Prologue
Mediterranean Sea,
Coast of Sardinia, 1802
Hamil El-Mokrani, Bey of Oran, stood beside his captain at the helm of his xebec, his powerful legs braced against the rising wind that whipped through his black hair. He looked toward the bulging storm clouds rolling toward them and folded his arms tightly across his chest, a devil-may-care grin curving his lips.
“The ship is sound, highness,” Aben said. His eyes darted up to Hamil from the wheel that lurched beneath his callused hands.
“Do you convince yourself or me, Aben?” Hamil asked, still scanning the horizon. “You will have to do both. The storm has caught us off Sardinia. The waters will be treacherous.”
The xebec dipped into a deep trough, throwing Aben to port. Hamil grabbed the wheel and righted their course. His deep laugh resounded across the deck, drawing the eyes of the sailors toward him.
Aben, grim-faced, took the wheel again. More quickly than it seemed possible, the black clouds were upon them, gushing torrents of rain. He yelled orders to his men, his voice a thin thread in the wailing wind. He watched Hamil stride toward the mizzenmast, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and help the sailors furl the heavy, sodden rigging to protect it from the tearing wind.
The xebec floundered on the crest of a wave, and heeled sharply to port, its timbers groaning. Aben knew they must lighten the ship, cast off the precious goods they had captured from an Italian merchant ship three days before. He shouted the order and watched his men scurry belowdecks.
Hamil’s dark eyes narrowed as the crew heaved casks of precious wine and heavy cords of rich velvet cloth over the side. It was a pity, he thought, that Lella would not see the rich material. He had pictured her pleasure as she stroked the soft velvet, her eyes smiling up at him. His gaze passed to the group of sailors from the Reale, the Italian ship, crouched together near the rain barrels, cowering in fear. Sniveling fools, he thought, we are not murderers. He shook his head like a large mongrel, throwing his thick black hair back from his face and strode toward the railing to help a young sailor hoist a cask of wine over the side.
“Highness.”
He turned to see Ramid, his self-effacing Moorish slave, struggling toward him, his head bowed against the roaring wind. Hamil knew Ramid hated the sea, and was foully ill whenever the Mediterranean was anything but calm as glass. Even now the man’s thin face was pinched and pale, his eyes wide with fear.
“What is it you want, Ramid? By Allah, man, go belowdecks. One look at you and the men will think we are all fish bait.”
“Please, highness, you must accompany me. You are needed.”
Hamil frowned at him, wondering where Ramid had found the courage to come for him, but he followed the man aft. Ramid’s lips moved as if in prayer as he walked carefully over the treacherous deck, Hamil striding impatiently behind him. At last he stopped and leaned over the railing, gazing raptly into the churning water below. Hamil wondered dispassionately if he was retching again.
“What is the problem?” Hamil shouted at his slave over a crack of thunder.
Ramid pointed downward and moved quickly aside. Curious now, Hamil took his place at the railing. He heard Ramid say in a thin, wailing voice, “Forgive me, highness, but I will be free and rich at your death.”
Hamil turned swiftly, and the dagger aimed at his back struck deep into his shoulder. He struck out with all his mighty strength, but the dagger plunged again, into his side. He gave a howl of fury and staggered against the railing. “You swine,” he yelled toward Ramid.
Ramid seemed to shrink at his rage, but a second man, a swarthy Nubian, shoved him aside. “It must be now,” the man shouted. They were upon him, lifting him, though he struggled, his pain forgotten. Hamil felt his back bending over the railing, and then he was hurled outward. He gave a howl of fury and locked his arms about the Nubian, squeezing the writhing man to him as they plunged, locked together, into the sea.
Chapter 1
Clare Castle, England, 1803
Arabella rushed down the great oak staircase, a whirlwind of velvet riding skirts, only to draw up short at the sight of her brother entering the hall. She watched him negligently strike his riding crop against his thigh in thoughtful rhythm to his booted step. It was on the tip of her tongue to chide him, for he was late, but he paused a moment, his eyes drawn to the rich medieval trappings of the great hall, and she stood silently watching him. She knew his thoughts, for she had stood many times gazing in awe just as he was doing. It was an impressive chamber with high timbered ceilings that boasted a cavernous fireplace large enough to roast a boar, fifteenth-century suits of armor, both Italian and English, and myriad well-dusted Flemish tapestries. Silver sconces designed for ancient rush-light torches of mutton fat, empty now, but highly polished, were fastened to its stone walls at six-foot intervals.
She watched Adam stop below the painting of the long-dead first Earl of Clare, who had lived not in the thirteenth century, but in the seventeenth, under the reign of William and Mary. She smiled, thinking about Roger Nathan Welles. That earl had been fascinated by the ruins of a Norman castle on a gentle rise of his newly purchased land, and had its great hall reconstructed to its former grandeur according to his own vision. Then, caught up in his own handiwork, and inspired by dubious legends of King Arthur, he had expanded his fancy into a four-towered edifice of soft gray stone dug from a Chicester quarry. The result was perhaps a bit unusual for its time, but nonetheless a home that all subsequen
t Earls of Clare would have protected with their lives. Happily, their vows were never tested, for the time of civil wars in England was past.
Adam Charles Parese Welles, Viscount St. Ives, had indeed been thinking about the beauty of his home. He was ready for a rest now after two hectic months in Amsterdam, dealing with recalcitrant Dutch shipping merchants, ready for nothing more trying than riding his stallion, Brutus, through the rolling hills that surrounded his home. But he was to leave again, to journey to the Villa Parese, in Genoa. Images of Italy flowed easily into his mind, for there was Ligurian blood in his veins. Whenever he set foot there, he shucked off his English trappings as easily as he did his clothes.
“Adam,” Arabella called to him in her exuberant voice, “where the devil have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for an age. Quickly, love, we are to meet Rayna very soon.”
“Rayna?” Adam repeated, his mind still on the letter from his father in his waistcoat pocket.
Arabella frowned at her brother, wondering what he was thinking. She tugged at his coat sleeve and said, “We are supposed to ride with Rayna Lyndhurst, Adam. I told you last night she is visiting her aunt, Lady Turbridge. And she isn’t a silly little schoolgirl any longer. She is nearly eighteen and very interested in seeing you again.” Arabella paused, wondering yet again if Rayna would recognize her darkly handsome brother. It was six years since they had seen each other. Rayna’s family, the Lyndhursts, lived a good sixty miles to the west of Clare Castle, and Viscount Delford, Rayna’s father, rarely sought her own father’s company. Arabella smiled, not doubting for an instant that Rayna would lose her young heart to her dashing brother, for he was no longer a gangly boy, but a man, a very handsome man. She had been planning this meeting for two months now, for she had decided after long and profound thought that Rayna and Adam were well-suited. She frowned at him, wishing he would show a bit more enthusiasm. He resembled their father so closely it was uncanny, save for his dark blue eyes. Only she had inherited her father’s black eyes and dark brows, in startling contrast to her fair complexion and honey-colored hair.
“Quickly, Adam,” she said again.
Adam clasped his sister’s gloved hands. “I fear I am unable to oblige you, Bella. Please give my regrets to Rayna Lyndhurst. I must leave soon. The Cassandra is sailing on the evening tide, and I must be on her.”
The look of dismay in Arabella’s dark eyes quickly turned to excitement. So that was it. She felt her blood quicken, and her eyes sparkled. “You’ve had a message from Father? He wants you in Genoa?”
“Aye, and I’m off as soon as I’ve seen Mother. Rayna Lyndhurst will have to wait another year or so. Do give the child my regrets.” He smiled ironically at his sister, guessing that she had been spinning matchmaking fancies. It amused him, for Arabella was about as subtle as a firing cannon. The two girls had been friends since their years at a young ladies’ seminary in Bath, and Adam wondered what tales Arabella had spun about him to Rayna.
“Oh, no,” Arabella said. “I will write her a note. I must pack. I will be ready in an hour.” First things first, she thought, lifting her heavy riding skirts above her knees and dashing up the stairs.
“Bella.”
Adam shook his head and followed more sedately after her. He had been on his way to his parents’ bedchamber, the room where he was born twenty-six years before. He passed a pert chambermaid who had offered him more than his breakfast since his return to Clare Castle. He gave her a slight smile, knowing it would never do to enjoy the favors of a serving maid in his parents’ home. His father thought the droit de seigneur as distasteful as he did.
His mother was sitting at her dressing table with her maid, Betta, standing behind her. That stern-faced retainer, a woman of indeterminate years, was arranging the countess’s hair. “If only,” Betta was complaining, “Lady Bella could sit still for but five minutes. That one’s more roisterous than a boy.”
“We are lucky that she is so naturally lovely,” the countess said. “She scarce needs more than five minutes of your assistance, Betta.”
“Mother, I must speak with you.”
Cassandra heard the tension in her son’s voice and swiveled about in her chair. “You may leave us now, Betta,” she said pleasantly to her maid.