A Touch of Sin (34 page)

"Not much," Pasha softly said. "You've two seconds to change your mind."

The man lunged.

Pasha fired, flame burning through the draped sheet concealing his pistol, a neat hole tinged with powder burns appearing in the man's forehead. The Egyptian soldier hung in space for a split second, his arms flung out, his eyes wide with shock.

Makriyannis had already discharged his firearm into the man on his right, and whipping his pistol around he shot the man on his left. His weapon empty, he reached for his yataghan. Pasha's pistol blazed again, taking down a fourth soldier racing for his musket. The fifth man, deciding no woman was worth his life, ran. Pasha and Makriyannis exchanged a considering glance, but before the decision had to be made whether to pursue and silence the fleeing soldier, a trumpet blast blared out across the hills running down to the sea, echoing over the sleeping camp—a shrill, piercing call to arms.

The men recognized the alarm signal and instantly broke into a run. Hussein had been found. Racing alongside Pasha, Makriyannis reloaded his pistol, tipping two percussion caps into the chamber with a much-practiced deftness.

"If I'm hit, take Trixi out of here," Pasha cried, sprinting over the rough ground. Soldiers were spilling out of the tents, half-dressed, groggy, their weapons in their hands.

"We're all getting out," Makriyannis muttered, sliding his loaded weapon into his belt. "Two hundred yards more and we're safe." He put his hand out for Pasha's pistol.

"I don't want her taken again." Pasha panted, Trixi's weight telling at a sprint. The crest of the next hill was their goal, Demetrius hidden there with their horses.

"Don't worry. One of us… will get her out," Makriyannis puffed, quickly reloading Pasha's pistol and tossing it back. "Oh, fuck," he muttered a second later. "Watch out."

A Turkish officer had careened out of the shadows. "Stop!" he cried, holding up his hand, his gaze raking the men, a look of astonishment coming over his face when he caught sight of Trixi's flowing blond hair. "The camp is under full security," he barked, striding toward them. "No one leaves." He was close enough now to see the gag in Trixi's mouth, the insignia of Hussein's rank embroidered on the sheet wrapping her. His mouth set in a grim line and he reached for his sword. "Don't move," he commanded, drawing his weapon out, looking away for a split second to call for help.

His shout died in his throat, Makriyannis's yataghan slicing through to his spinal column. "Run!" Makriyannis cried, jerking his sword from the man's spine. Shifting Trixi's weight onto one arm in a blur of motion, Pasha whipped the dagger from his teeth and threw it with a slashing downstroke at a man roaring out of the shadows of the tent, burying his blade in the man's heart. For a moment he debated going back for his dagger, the weapon having served him well, but saner counsel deterred him. He'd lose it tonight gladly if they got out of this camp alive.

Turning, they raced for the crest of the hill. With fifty yards to go, the outcry behind them rose to the sky. "Greeks! Greeks! Kill them!"

Seconds later a shot skimmed by, then another and another, their pursuers in full cry. The moon was partially obscured by clouds, they were moving fast, and the sultan's troops weren't marksmen, advantages to the two men racing up the hill. But perhaps still not sufficient advantage with an armed camp behind them in hot pursuit. Pasha was already making contingency plans—wondering if they could conceal themselves rather than flee. Then a rifle report cracked above their head; a scream quickly followed. A second and third shot, then several more exploded in the pale moonlight, striking home, agonized shrieks behind them evidence of Demetrius's superb marksmanship.

Twenty yards to go now… Ten… Both men were conscious of the critical distance and every crucial second. Six more rounds in quick succession discharged over their heads, taking a toll on their pursuers, an immediate barrage of conflicting orders breaking out in their wake. Most in Hussein's army were unwilling to face lethal gunfire.

Pasha's mouth curved in a faint smile; the Turkish soldiers' lack of courage was advantageous. "While they're arguing," he gasped, "we'll get the fuck out."

"They don't take… the offensive… well," Makriyannis cheerfully panted.

Seconds later they reached the top of the hill where Demetrius was speedily reloading one of three rifles laid out on a limestone ledge.

"I'll stay and slow them down for another few rounds," Demetrius offered, calmly sighting in on a soldier racing up the hill.

"I'll stay… with you," Makriyannis breathlessly replied. "As soon… as I see Pasha and his woman off."

"There are too many to hold off," Pasha warned.

"Just a few more rounds to change their minds about pursuit and we're off," Makriyannis replied, gathering the reins for Pasha's horse.

Pasha was up and mounted a second later despite Trixi's added weight. With shots ringing out around them, he pulled the gag from her mouth and took the reins from Makriyannis.

"Ride!" Makriyannis shouted, slapping the black's rump.

But Pasha's barb didn't move, recognizing only his master's commands. "I'm not leaving you here," Pasha shouted above the din, pulling a rifle from his saddle scabbard.

"Demetrius!" Makriyannis cried, understanding Pasha's partisan feelings. They'd fought back-to-back too long.

Seconds later the small troop galloped away through a rain of gunfire, lashing their horses to speed, melting into the shadowed night within moments. They stopped briefly over the next rise to assess the damage, but no one had been seriously hit and, well acquainted with the countryside, they were soon on a little-used trail to Leondari and freedom.

They rode fast for nearly two hours, needing to put distance between themselves and Navarino. The repercussions of Hussein's death would be far-reaching, pursuit a dead certainty. Still in a deep sleep, Trixi was oblivious to the grueling pace until, a few miles short of Leondari, her lashes fluttered open slowly as though she knew she was safely in Pasha's arms. The air was cool on her face and
gazing
up, she saw a canopy of brilliant stars. "We're in the mountains," she murmured, smiling up at Pasha, her eyes still heavy-lidded. "You found me."

"Not soon enough." His voice was low, gruff.

"Are we safe? Is Chris safe?" She was still dazed, so the distaste in his tone eluded her. But her instincts as a horsewoman were intuitive; she could tell they were riding fast.

"We will be soon. We'll be coming into Leondari in a few miles. Chris is with Jules in Nauplia and well."

Pulling aside the sheet that held her, she slipped her arms around his neck. "How nice to hear that everyone is safe. How wonderful to have you back."

Jerking the sheet up again, he covered her exposed shoulders, the curve of her breast. "You're going to get cold," he muttered, constraint in every word.

"Why am I wrapped in this?" She slid her hand from his shoulder, plucking at the embroidered silk sheet.

"It was handy. We left in a hurry."

"We?"

"Makriyannis came with me."

"Was I at Navarino?" Her memory still clouded, she spoke hesitantly.

"With Hussein Djeritl," Pasha curtly muttered.

"Now I remember." She paused as if clarifying that memory. "He wore a French cavalry uniform."

"Not when I saw him."

She gazed up at him, query in her eyes; his words had been muffled, indistinct.

"He views himself as another Napoleon," he remarked, not about to reveal his anger before an audience. "We're almost at Leondari. We'll stay there tonight." He turned to Makriyannis, riding beside him. "I'll meet you in Nauplia tomorrow. We're stopping at Grivas's."

"Sure you don't want company?" his friend inquired, concerned with the undercurrent of violence in Pasha's voice.

"No."

"We have his head if it's any consolation," Makriyannis quietly said, understanding Pasha's resent ment.

Pasha shrugged. "Maybe in a thousand years."

There was nothing more to be said, no condolence or sympathy that would change what they'd seen. No words that could erase the dishonor.

Trixi had fallen back to sleep, weariness and fatigue augmenting the drugs she'd been given. And the men rode through the night without speaking, parting at the outskirts of Leondari where the road to Nauplia turned east.

Pasha had been through the city on numerous occasions in the past four years, and when he rode into the courtyard of Grivas's inn, the stable boys recognized the wealthy Frank and his splendid black. Crowding around him, they held his horse while he dismounted with the woman, and before Pasha could carry Trixi more than a few steps, the landlord came out of the door. "Welcome, Pasha Bey! I hear you've found some fine booty in this war." He gazed at Trixi, his glance sweeping over her with discernment, taking note of the embroidered insignia on the silk sheet. "Hussein Djeritl gave you another of his harem, I see," he jovially said. "I thought you cleaned him out last time."

"I left one behind."

"She's worth going back for, I'd say. You'll want my best room for her."

"Yes, and bathwater for us both, immediately," Pasha brusquely said, his expression shuttered.

"Something to eat as well?" the landlord inquired, although his voice had altered. The wealthy Frank who fought with Makriyannis didn't have the look of a man celebrating his good fortune. Moody, too quiet, his impatience showing. "Right this way," Grivas quickly offered. "I'll see you to your rooms."

Pasha Bey hardly spoke, the innkeeper later told his wife, and the woman he carried in his arms had been drugged. She slept too deeply. Had Pasha Bey drugged her? Or Hussein Djeritl? There were drops of blood on the sheet, he went on, lowering his voice. They'd best not inquire too closely into their newest guest's business. Although in wartime, such prudence always prevailed.

Bathwater was carried in, two tubs set up; servants brought up food and arranged it on a small table, the activities overseen by a silent Pasha. The lady still dozed on the bed.

"Thank you," Pasha politely said when all was in place, showing the landlord out last, offering him a generous gratuity. "I don't wish to be disturbed tonight. Under any circumstances." The emphasis on the last words was unutterably clear.

"Of course, sir." The landlord cast a last glance at Trixi. "I understand."

"Good."

That single word was so emotionless and cold, the landlord mentioned with a small shudder, detailing Pasha's last instructions to his wife. It might be safer if they slept above the stables tonight.

The moment the door closed on the landlord, Pasha walked over to the table laden with food and drink, picked up a bottle of ouzo, pulled out the cork, and poured half the contents down his throat. After that precipitate dose of narcotic, he pulled a chair into the center of the room where he'd have an unobstructed view of the bed, dropped into it, and proceeded to systematically empty the bottle, his rage and temper becoming more implacable with each drink—tortured memory, despicable images, betrayal, and dishonor a bitter poison in his brain. Two bottles soon lay on the floor beside the chair, a third rested on his chest, his sprawled pose incongruously taut, as if he were waiting for an enemy attack.

Midway through the third bottle, Trixi came awake with a start. Abruptly sitting up, startled, she quickly glanced around, fear prominent in her eyes. At the sight of Pasha, she visibly sighed, fell back on the bed, and shut her eyes again.

Another few minutes passed, punctuated only with the occasional gurgling sound of liquor flowing from the bottle into Pasha's mouth. When she opened her eyes again, she stared at the ceiling, her mind at ease, recognizing the room, the fact that Pasha was near. Pushing herself up on one elbow, she sleepily inquired, "Have I slept long?"

"The critical question," he murmured, his voice flat and low, condemnation in his gaze.

Her lashes rose at his response, her violet eyes suddenly attentive. "Is something wrong?"

"Several things, I'd say." His eyes narrowed as he took in her tousled, golden hair and rosy cheeks, her buxom nakedness barely concealed by the sheet. "A great multitude of things."

Following his brutal gaze, she looked down and realized she was nude beneath her silken wrap. Wide-eyed, she gazed at him. "Where did you find me like this?"

"In Hussein Djeritl's bed." Ill-temper in his eyes and voice, in every lounging inch of his body.

"No!"

"Yes. You were having a very good time," he churlishly added.

A chill ran through her. "Are you sure?"

He didn't answer for a long time, his jaw clenched tight, a tick fluttering over his cheekbone, his eyes like ice. "I'm real sure," he murmured, his grasp on the liquor bottle tightening.

"I get the impression," she slowly said, "you perceive those circumstances as
my
fault."

His dark brow quirked in mocking rebuttal. "Let's just say you weren't complaining."

He seemed so certain, so caustically sure; how could she disclaim it? "I don't remember anything," she said. "
Nothing
at all. How can that be?"

"It can be damned convenient, I'd say." He lifted the bottle to his mouth, his gaze pitiless. "Unfortunately I recall your moans of pleasure—vividly."

"Impossible!" She sat upright, clutching the sheet to her throat, the thought sending a shudder down her spine. "You're lying. He never touched me!"

"He touched you, my little bitch-in-heat," Pasha growled, each word acrid with censure, "every way a man can touch a woman."

She went still. Her eyes wouldn't meet his for a moment, the scenario he intimated too excruciating to conceive. "Could you have been mistaken?" she whispered.

"No mistake, Lady Grosvenor," he brutally returned, lifting the bottle to her in mocking disdain.

"The food must have been drugged." She shook her head as if trying to clear her mind. "The peach nectar… tasted odd. Like a strange perfumed—"

"But you drank it." Condemnation in every word.

"I didn't know. I hadn't eaten or drunk all day. How was I supposed to know?" She felt shamed and defiled, mortified.