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

“An English countess, from one of the greatest families in Britain,” continued Hamil with relish. “No one would e’er doubt your blood an’ breeding to see ye tonight.”

She wondered uneasily what he would say if he knew the truth of her background—not, of course, that she’d any intention of telling him. “A countess, yes,” she said, “but hardly an English one, not dressed like this.”

“These garments are not proper for your rank?” he asked with a strange mixture of outrage and concern. “Ye would wear richer in London?”

“Not richer, no,” she said quickly, not wishing to anger him over something so inconsequential. “Few ladies at any court in Europe would dress so grandly, except, perhaps, General Bonaparte’s wife Josephine.”

“Proper, that is. The general is a great man.” Hamil himself was dressed even more splendidly than usual tonight, wearing a fitted waistcoat so thick with gold embroidery that the silk beneath was completely hidden. To Caro’s surprise, he had left off his turban, and unlike the other Tripolitan men, he had did not shave his head. Cherubic red gold curls surrounded his forehead, completely at odds with the cruel lines of his face. Caro thought again of the poor tutor and shuddered.

“And your chambers, m’lady? Are they pleasing?”

“My room is lovely, thank you, as is this meal.” The table was set with European silver and porcelain dishes—doubtless plunder—but no utensils, for Hamil had adopted the local custom of eating with one hand, scooping the food into his mouth with his fingers. So much, thought Caro unhappily, for claiming a knife for her defense.

Hamil grunted. “Your friend Sparhawk would weep to have such quarters this night.”

“Where is he?” she asked quickly. “Is he still on board your ship?”

“My ship?” He lewdly sucked the mutton grease from his thumb as he watched for her reaction. “The hold would seem like the very palace compared to where he lies now.” Caro’s fingers gripped the arm of her chair. “You have taken him to the quarries?”

“I told ye, m’lady, ye are to waste no more time considering a cowardly brute like that one,” he said carelessly, and tossed the mutton bone onto the floor behind him. “Ye are a lady. Ye deserve better.”

As desperate as Caro was for news of Jeremiah she realized that Hamil had no intention of telling her more, at least not then. He was toying with her, testing her. If she was ever to learn anything from him, she would have to do the same to him.

But while Hamil could taunt her with Jeremiah, all she had to bargain with in return was herself, and to succeed she must remain every inch the highborn countess Hamil believed her to be. If she faltered even for a moment, she would lose all her value to him. She would become simply another female captive, little better than a slave, and there’d be no hope for her, even less for Jeremiah and Frederick.

Oh, yes, the stakes were very high, thought Caro grimly, and it would be the most dangerous game she’d ever played.

“So you believe I deserve better,” she said slowly. “Better meaning yourself?”

He smiled, supremely confident, and sat back in his chair to study her. “Ye met my lassies this afternoon, didn’t ye? They’ve no complaints, the randy little creatures.”

Caro shrugged and crossed her knees, the striped silk gliding seductively across her long legs in a way that riveted his gaze. “They are charming girls, but then they have seen nothing of the world for comparison.”

His smile faded. “And you have, m’lady?”

“I’m not a girl, Hamil Al-Ameer.” She smoothed the silk across her thighs with her open palm, praying that her words sounded more convincing to him than they did to her. “I thought you’d noticed that for yourself.”

Hamil didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes was beyond words, a wolfish predatory look that made her feel like a bleating lamb waiting to be devoured. No, worse than that; she felt as if she were thirteen again.

“No, Caroline, no!” said her mother furiously, cuffing her across the ear while her mother’s friend, the out-of-work actor who was pretending to be Sir Harry, had waited for the chance to fondle Caro again. “You cannot flinch when the gentleman touches you! The gentleman has something you want—his gold—and in exchange you must give him whatever he desires, and that is yourself. Do you understand?”

“But Mama—”

Her mother’s hand had struck her again, harder. “Do you understand, daughter?”

She had pressed her hand to her jaw, fighting back the shameful tears that would only earn her another blow. “Yes, Mama,” she whispered miserably. “I understand.”

Abruptly Caro pushed her chair back from the table and swept across the room to stand before the window, her back to Hamil as she struggled to regain her self-control. She wasn’t thirteen, and she didn’t answer to her mother any longer.

Be calm, she ordered herself fiercely, breathing in the scent of orange blossoms from the garden below. You must not let Hamil see your agitation or know your fear. Be gracious, be genteel. Be Lady Caroline Moncrief, Countess of Byfield, because that is what you are.

“This is a long way from Edinburgh, isn’t it?” she asked lightly. She would make him speak of himself, not her. What man wouldn’t do that? “Why did you leave?”

He didn’t answer at first, and when she looked over her shoulder she found him standing not a foot away from her, and she gasped. How had he crept up on her so silently like that?

“What was in Scotland to make me stay?” he asked with a bitterness that Caro hadn’t expected. “What could I have been there? A fisherman like my father, toiling ev’ry day of my life for less than nothing, a little man livin’ in fear of being taken up one more time by the English press and forced to serve against the French?”

“You would rather kill and imprison your own countrymen?”

“Aye.” His expression was cold, without mercy, and it took all her will not to move away from him. Standing, she saw he wore his saber even now, and a dagger with a long, curving blade tucked into his sash. Was that the same knife that had so scarred her Jeremiah? How many others had died by the same blade, even, perhaps her own poor Frederick, God help him?

“I kill who would kill me first, m’lady,” he said, “and take those prisoners my master the pasha wishes. For ten years I served your King George in his navy. I learned my trade but earned no reward for it.”

“None? I thought that when a prize was taken, even the lowest boy received a share.”

“A pitiful handful o’ coins for the men, m’lady, while the officers need wagons to carry away their share of the gold.” He grunted with disgust. “Oh, aye, your king is eager to have a poor Scotsman fight for him, but without influence or a fine English name there was to be no advancin’ through the ranks for such as me. The pasha values a man for what he is. Here I have power, riches, my bonny little wives and my sons, and I am second only to the pasha himself.”

“Doubtless the pasha is grateful to have you sailing on his behalf instead of against him.” She turned away toward the window to hide her revulsion, thinking of how many lives Hamil had ruined.

“No question of that, m’lady,” said Hamil proudly, “for I’ve filled his coffers as well as my own.”

“You’ve earned fame as well as riches, you know.” She leaned from the window to pluck a cluster of white blossoms from the tree below, trying not to think of how misplaced a man’s pride could be. “Didn’t you see how all on board the Colomba knew you by sight alone? Even in London they fear your name.”