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CHAPTER ONE

 

Algiers, 1454

 

Not even chains could make him look the slave. Wearing loose-fitting chausses and a sleeveless, tattered tunic that was more ribbon than garment, the bronze-headed behemoth was dragged to the platform to stand before the astonished crowd. Those who struggled to hold him scowled and grunted as he roared curses understood only by those who knew his language.

 

An Englishman, Sabine silently rejoiced. An enraged one.

 

She had not expected to encounter such a fine specimen. Though he could not be noble, for he would surely have been ransomed, he had the bearing of one of high birth.

 

She gripped the arm of the chief eunuch who had accompanied her to the auction. “That one, Khalid.”

 

His eyes widened. “Mistress, he is not a eunuch.”

 

True. The auctioneer had not prefaced the summons to bid with that information, but it did not matter. This was the one she had been waiting for these two months, and she would not allow him to slip through her fingers.

 

“He is the one,” she said sharply.

 

Khalid leaned down from his great height. “Only a eunuch is allowed within the walls of a harem.”

 

“None need know,” she said as the bidding commenced.

 

Khalid shook his head. “This man is fit only for the quarries. There will be others better suited to your purpose.” Of which only he, her confidant these past ten years, knew.

 

“The time that remains to me is swift-footed,” she said, a creak in her voice. “Do not deny me this. It may be my only chance.”

 

The corners of his mouth tightened. “Upon his arms and through the tears in his tunic, can you not see the stripes laid to him?

 

Of course she saw them, the recently acquired ones livid and swollen.

 

“He has been beaten and often,” he continued. “That is a bad sign.”

 

“And yet he is alive,” she countered. “It means he is strong and determined. That is a good sign.”

 

Khalid’s shoulders rose with the breath of patience. “Mistress, a man as valuable as that is not beat so viciously without cause. He is dangerous.”

 

Regardless, she would have him, for she had seen none worthier to carry out her plan. “Only a fool or one too apathetic to rise up again would be devoid of such anger,” Sabine retorted, “and neither of those I seek. Now buy him.”

 

Noting the bidding had turned fierce among those who sought to acquire the Englishman for their mines and quarries, she watched the struggle that alternately lined and smoothed Khalid’s face. He longed to aid her, but had good cause to weigh his loyalty against fear for his life. If the English slave could not be reasoned with…if he seduced the women of the harem…if it was revealed he was not a eunuch…

 

But if I lose him to another, I could lose that which is most precious to me, she excused herself for what she demanded of her old friend. “Do you not bid, Khalid, I shall.”

 

His nostrils flared. “He will cost much, mistress.”

 

She pulled the gold bracelet from her wrist and thrust it into his hand, then began to work a ring from her finger. “I care not what he costs.”

 

Khalid stayed her desperate gesture with a hand to her shoulder, then grudgingly stepped forward.

 

Watching through the gossamer veil that hid her face, Sabine anxiously smoothed her fingers down her black cloak. Draped from the crown of her head, the garment fell straight to the ground, concealing the colorful finery beneath. It was the same for all respectable women who went out in public in this place far removed from the world she had been born into.

 

As the bidding escalated, Khalid adding his voice to the shouts, the slave continued to struggle against his captors.

 

From what well does he draw strength?  Sabine wondered. What sustains his spirit?

 

In the next instant, he broke an arm free and slung the chain stretched between his manacled wrists into the face of one of his captors. The man shouted, stumbled back, and fell to the platform where he groped at his bloodied mouth. His companion also sprayed blood upon the air, but when he fell, he took the Englishman down with him.

 

As the crowd rumbled with alarm, those nearest the platform—save Khalid—hastened back as slave and captor wrestled to subdue one another.

 

Hands to her chest, beneath which her heart beat frantically, Sabine acknowledged that Khalid had been wise to discourage her from purchasing such a man. After all, she was no longer the young woman of twenty years ago. Had she three more years left in her, she would see the age of forty.

 

When it became evident the Englishman would not be easily put down, Khalid leapt onto the platform, wrenched the slave off his opponent, and brought his knee up between the Englishman’s thighs.

 

The man threw his head back, but no sound issued from his lips. Then he dropped.

 

A cheer rose from the crowd as the formidable, dark-skinned eunuch relinquished the Englishman to the others who had been reluctant to come to the aid of their comrades. Then Khalid turned and searched out his mistress. Eyes lighting upon her, he frowned.

 

Though Sabine knew he was more strongly opposed to purchasing the slave, she nodded.

 

Khalid looked to the auctioneer. “I will pay no more,” he said, letting his last offer stand. “Is there another who would challenge me?”

 

The beady-eyed auctioneer looked out across the throng. When none came forward, he accepted the eunuch's bid.

 

Hiding her unease behind her veil, Sabine watched as the slave was dragged from the platform.

 

“It is done,” Khalid growled when he rejoined her. “I pray you do not come to regret it as much as I.”

 

She set a hand upon his arm. “I thank you, my friend. Your loyalty will be rewarded.”

 

He inclined his head. “I pray I live long enough to enjoy the harvest.”

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

Feigning boredom amid excitement and fear that tangled her insides, Sabine levered up from the pillows. Though eyes bored into her as she rearranged her slender form amid a profusion of color, she did not acknowledge the slave until she was comfortably settled.

 

She sighed, focused on his manacled ankles, and began an upward perusal. When she reached his face, his indignation was evident in bunched muscles and eyes shot with rage.

 

Mentally, she prepared herself for flight lest he defied his chains and the guards holding him, but then she saw him sway.

 

She swept her gaze to Khalid. Though his expression was impassive, his sparkling eyes confirmed he had drugged the man in such a way that, though the mind remained alert, the body was severely limited in acting upon its urgings.

 

Relieved, she motioned for the guards to withdraw.

 

They bowed and slipped into the shadowed corners of the tent to keep watch. And watch was all they could do, for they knew nothing of the English language. Unlike Khalid.

 

Sabine lowered her feet to the carpet that covered the earthen floor, straightened, and sauntered forward.

 

“I am Sabine,” she said in accented English that evidenced the nineteen years she had lived among the Arab people. “By what name are you called, Englishman?”

 

He narrowed his lids.

 

Confident he could do her no harm, she placed herself before him, rose to her toes, and peered into a hard countenance divided into two distinct halves. Whereas the right was unblemished, the left was scarred by a blade that had perfectly traced the high cheekbone there.

 

She shifted her attention to eyes of a shade approaching amethyst. And frowned. On whom had she seen that rare color? Finding no match in her memory, she considered his hair. It was dirty, hanging almost to his shoulders, and appeared to be bronze in color. As for his face, one would not call it handsome, but neither was it unattractive.

 

Pity, she thought, he might give his life to achieve the goal I set him.

 

Firmly telling herself he would succeed, if for no other reason than to preserve his own life, she set herself back on her heels, causing the miniature bells about her ankle to tinkle like the laughter of children. A moment later, the sprightly sound was answered by the harsh rattle of chains.

 

“Harlot!” the slave rasped, shoving his great body against her.

 

Instantly, Khalid and the guards were upon him. The latter held him by the arms while the eunuch landed the back of a hand across the man’s face.

 

The slave did not flinch.

 

I am in no danger, Sabine told herself as she struggled to calm her pounding heart, but not until the guards began dragging the slave toward the tent opening did she find her voice.

 

“Leave him!” she commanded in Arabic. When Khalid protested, she quieted him with a shake of her head. “You have made it so he can do me no harm.”

 

With obvious grudging, the eunuch ordered the guards forward. “Seat him there”—he motioned to a stool—“and take yourselves from the tent.”

 

They forced him to sit and withdrew.

 

“They will talk of the slave’s defiance,” Khalid warned. “If you intend to continue on this perilous course, mistress, it is best done in privacy.”

 

He was right. Emasculated men, deprived of desires of the flesh, lost much of their high spirit and unruliness. Indeed, some became quite gentle. But this Englishman displayed none of those qualities. Given the right incentive, could he feign them?

 

Once more, Sabine approached him. “You have nothing to fear from me—”

 

“Fear?” he growled. “’Tis I who should be feared. As lovely as your heathen neck is, I am quite taken with the thought of it between my hands.”

 

Sabine was further unnerved, though more by his voice than his threat. Despite its strain, his speech seemed too eloquent for a commoner. But she shrugged off the peculiarity and pulled out the pins securing her hair veil.

 

“You have much to learn, Englishman,” she said, and revealed tresses of a red so true no amount of henna could reproduce it.

 

Confusion lined his face, but he cleared it with a scowl.

 

“I am as English as you," she said, lowering to her knees beside him. "Just as you are a slave, so was I when I arrived in this country.”

 

He swept his gaze over her Arabic dress. “What is it you call yourself now?”

 

Refusing to be ashamed of the lifestyle that had been forced upon her nearly twenty years past, she set her chin high. “I am the wife of a wealthy Arab merchant.” She said it with the pride warranted for having attained such a station. She could have easily met the fate suffered by most—that of a prostitute.

 

“An apostate,” the Englishman tossed back. “A harlot who has thrown off her religion and taken that of another so she might know greater comfort.”

 

Sabine lifted a chain from the neck of her caftan and held forth the crucifix suspended from it. “Is it still your wish to feel my neck between your hands?”

 

He stared at it, returned his gaze to hers. “What is it you want from me?”

 

“I have a proposal I believe you will find acceptable.” At his lack of response, she continued, “You seek your freedom, and if you do my bidding, you shall have it.”

 

His anger eased perceptibly, but when he spoke, defiance was in every letter formed by tongue and lips. “Whether or not I do your bidding, I shall have my freedom.”

 

Recalling what Khalid had apprised her of a short while ago, she smiled. “If that is so, why have you not escaped since you were taken? It has been over a year.”

 

His eyes darkened further. “Be assured, every chance given me, I have defied my captors, but flesh and bone do not easily break steel. And when a man is chained to the oar of a galley nearly all day and night, he is ever in the power of manacle and chain.”

 

Remembering her bonds that had been light compared to that which now fettered him, recalling her defiance that had been tolerated insomuch that her beauty was not devalued, Sabine stood and walked around to the Englishman’s back. He jerked when she pushed aside the torn material of his tunic. And again when she lightly touched a scar that ran shoulder to hip.

 

“Certes, you rebelled,” she murmured, then came back around. “A pity there was none to ransom you. Had you a title, you would not have been made to suffer so.”

 

“I do have a title!”

 

She should not have been surprised in light of his speech, mannerisms, and carriage, but she was. She looked to Khalid who nodded.

 

Silently, she bemoaned that she had not listened better at the auction. At the least, she should have given Khalid time to tell her all of what was known of the man. Still, it changed nothing—certainly not for the worse, for a nobleman might better serve her purpose than a commoner.

 

“Why were you not ransomed?” she asked.

 

Silence.

 

She turned to Khalid who handed her the documents. Angling them toward the light, she found what she sought. And saw nothing save the name at the top—De Gautier.

 

Feeling light of head, she gripped the documents so tightly the edges crumpled. In all of England, there could be no poorer choice of one to whom she entrusted her most precious possession. A De Gautier—unthinkable.

 

The coughing came on suddenly, as it did more of late. Pressing a hand to her chest, she turned to Khalid who lifted her into his arms.

 

He carried her to the bed of pillows, lowered her, and pressed a square of linen into her hand. With his concerned face hovering above hers, she pressed the cloth to her mouth and coughed up blood.

 

“I shall send him away,” Khalid said when the spell passed.

 

She lifted a staying hand. “I am not finished with him.” Ignoring her friend’s glower, she looked to De Gautier.

 

Now she knew why a memory had stirred over his eyes. He had been but a child, perhaps eight years of age, when she had come face-to-face with Lucien de Gautier. Then she had been Lady Catherine, the young bride of Lord James Breville. The boy had been her husband’s captive.

 

Though a good man, James had not been averse to using the De Gautier heir to obtain what he and his ancestors had long desired. For generations, the Brevilles and De Gautiers had quarreled over a strip of land—Dewmoor Pass—that lay between their properties. Although kings had attempted to settle the dispute, peace had always been short-lived, for neither family was willing to permanently relinquish any portion of it. As a result, enmity was amassed and, from time to time, blood was shed.

 

Had the De Gautier boy not proven so clever, James might have finally secured the land for the Brevilles. As the negotiations dragged on, Lucien had bided his time. Though the boy made no attempt to mask his anger, he had been allowed to wander about the castle with few eyes upon him. Thus, he had slipped out through the portcullis one night. By the time he was spotted heading for the wood, he had enough of a lead to lose his pursuers.

 

But that was almost twenty years ago. A lifetime, Sabine told herself as she focused on the boy who had long since become a man. Were the families still at one another’s throats? Likely, for not even England’s war with France that finally looked to be at an end, had lasted as long as the Breville and De Gautier dispute.

 

As Sabine considered abandoning her plan to smuggle her daughter out of Algiers, an idea rose amidst her fatigue. Since Lucien de Gautier did not recognize her as the wife of his enemy, she could still make use of him—providing he believed her daughter was fathered by Sabine’s Arab husband.

 

She pushed herself into a sitting position and met his stare. “Shall we bargain?”

 

“First, I would know what upset you.” He nodded at the documents that lay upon the carpet.

 

Casually, she draped a silk robe around her shoulders. “Naught upset me. Simply, I am not well.”

 

“And, simply, you are a liar.”

 

“I am not well,” she repeated. “And for that, my coin has bought you.”

 

His expression told he did not believe her, but he said, “Speak.”

 

“I offer you freedom.”

 

Warily, he said, “What will it cost me?”

 

Beneath the cover of her robe, she clenched her hands. “I have family in England. Take my daughter with you when you return.”

 

“That is all you would ask of me?”

 

She gave a sharp laugh. “’Twill be no easy thing. Not only will my husband not allow Alessandra to leave, but she will not go willingly.”

 

“For what would you send her away if she wishes to remain?”

 

Pained by what she must reveal, Sabine took some moments to compose her words. “Soon, my daughter is to wed one of the Islamic faith, and when I am gone—and it will not be long now—there will be none to protect her.”

 

“Then her safety concerns you.”

 

“Aye, but neither do I wish her to have the life I have lived. Were she suited to it, it would not bother me so, but she is not.”

 

“The life of a—”

 

“Life in a harem,” she interrupted before he could call her that filthy name again.

 

A corner of Lucien’s mouth lifted. “How do you propose I return her to England if she will not come willingly?”

 

“You will enter the harem,” she said as if it were the simplest thing in the world. It was not. “There you will gain her trust, and if I still cannot convince her to leave, you will force her. All will be arranged to see you safely from this land.”

 

Lucien’s gaze moved past Sabine to Khalid. “Even I know,” he said dryly, “unless a man is no longer a man, he is not allowed in that place of women.”

 

She glanced at her old friend, acutely aware of the battle waged in the silence between the two men. Obviously, Lucien de Gautier would not soon forget his humiliation at Khalid’s hands. Nor would Khalid overlook the insult just paid him.

 

“’Tis so,” she said. “Only members of the household and eunuchs are allowed inside the harem. Thus, you must become a eunuch to enter.”

 

Lucien bared his teeth. “If you are suggesting I become like him”—he indicated Khalid with a thrust of his chin—“I decline your generous offer. When I return home, it will be as a man.”

 

“In pretense only must you become a eunuch. None but Khalid and I will know.”

 

After a long moment, he said, “I am to trust him?”

 

“He is loyal to me. No word of our secret will pass his lips.”

 

“And if I refuse?”

 

“Then you are of no use to me. And a true eunuch you will become.”

 

He surprised her with laughter. “You think I do not know castration is forbidden is Islam?”

 

What he said was true. The emasculating procedure was only allowed outside the Muslim nations in spite of the demand for eunuchs within it. “Laws can be broken,” Sabine said. “As I do not accept the faith of Islam, it would not weigh heavily upon my conscience to break that particular law.”

 

Khalid stepped forward. “I will do it myself,” he said in English. When Lucien turned his wrathful stare upon the eunuch, Khalid raised his palms heavenward. “Surely Allah will forgive so minor a transgression against a heathen.”

 

A muscle in Lucien’s jaw spasmed, but he did not unfurl his anger.

 

“Do not allow your pride to cloud your judgment,” Sabine said. “I have given you hope where you had none.”

 

“Then it seems I must accept your proposal.”

 

So relieved was she that she sank back into the pillows. “Then you shall remain in the city with Khalid for a sennight. He will instruct you in the ways of a eunuch, and you will answer to him in all things. Afterward, he will bring you to the home of my husband, Abd al-Jabbar, and you will enter the harem.”

 

She turned to Khalid. “No doubt he has been long without a woman,” she spoke in her adopted language. “Make certain that when you bring him into the women’s quarters, his desires are sufficiently quenched that he will not be tempted to touch what he must not.”

 

“It will be done, mistress.”

 

She returned her attention to Lucien. “I have instructed Khalid —”

 

“I heard.”

 

Then he had learned their language. Though it would make it less difficult for him in her husband’s home, it unsettled her. “Know this,” she said, “once you enter the harem, you will not be intimate with a woman until you have fulfilled your end of the bargain by delivering my daughter to my family.”

 

He smiled, a mocking thing that showed his teeth had survived the ravages of life at sea.

 

Sabine swallowed hard. “Do not fail me, Lucien de Gautier. You are very much a man, and I would not wish to change that.”

 

His smile widened. “Be assured, I will be cautious.”

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

The music grew louder, its vigorous beat winding around the slender woman who swayed at the center of the large room. It pulled her head back and closed her eyes, drew her arms up and spread them to embrace the rhythm. It shook her shoulders, rotated her hips, made her fingers snap.

 

Slowly, the female dancers hired to entertain the women of Abd al-Jabbar’s harem drifted away, going to stand along the walls to watch the one who had claimed the dance for herself.

 

She was different from the others—her hair a flame amid the ashes, skin that should have been pale tanned and faintly touched with freckles, and the eyes she opened upon her captive audience were green and flashed with daring.

 

The tempo quickened, and the solitary dancer whose fine-boned body curved where it ought to, swept across the floor. Laughter spilling from her, she snatched the gossamer veil from her waist-length hair, scattering the pins that had held it in place, and drew it between her hands. Once more raising her arms above her head, she pivoted on the balls of her bare feet and whirled amid the diaphanous material clothing her limbs. And when the music reached its zenith, she gave a shriek of delight.

 

“Alessandra!” a sharp voice split the air.

 

The music ceased, and a din of female voices rose in its place.

 

Wrenched from what seemed a trancelike state, the dancer whipped around. She blinked at the woman who stood at the far end of the room. Then, obviously afflicted with lightheadedness, she staggered and stumbled, dropped to her knees, and sank back on her heels.

 

Standing between Sabine and Khalid, Lucien silently cursed the attraction in whose grip he had been since laying eyes upon Alessandra, whom he had assumed was a dancer—though with her mother’s hair falling down her back, he should have known otherwise.

 

Here was forbidden fruit. Indeed, of all who might tempt him to sins of the flesh, this lady of fire and daring and laughter could move him nearest his downfall. Thus, his task had turned more dangerous. Indeed, it could prove deadly.