Devil's Daughter (Devil 2)

“Your father did Kamal a great disservice,” Hamil said. “A woman should understand that—”

“Ah,” Adam said, laughing, interrupting him, “she did poke a few holes in your hide.”

“She had the ignorant effrontery to suggest that women should have harems fille

d with handsome young men.”

Adam could think of no response, he was laughing so hard. He sobered quickly enough when their cavalcade reached Oran. Hamil had removed his kufiyah so that his people would recognize him. Adam gave his place to Kamal so that the two brothers rode side by side up the narrow path to the palace.

“I hope,” Kamal said, “that old Hassan will not collapse at the sight of you, my brother.”

“I only hope he will want me back after these months with you.”

“He has suggested upon occasion that I have shown more wisdom than he had expected.”

They reined in at the fort. Hamil and Kamal met with the Turkish captain, then rejoined the others and continued to the palace. Kamal’s face was a set mask at the news the captain had given them.

“Brother,” Hamil said, replacing his kufiyah, “I believe it best that you greet your mother as the Bey of Oran.” At Kamal’s startled look, he covered his brother’s hand with his own and said softly, “Let me remain dead for a while. I know it saddens you, but for your peace, she must admit to what she has done. Perhaps,” he added, not really believing his own words, “she now regrets her actions.”

Kamal nodded, and Hamil left him alone while he spoke to the others.

Hamil watched the obeisances made to Kamal by his Turkish soldiers at the palace. He hung back with Adam and Rayna, pulling his kufiyah farther down over his brow.

“You found her.” Hassan bore down on Kamal and Arabella, beaming at Kamal. It was but an excuse. He whispered hurriedly to Kamal, “Your mother arrived yesterday. She was told by Raj that you had the woman beaten. She was pleased.”

Kamal merely nodded and strode forward, Arabella at his side, into, ironically to Kamal, the Hall of Justice. His mother, gowned not as a Muslim woman but as a European, stood beside his great chair. Her black hair looked glossy and was artfully piled about her face with small ringlets. Kamal felt sick at the sight of her joyous, triumphant expression.

“My son.” Giovanna gracefully stood on her toes to hug her son’s shoulders and kiss him lightly on his cheek. She was not aware that Kamal did not return her greeting, for her eyes fell upon Arabella, looking for all the world like a dirty waif. But she still had those proud eyes, Giovanna thought. Kamal had not broken her pride.

“Raj told me, my son, that the girl escaped you after you had her beaten. I see you found her.”

“Yes,” Kamal said. “I found her.”

He wanted to pull his mother into his private suite, to hide her shame and his, but Hamil would not be able to follow. He gazed at his brother from the corner of his eye, standing at the back of the hall, his head slightly lowered.

“Well, Lady Arabella,” Giovanna said, “have you enjoyed my son?”

Arabella smiled at her. “Actually, he is not as polished a lover as all my others, contessa. The gentlemen at the court of Naples”—she gave a delightful little shudder—“particulary the comte, were so gallant, so civilized.”

“You lie. You were a virgin. I protected you against violation so that you would come to my son undiseased.”

“Then why did you write to me that she was a slut, Mother?”

Giovanna drew up at the sound of her son’s calm voice. Too calm. She drew in her breath. “So that you would use her, my son, use her as I was used. So that she would experience what her parents forced me to experience.”

“I had thought, Mother,” Kamal continued in the same calm voice, “that we agreed that the children of the Earl and Countess of Clare were not to be involved.”

“I had no choice,” Giovanna said. “The earl was too cowardly to come to Naples as I had hoped. His daughter—”

She broke off as Hassan gestured to Kamal. She frowned at the old man, but Kamal turned to him and listened to him. Kamal straightened and turned back to his mother. “It seems, madam,” he said, “that you will have your wish. The Earl of Clare has come to Oran and awaits outside.”

Giovanna closed her eyes as joy swept through her. Nearly twenty-six years had passed. And now he was her prisoner, the man who had spurned her. Would he look his years, be old and bent, his face wizened and ugly with age? Would he recognize her? She touched her fingers to her face, feeling the lines. Better to savor the revenge that was now hers, and not the old flare of desire that had made her ache.

Anthony Welles, the Earl of Clare, paused in the entrance, gazing about the large chamber. His eyes fell upon his daughter, and he smiled at the proud tilt of her head and the calm expression on her lovely face. Adam had assured him but moments ago that Arabella was unharmed, but his anxiety had not vanished until he saw her. He hoped that Edward Lyndhurst, speechless upon seeing Rayna clothed like a boy and standing in the curve of Adam’s arm, would not erupt until this business was done.

Giovanna’s breath caught at the sight of him. Age had touched him, but not as she would have expected. He was still tall and upright, his shoulders wide, his body lean. His once-black hair was streaked with white, but his dark eyes as they touched her face were as vibrant as they had always been. Soon, she thought, he would be pleading with her to save his precious daughter. How she would delight in telling him that her son had taken Arabella’s valuable virginity, treated her as he would any slave, and beaten her. How she would enjoy his humiliation, his rage, his helplessness.

The earl nodded to his daughter, staying her with his hand, and walked toward Giovanna.