Devil's Daughter (Devil 2)

Arabella felt a flash of anger, but firmly repressed it. She was hungry and weak and this man would feed her. “Yes,” she said.

“Such a pity,” Risan said, looking away from her. The supple young body he had felt against him when he had carried her here had made his loins tighten.

“Come and eat, wench, and then it’s off to the palace.”

She meant to ask him what he was talking about, but the smell of roasted pheasant filled her nostrils and she quivered with hunger. He helped her to the table and sat opposite her as she ate. The pheasant was delicious, as were the steaming rice, the stewed collards, and the sweet wine. Finally sated, Arabella sat back in her chair and glanced at the man across from her beneath half-closed lids. She felt her strength returning, and her spirits rose. She picked up a small china cup of thick black coffee, and realized it was laced with brandy when it burned its way to her stomach. She gasped and coughed, but it warmed her.

“Where are we, captain?” she asked.

“In Oran. I am to deliver you personally to his highness.”

“What are you talking about? What highness?”

His hand snaked out and closed about her arm. “Careful, girl. Your master and mine, his highness, Kamal El-Kader, the Bey of Oran.”

Kamal, she thought, the contessa’s son. She looked up at Risan and whispered, “Please do not. I am Arabella Welles. My father will pay you whatever you demand if you will but take me to Genoa.”

The captain grinned. “I know who you are, wench. We’ll see if my half-brother wants to keep you.” He studied her face a moment. “I doubt he will. You are the ugliest female I’ve ever seen

.”

Arabella stared down at her mud-colored hands and touched her fingers to her face. What had the contessa covered her with? Her stiff, filthy hair touched her cheek and she shook it away.

For a moment she felt the despair that had threatened to overwhelm her in the old. Stop it. You have been a great fool, but even fools can save themselves. Perhaps this Kamal wasn’t the villain his mother was. Perhaps.

“The tender’s ready, captain.”

She looked up to see a young sailor staring at her.

“Well, my lady,” Risan said, standing. “Must I carry you again? If you would know the truth, I don’t wish to soil my clothes.”

“I am coming, captain,” Arabella said. She looked at his dagger as she followed him along the deck, but thought better of it.

“This is Oran, my lady. Look yon.”

Arabella stared toward the bustling city beyond the docks. It looked nothing like Genoa or any other town she had seen. Its close whitewashed huts were nestled under the dazzling bright afternoon sun in a narrow valley between two hills.

“You cannot see the market from here,” Risan said as he steered her down the wooden gangplank, “or the treasures that may be found there. The slave auctions are held there. You, I venture to say, would bring more hoots of laughter than piastres.”

“That is a warming thought,” Arabella said. She looked about the dock at the men lounging about. Adam was right, she thought. Pirates were not a romantic lot; they were loud, dirty, and brutish. She saw no women until Risan guided her onto a wide street. They stood in small groups, clustered in doorways, dressed like crows, covered from head to toe in coarse black robes. They pointed her out to each other with obvious distaste, in Arabic, she supposed.

They began an ascent through winding streets, streets so narrow that the houses touched each other, forming a vault overhead. They walked through a dark passage and emerged in an open square, where the noise was deafening. No one seemed to pay the slightest heed to them. Arabella saw merchants crouched beside their motley wares, their strings of pepper pods and dried fish hanging beside silken robes and embroidered sandals. Sacks of green henna, destined, Risan told her, to dye women’s fingers and feet, were set next to huge sides of raw meat. A scent of decay was heavy and mingled with the aroma of spices and the perfume of flowers. She saw women, different here from the ones that had huddled in the doorways. Their dark eyes were ringed with kohl above the wisps of their veils. They kept to themselves, away from the men. The Arab men all wore turbans and long black cloaks with full cut hoods.

“You are surprised at the attire of our people?” Risan asked. “The ubiquitous long cloak is called a burnoose.” He cocked a dark brow at her. “You show no fear. Perhaps you need to witness a slave auction.”

“No,” Arabella said. “I believe I have witnessed enough.”

They emerged from the bazaar at the base of the hill. “That is his highness’s palace, up there,” Risan said, pointing to the huge building sprawled high atop a hill above the city. “The forts below house his Turkish troops. We will ride up on donkeys. I suggest you hold on tightly.”

Arabella clung to the rough saddle horn as the donkey weaved his way upward. As they grew nearer to the palace, she could make out the figures of men patrolling the perimeter. It looked to be impregnable. She felt a knot of fear so intense she might have fallen had Captain Risan not turned in his saddle and called back to her, “Almost there, girl. I can’t wait to hear what my brother has to say to you.”

Brother. Another of the contessa’s sons?

Her donkey came to an abrupt halt, and as if by habit, jerked the reins from her hands. Oddly uniformed Turks surrounded them. They looked at her with sneering laughter, likely making coarse jests about her. She slid from the donkey’s back and squared her shoulders. A huge gate swung open, and Risan prodded her through.

He said on a half-laugh, “Come, girl, it is time to meet your master.”

She gazed over her shoulder at the glistening Mediterranean below her. It seemed as distant as Genoa, and home.