollo. "You think to buy his life with simple lies?" He turned back to Apollo, his eyes narrowing. "Now you both die."

"I can prove there is gold," she said, straining against the hands that held her. "Listen to me Gaston—I can prove it. Think of it—
gold
. You'll be able to buy your way out of the Legion—"

Gaston raked her with a glare.

"I am gone from the Legion already. Took 'English leave.' Months ago." He drew his pistol. "Like your lover.
Le deserteur
." He lowered the gun toward Apollo's head, which sent her into a panic. He had nothing to lose by killing Apollo and her.

"Are you going to let him kill your chance at riches?" she demanded of the lanky guard gripping her left arm and the grizzled old veteran who held her right. "If he kills Apollo, I'll take the gold's location to my grave—I swear it!"

Gaston must have realized her tactic might succeed with his henchmen. He turned enough to glare at them over his shoulder.

"She lies—she knows nothing!"

"I have proof—here." She struggled to raise her captive hands. "Just look at me!" The men's hold on her arms slackened with curiosity and indecision as she fought to reach her blouse. One button gave, then another. Gaston was cursing in French, berating the pair, demanding they stop her while he cocked the gun he held on Apollo. She flipped a third button, then ceased worrying about fastenings and just grabbed the sides of her blouse and ripped them apart.

"Look!" she shouted, arching her back to thrust her breasts and their covering forward. "Look at this!"

The gasps and mutters of his men caused Gaston to slash a look over his shoulder. A moment later, he pivoted fully to stare at her, his mouth slack with astonishment.

She glanced down at herself… at the golden breast cups with their prominent nipples, the intricate metalwork and precious stones around the edges, and the scales of gold glinting in the dim light with every frantic breath she took. She had never felt so exposed or so desperate. She looked up at Apollo's bloodied face and pain-racked form on the floor. Or so determined.

As Gaston and his thugs stared at the breastplate and at her breasts visible at the edges of the cups, she felt a subtle shift in the balance of power.

"This is only a small part of what the old priestesses gave me," she said breathlessly. "There are golden plates and lamps and chains and chalices… collars laden with precious stones… enough to make you rich men for life." She looked at the men holding her. They were salivating. She could see them swallowing, pushing aside their desire for vengeance in favor of more primal urges, and prayed that riches came before lust in the hierarchy of their desires.

Gaston lowered the gun to stalk over and squeeze the nipple at the tip of one of the golden cups—his eyes glittering—his tongue flicking over his lips.

"So, I see there is something in this gold, after all."

Suddenly Gaston slammed forward into Abigail, knocking her back against the wall. Her scream was trapped in her throat by the impact, but as she fought for breath, she also fought to free her arms from the surprised henchmen. Bashing them with her fists, she felt Gaston's bulk peel away and saw Apollo on his feet behind the sergeant…

with the ropes that had bound his hands now stretched taut around Gaston's bullish neck.

One of Gaston's men made a lunge to help, but Gaston's cocked gun went off and sent the man scrambling back to help his comrade with Abigail instead. They began pawing at the breastplate she wore, trying to pull it from her. She beat at them and kicked. Out of pure instinct, she sank her fingernails into one of their faces. He howled and withdrew, only to return with a backhanded blow to her face…

Across the room, Gaston had managed to double up and pull Apollo over him, breaking the choke hold.

He jammed an elbow into Apollo's ribs, pounding the breath from him and sending him crashing back against the nearest wall. Gaston staggered around and remembered the gun in his hand. As he raised it, Apollo lowered a shoulder and charged him full out, slamming him back against the far wall. They grappled for the gun, wrestling and straining… the gun hit the floor.

Abigail fought furiously as the men combined efforts to overpower her and push her down onto the floor.

With her hands pinned on each side of her head and the men kneeling on her legs to keep them down, she could only buck and thrash as they pulled at the breastplate and laughed cruelly as they tried to fondle her in the process.