Devil's Daughter (Devil 2)

“What the devil?”

Raj, his face drawn and shaking from exertion, rushed into the chamber. “Highness. She is gone. The guard on the eastern wall was found unconscious, stripped of his clothes.”

Kamal felt his blood run cold. He heard a muffled shriek from Lella, but didn’t turn his eyes from Raj. Very calmly he said, “Bring me the guard, quickly.”

He was in Arabella’s chamber, the bundle of clothes she had formed beneath the covers in his hands, when the guard, clothed only in a loincloth, stumbled before him.

His first thought was that with a man’s clothes she would have some protection. “Tell me what happened,” he said.

“I seek a ship bound for Genoa.” Arabella said the words again and again, trying to lower her voice to the gruffness of a man’s. Sweat beaded on her forehead, from fear and exertion. The perilous climb down the steep hill from the palace to the city had left her aching and her breath short.

The city looked ghostly under the sliver of moon, and the eerie silence made her heart pound so loud she feared discovery at any moment. She winced with each step she took, for the guard’s boots were too large and had rubbed her heels raw.

The closer she came to the harbor, the more her fear grew. An unarmed man alone would as easily be the victim of robbers as would a woman. She clung to the shadows, refusing to give in to her fear.

The shadows became men—pirates or simple fisher-men, Arabella didn’t know. She heard them laughing and talking in Arabic. She walked on toward a three-masted ship, her head down, concentrating on nothing more than her next step.

Almost there. She heard men call out to her, but she only shook her head, as if she were on an errand of grave importance. She heard a group of men closing behind her but she was too afraid to turn to face them. She waved toward the ship. A deep voice that came out of a nightmare rang out behind her, in fluent Italian.

“Hey, you there, hold. What do you want with my ship?”

It was Captain Risan.

She closed her eyes against his voice. Run, escape. She lunged away from the dock, back toward the narrow, dark streets. She heard his voice again, raised high, cursing her. The boots dragged up and down over her heels, slowing her and making her grit her teeth in pain. Her back hurt so badly she wanted to howl, but she didn’t have the breath to do it.

He was so close she could hear him breathing. She felt a hand come down on her shoulder, and reeled. She turned, her hand balled into a fist, and struck out at him. He growled in fury, and shoved her, hooking his booted foot behind her legs. Arabella sprawled to her back in the dirt, Risan slamming down over her. She struggled, hitting his face, but he grabbed her wrists and pulled them down against her belly.

She saw his fist above her face, and closed her eyes against the pain, but nothing happened.

“By the beard of the Prophet,” he said. “It’s a boy.”

She looked at his surprised face. “Let me go,” she said low, trying to heave him off her. “I mean you no harm. I did nothing.”

Four men were standing over her, laughing and pointing. She couldn’t understand what they were saying. She twisted suddenly, but it only brought Risan forward, his face but inches above her own.

She heard a sharp intake of breath. She dredged up the foulest language she had ever heard and yelled it in his face.

He stiffened, his eyes never leaving her face. Suddenly his dark eyes glistened. Slowly he lowered his hand to her breast.

“By Allah, I don’t believe this.” He ripped the burnoose from her head.

“Please,” she whispered, her eyes fastened upon Risan’s face, unaware of the stunned silence around them. “Let me go.”

“It is you,” he said. “And I believed you ugly as a camel wallowing in a dung heap.” He eased off her, clasped her wrists more tightly, and pulled her to her feet. He had no fear that she would escape, for his men surrounded her. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in the near-darkness, and gave her a deep bow. “Lady Arabella,” he said, laughter in his voice. “Were you seeking me, my lady, or are you a gift from Allah?”

“I have money. Please, captain, you must help me get away from here. I will pay you well. I must return to Genoa. At least show me a ship bound for Italy, please.”

Risan motioned to one of the men and spoke a few sharp words. Arabella felt her arms pulled behind her back. She stilled. She shrank back against the man as Risan reached his hand to her hair. The man thrust his hips against her, laughing as he did so.

“Hold still, my lady,” Risan said, “else you will inflame my men.” She felt his fingers touch her hair, then slowly begin to unwind the thick braid around her head. “Please, don’t.”

“If only I had known,” he said, as if to himself, “I might not have sailed so quickly to Oran.” He lifted a mass of hair and brought it to his face. She watched him rub it against his cheek. “I do not think I want to know how you managed to escape my half-brother. I will even pretend that I do not notice you are wearing the uniform of his guards.”

“You will help me?”

“Let us say, cara, that I will not be so careless with you as my brother was. After I have my fill of you, perhaps I will free you, perhaps I will return you to Kamal. You will be one of the few women to have knowledge of both of us.”

“No.” She felt Risan’s hand touch her face and she forgot everything. She kicked out at him in fury and drove her elbows into the stomach of the man who held her. She heard a grunt of pain but the man didn’t loose his hold. She saw Risan’s face contort. “I should take you right here, in the dirt and filth, with my men holding you down.” Suddenly he whirled about. Arabella raised dazed eyes. A half-dozen men on horseback were bearing down on them, Kamal at their head. Her heart leapt at the sight of him. He looked otherworldly in the dark night, his white burnoose flowing out behind him.