Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (22 page)

      
Derrick did not reply to the prince's offer of a race immediately. Palm trees swayed in the lush moist breeze as they neared the city after a day of hunting in the foothills. “A race, you say?” He feigned disinterest, knowing Kasseim, like most of his countrymen, was an inveterate gambler.

      
“I believe Prince Tarak is swifter than your stallion. Would you be willing to wager him?”

      
Perfect!
. “I might...if we could agree on something worth my while.” He shrugged, as if the idea were of no great import to him. Kasseim ticked off a list of his Arab racers, several of which Derrick actually would have loved to own. “Tis risky transporting horseflesh by sea. I shall most likely be returning to England during the winter, when the Atlantic is roughest. In fact, I have been considering leaving Excaliber behind when I depart.”

      
That remark pricked Kassein's interest mightily. “Then you would, of course, allow me the first opportunity to purchase him...if I do not win him, that is,” he added with a chuckle. “Ah! I have it. Something that might induce you to the contest...a beautiful woman, a new one from my own harem.”

      
Derrick smiled inwardly. For the past several days the palace had been abuzz with rumors about the incorrigible American female slave whose shrewish temper and blatant defiance could not be curbed even with frequent applications of the bastinado. Beth was playing her part to the hilt—too much so for his comfort. He must rescue her soon else old Fatima might have her maimed or drowned.

      
“This new female would not be that wild American, perchance?” he asked with a chuckle.

      
“I see you have heard of her,” Kasseim replied sourly. “She will never be a true daughter of Allah, I fear, but she speaks English and is magnificent to look upon—great clouds of red hair the color of a desert sunrise, a waist so tiny.” He demonstrated with his hands, going on to describe her breasts, hips, legs, until Derrick found himself grinding his teeth with jealousy.

      
“If she is such a hellion, it must be dangerous to bed her. She might take it into her head to lop off your cock while you sleep some night,” he said, fishing to find out if his friend had indeed taken Beth—a subject that the palace gossips dared not discuss.

      
“I have entertained such misgivings, believe me,” Kasseim replied, laughing. “My mother wishes to sell her to the
bagnos
, but that seems a waste of such lush flesh.”

      
“Perhaps that might be the safest solution,” Derrick said helpfully. If Beth was taken from the palace and sold in the open slave market, he could purchase her, by far the easiest and surest way to free her. He noted that Kasseim had not indicated whether he had used Beth yet.
The
rais
has already had her. What matter if Kasseim has or not?
But it did matter. A very great deal, although Derrick refused to admit it even to himself.

      
“Then you are not interested in winning her?” Kasseim studied the Englishman's face. Western men had strange and often fascinating ideas about women.

      
“I did not say that,” Derrick replied casually. He'd better tread very carefully. Kasseim or his mother could just as well have Beth killed as sold. “If she is truly so beautiful, I might be tempted. She has not been scarred?” He was terrified of what the dey's vindictive chief wife might do, since Beth had been playing her part with such zeal.

      
“No. We are not barbarians,” Kasseim replied stiffly. “The bastinado is painful, but it leaves no permanent injury.”

      
“Just very sore feet,” Derrick replied with a forced grin. “I shall agree to the wager. Even allowing for...ah, some slight exaggeration, the creature you've described must be exceptional.”

      
“Good. It is my understanding that European men do not require the same...er...serene qualities in female disposition that we do. Perhaps she might please you greatly, my friend,” Kasseim said with a laugh. “But first you would have to win the race—something I do not believe Prince Tarak and I will allow!”

* * * *

      
When Derrick returned to his quarters in the British legation, he had a surprise visitor. Alvin Francis Edward Drummond slumped petulantly on a Dante chair, fanning himself in the humid late afternoon heat.

      
“Drum, what the devil are you doing in Algiers?”

      
“Precisely the question I’ve been asking myself ever since setting foot on this accursed heathen shore. Tis a veritable viper pit. I was forced to sail from Sicily aboard one of the corsairs' ships, and the captain had the unmitigated audacity to feed me camel meat—camel meat!” He shuddered at the memory.

      
“Camel is considered a delicacy in some parts of the east,” Derrick replied, suppressing a grin. “But you still have not explained what compelled you to come here. I expected you'd be sipping port at White's by this time.”

      
“So did I,” Drum said glumly. “But fate in the form of Lord Exmouth intervened.”

      
Jamison knew Exmouth by reputation in the Foreign Office. “He's cunning and utterly ruthless when he wants something. What has happened to merit sending a personal messenger all the way from Europe? I received the dispatches from Brussels regarding Wellington's victory. Surely there's been no further problem with Bonaparte.”

      
“Old Boney's goose is cooked,” Drum replied dismis-sively. “No, this pertains to that rash American chap you so admire, Decatur.”

      
“The commodore has put on quite a show of force along the North African coast,” Derrick replied with some relish.

      
“So your dispatches indicated. That was why the Foreign Office saw fit to send me here,” Drum replied accusatorily. “It would seem Lord Exmouth is interested in mounting a British expedition to achieve the same results for jolly old England...once Decatur actually gets the old dey to sign on the dotted line. I'm to report the details of the treaty between the United States and Algiers after it's signed. Then all British subjects here are to make arrangements to depart before Exmouth's fleet comes a-calling.”

      
Jamison whistled low. “No small order. What am I to do then?”

      
Drum smiled broadly now. “A task you should relish—return to Naples and keep an eye on the Bourbon restoration to the throne now that Murat is dead.”

      
Derrick paced across the floor of the cluttered room. Beth was not in Naples waiting for him as Drum assumed. He looked over to Drummond and said, ”I have some disturbing news regarding Beth...”

      
After Derrick had finished imparting the details of Beth's capture, Drum was aghast. “And you believe you can win her freedom in a horse race? Can that heathen prince be trusted to keep his word?”

      
“I believe so, but if Decatur comes sailing into the harbor beforehand, matters might get a bit sticky.”

      
Drum huffed. ”I daresay Decatur would demand the repatriation of all American captives.”

      
“There are still dangers—the dey and his son are proud men. Rather than see the sanctity of their harem breached, they might have Beth killed. Our safest course would be for me to win her from Kasseim...if possible...but just in case, I have a backup plan.”

* * * *

      
Early the following morning the laughing, boisterous crowd of men, mostly Kasseim's brothers and friends from the court, rode with their prince and the Englishman. Having observed many such races since his arrival, Derrìck was expecting that they would head toward the flat grassy plains of the river valley where such contests were usually held.

      
However, Kasseim veered from that course and rode instead into the rocky hills that ringed the city to the southwest. “We are not going to the racecourse where you defeated Al-sedac last week, my friend?” Derrick asked innocently.

      
Kasseim chuckled. “I prefer to test Prince Tarak's mettle over a longer course. Surely you feel your English horse equal to such a challenge, do you not? ”

      
“As you wish, my friend.” Derrick cursed silently. The young heir was his father's son in cunning. His Thoroughbred was fast as lightning on a straightaway over a mile or so but would not be as sure-footed and long-winded on rough, uneven terrain. There the sturdy little Arabian would have the advantage.

      
His only hope for victory was to save Excaliber's speed for a final burst at the finish line. It was well that they had agreed to race early in the day, before the heat became oppressive and gave Prince Tarak yet another advantage.

      
“To show my sporting blood, I will not make the course overlong. Say from the shepherd's hut to the ridge,” Kasseim said, pointing to a rocky outcrop looming in the distance. He directed several of his guards to take positions at the opposite end of the course, which was easily two miles distant.

      
A dicey chance at best. Derrick nodded as they turned and retraced their path to the rude hut on the side of the hill. One of Kasseim's brothers dropped his arm, signaling the riders to begin, and they kicked their mounts into a swift gallop. As he expected, the little Arabian held to a steady ground-eating pace. He allowed him to maintain a slight lead while eyeing the stretch of rock-strewn ground coming up.

      
This was where Kasseim's advantage would really come into play. The desert horse picked his way effortlessly over the rough, uneven ground while the Thoroughbred stumbled, forcing Jamison to slow or risk injury to his mount. As they began to ascend the slope toward the finish line, Derrick kicked the bay hard and leaned forward, redistributing his weight as he had seen red Indians race in America.

      
Whispering in the stallion's ear, he crooned, “You can do it, yes, that's the way, faster now, yes!”

      
He pulled abreast of Kasseim's fleet Arabian...a nose after they passed the finish line. As everyone gathered around the prince, congratulating him on his splendid victory, Derrick was forced to follow suit.

      
“My felicitations on such splendid riding. A pity 'tis you, not I, who will ride the beauteous American as well as the English Thoroughbred.”

      
Everyone shared in the raucous laughter, congratulating Derrick on being such a fine sport. The group was in an exuberant mood, something on which he had counted as he proposed a time-honored English custom.

      
“A toast to the victory of your future ruler—and to his good health!” He produced a jug of “lion's milk,” handed to him by the groom who had accompanied him. Although Islamic law prohibited the consumption of alcoholic beverages, in North Africa the custom was often observed in the breach, especially when a group of friends gathered away from the prying eyes of religious authorities. Lion's milk was made from grapes distilled with anise and tasted rather like Greek ouzo, a potent enough drink on an empty belly in the heat of the day with a long ride back to the city ahead of them.

      
The celebrants quickly seized upon the idea, passing around not only Derrick's offering but several other leather jugs brought along for just such a happy occasion. Now, if only his fallback plan would work...

* * * *

      
Beth heard the frightened whispers of the women, many of whom eyed her with open hatred since she was one of the accursed American infidels. Always fearful of being displaced by a newcomer, Maya, Kasseim's favorite odalisque, particularly detested her and had done everything in her power to make Beth’s life in the harem even more hellish than old Fatima could. Now Maya vented her spleen.

      
“We shall all die in our beds, buried beneath tons of rock, when the American dogs destroy the city and the palace with it. Not a stone will remain standing and it is all her fault,” the beautiful little Abkhasian blonde said, pointing a hennaed finger at Beth.

      
Maya spoke in Arabic, but Beth understood enough to realize that her deliverance might be at hand. Imagine, her father's old friend Stephen Decatur, here in Algiers, forcing the dey to sign a peace treaty and free all Americans held captive! The news had spread through the palace like wildfire shortly after a fleet of American warships under the command of the feared commodore sailed right into the mouth of the harbor.

      
From what Beth had gleaned during the past week, Decatur's brilliant tactical skills had destroyed most of the Algerian corsairs' ships and taken prisoner their surviving crews. Now he menaced their very citadel with his powerful cannon, which had already reduced the lesser pirate strongholds to little more than heaps of rubble. Even the fortress of Algiers could not stand against the assault.

      
The dey was negotiating for an end to his rashly declared war against the distant republic. Beth knew that the terms of any treaty would include the repatriation of all American prisoners—but she had not been taken from an American ship and no one in her country knew of her plight.

      
Only Derrick knows.

      
But where was he? It had been days since his message, and following his instructions had cost her dearly. She had refused to use depilatories and henna on her body or to wear the voluminous but translucent pantaloons of an odalisque. She would not give even lip service to Islamic prayers as the rest of the Christian slave women did, and worst of all, she would not learn the skills required to please her lord and master, such as playing the lyre, dancing and reciting Arabic poetry—not to mention a vast repertoire of erotic tricks.