Miranda Jarrett - Regency High Society Vol 2 - Sparhawk's Lady / The Earl's Intended Wife / Lord Calthorpe's Promise / The Society Catch

The xebec’s boat bumped alongside the felucca, and with obvious relief Tomaso hurried to larboard to meet it.

Jeremiah squeezed Caro’s hand for reassurance. “Stand firm, love,” he murmured beneath his breath for her ears alone. “You couldn’t be doing better.”

She turned to smile her thanks to him, and froze. The six men from the xebec’s boat were climbing on board the felucca, and even in her inexperience she knew these were no ordinary merchant sailors.

All six were tall and broad shouldered, fierce, dark-skinned men with white turbans on their shaved heads and black beards that curled to their bare chests. Instead of shirts they wore short, brightly colored vests over their bronzed arms and chests, and tucked into their sashes and belts were pistols and curving sabers. As each one slung his leg over the felucca’s side, his gaze swept the deck with the practiced air of a warrior, and though none of them drew the weapons at his waist, those looks alone were enough to silence every idler and sailor on board the Colomba. In spite of her resolution to be brave, Caro shrank closer to Jeremiah’s side.

“God in heaven,” she prayed, her voice barely audible. “Whatever can they want?”

Protectively Jeremiah pulled her close to him, his arm circling her shoulders. “Steady now, love. We’ll find out soon enough.”

But he already knew. From the instant he’d seen the first man, he’d known. How could he not? He’d played his nightmare over so many times in his mind that every sound, every smell, every last detail was engraved forever in his memory. But dear Lord, what had he done in his life until now to have fate deliver such a dreadful coincidence to him?

The last man over the side was the leader; from his almost princely bearing alone he could be nothing else. To Caro’s surprise he was European, perhaps even English, his long beard reddish gold and his eyes bright blue, and he surveyed the deck before him with a haughty stare down his long, arched nose.

His vest was richly embroidered with gold and silver thread that glittered in the dawn’s light, and beneath it he wore a white silk shirt, also heavily embroidered. Tucked into his scarlet sash was a pair of beautiful silver-mounted pistols. A saber in an enameled hilt hung at his waist, and in the center of his turban was pinned a large cut amethyst. Unlike his barefoot men, he wore soft boots of red leather, and he stood with his arms folded and his legs widespread, well aware of the impression he was making.

As he glanced their way, one of the passengers let out a wail of uncontrolled terror and folded to the deck, shaking and sobbing, his outcry the only sound on the silent felucca. Around him, the others shuffled away, afraid to share in whatever horror the man felt, but the red-bearded man didn’t deign to notice. Yet Caro felt Jeremiah’s fingers tighten into her shoulder, and she heard him swear softly beneath his breath.

Tomaso rushed forward, bowing so low over his outstretched leg that his forehead touched his knee and his black bow flopped forward from his neck. “I am honored, vostra magnificenza, vostra superiorita, vostra—”

“None o’ your ass’s prattle, Tomaso,” interrupted the red-bearded man irritably. “I haven’t time t’waste. The message said ye had a gift for me to ensure the safety o’ your miserable felucca.”

Impatiently his gaze again swept across the deck, but this time it stopped at Caro, lingering over her with an interest that made her blood turn to ice.

“Jeremiah,” she whispered, too terrified to look away. “Who is he?”

“Hamil Al-Ameer,” he said hoarsely. “And God help us, we’re the gift.”

Caro gasped. Hamil Al-Ameer was the man who had imprisoned her Frederick, the man who had captured Jeremiah’s ship and crew and tossed him for dead into the sea.

The man Jeremiah had sworn to kill.

She twisted about in Jeremiah’s arms to see his face, his expression rigid with a bitter, complete hatred she’d never before seen, then looked back at Hamil and his men standing in a line on either side of him. If Jeremiah tried to attack Hamil now, they would be on him instantly, and they would cut him to pieces before her eyes. They were ready for him, their hands resting easily on the hilts of their sabers, almost daring him to try.

Seven against one were odds no sane man would risk. But where Hamil was concerned, Caro wasn’t sure Jeremiah was sane; he had suffered too much, been pushed too far. Fear tightened in her breast, her heart pounding wildly as she realized what she must do to save him from himself.

In the tension that bound the men together, no one noticed as she slowly slipped her hand into her pocket. With trembling fingers she unhooked the catch on the gunlock and wrapped her sweating palm around the butt. She swallowed hard, and in her thoughts said a prayer for Jeremiah. She loved him enough to do this, this and more, if she must. Then, as quickly as she could, she jerked the pistol from her pocket and aimed it at the chest of the red-bearded man as she squeezed the trigger.

“Caro, no!’ She heard Jeremiah’s anguished shout as the gun seemed to explode in her hands. Through the acrid gunpowder smoke she saw the stunned faces of Hamil’s men and Captain Tomaso’s gaping mouth as she slammed down onto the hard planking of the deck, the pistol flying from her fingers.

What had happened? she thought crazily, gasping for breath. She had shot Hamil, yet she was the one who had fallen. She thought she’d done what Jeremiah had said, release the lock, draw the trigger, aim where the man was broadest.…

“Caro, love, look at me!” said Jeremiah frantically, his face above her, his eyes wild and his hair falling forward over her. She wanted to laugh from relief and joy, if she could only catch her breath. He was well, unhurt, and the force she’d felt pressing her into the deck was the weight of his body on hers. She’d done it! She’d saved him, her own Jeremiah.

Then abruptly his face was gone, his body torn from hers, and, still dazed, all she saw above her was the pale blue morning sky. She heard grunts and the scuffle of bare feet, the scrape of steel against steel, and by the time she had rolled over onto her hands and knees, the deck of the Colomba was silent again. Before her lay Jeremiah’s motionless body, his dark coat slashed and torn to show the white linen of his shirt, his face turned away from her, the wind from the water lifting and tossing his black hair above the spreading circle of blood. Unable to comprehend, she could only stare as Hamil, alive and unharmed, prodded Jeremiah’s chest with the toe of his red boot.

With a small whimper of denial she crawled across the deck to where Jeremiah lay. On her knees she bent over him, her pale hair tangling into his. He was so still, his face relaxed, his lips parted with some final word she’d never hear. She touched his cheek, cool and unnaturally pale beneath his sun-browned skin, and let her fingers fall into the blood, his blood, that stained the silvery deck beside him.

Wild with grief, she looked up at Hamil. “You’ve killed him,” she cried bitterly. “I was the one who fired at you, yet you killed him instead!”

Hamil frowned. “This shrew is a countess, Tomaso?”

“Si, si, yes!” said Tomaso, desperately eager. “Would I insult you with a gift of anything less? Mark her hair, her skin like porcelain beneath the dirt!”

The Scotsman stroked his thumb through his beard, studying Caro.