“Tis just as well ye don’t want to toss up her skirts, Neddie, ’cause she’s to be left alone. Them’s the orders from the captain.”
“Please,” Arabella pleaded, “tell me where we are bound.”
“Take yer dinner, wench.” Abel placed a bowl of greasy brown stew in her hands.
Arabella’s stomach knotted at the vile-looking mixture. Unknowingly, she shook her head.
“Ye’d best eat, wench,” Abel said, “else ye’ll be dead by the time we reach Oran.”
“Oran,” Arabella repeated blankly. “That is a city in Algiers.”
“Aye.” Abel nodded, as if amused with her.
“You must take me home. My father will pay you handsomely, I promise you. Bring me your captain, please.”
“Be yer pa as ugly as ye, I wonder?” Ned said, raising his brows at the knotty question. “And iffen he ain’t, he’d likely pay us to keep ye away from him.”
Arabella, without thought, threw the bowl of stew at Ned. He yelped and jumped back, pieces of meat sliding off his chest. “Ye little bitch,” he yelled.
“Nay, Neddie, don’t strike the wench,” Abel said. “She’ll not be so full of herself by tomorrow night.”
“Aye,” Ned spat toward her. “Tomorrow night she’ll be begging for anything we give her.”
“Bring me your captain.”
Abel threw back his head and laughed heartily. He suddenly reached down and grasped Arabella’s chin in his hand. “Aye, wench, ye’ll be as gentle as a little mouse soon.”
Ned joined in his laughter. Arabella watched the two men stride toward the narrow door.
“Don’t take the lamp,” she yelled after them, but Abel ignored her. The door banged closed, and she was once again in total darkness.
She heard soft scurrying sounds. She muffled a scream and drew herself up in a tight ball. There were rats so close she could hear them gnawing at the splattered stew.
Niccolo Canova turned up the collar of his cloak against the dark fog from the bay. He was nearly home now, to his whining wife. He hoped the brandy he had drunk would deaden his ears to her shrill voice. He thought he heard movement behind him, and paused a moment. There was nothing. He shook his head at himself and began to whistle. His whistle suddenly died in his throat.
He stared stupidly at a black-garbed figure standing squarely in his path. The figure’s face was masked and he held a whip in his gloved hand.
“Who are you?” Niccolo asked in a croaking voice.
“I am looking for the Comte de la Valle,” the figure said in a cold voice, a voice cold as the dead, Niccolo thought wildly.
“I have not seen him this evening,” Niccolo said, trying to close his fingers about the hilt of his dress sword.
“No, there was no gathering this evening, was there? No chance for you to ruin another peasant girl.”
“Who are you? I know nothing.” He whipped about and ran toward the dock. Swift footsteps closed behind him, and he was spun about by his arm, caught. He raised his hand to claw at the black mask covering the man’s face. The next moment the man’s fist smashed into his jaw, and he fell back onto his knees, dizzy with pain.
“You miserable bastard. Where is the comte?”
Niccolo stared stupidly up at the man.
“The queen will soon know about the pack of jackals you keep company with.” The hard voice lowered to a whisper. “Your precious comte has done you in.”
Niccolo couldn’t move in his fear. “I do not believe you. Gervaise would not—” He broke off, then blurted out, “I will tell you the other members’ names if you release me.”
“A swine and a coward,” the black figure said. “I will ask you but one more time. Where is the comte?”
“I do not know,” Niccolo yelled. “Who are you?” The figure merely laughed and Niccolo bounded to his feet, clutching his sword.