well, only one, but it was
the size of a dove's egg. Diego did not have to think too hard to
imagine what a man could do with the fortune a diamond such as
that could bring. But he did not let himself imagine anything about
it here in Ibrahim Rais's presence. The old corsair had too uncanny
an ability to read other men's intentions; to survive around him,
one learned stillness and caution. Instead of looking at the bare
spot on the wall, or the white bearded man seated on the divan
until he was sure his hatred wouldn't show, he slowly looked
around the rest of the large room. Diego's nerves tightened further
as he saw that there were more guards present than usual — not a
good sign. He kept his visage calm, his step light. He bowed
respectfully toward the man seated on the divan and kept his hands
away from any weapon, but his skin pricked a warning of danger .
He had not been in this room for months. It was large and
beautiful and lofty, said to be as lovely as the bey's throne room.
Having been in the Bey of Algiers' throne room once, Diego knew
that the description was not quite true, but the luxury Ibrahim Rais
bought with theft and peoples' lives was indeed impressive. Diego
always had to fight hard not to spit on the finely glazed white and
black tiled floors of his "benefactor's" house. He had lived in this
house for years, knew every room and passage, knew all the slaves
by name, and called most of them friend. He had thought once that
commanding his own ship was all he wanted. Then he had added
wanting a house of his own to his list of desires. Though both those
desires had been fulfilled, he still felt hollow inside. Neither of
those small steps toward freedom gave him more than a taste of
what he really wanted.
He was not alone in the reception room with Ibrahim Rais,
and he was glad of that. Salah was a big man, with a big, booming
voice, and a bold, flamboyant presence, a man happy to be the
center of attention. Diego admired the man's swaggering bravado
and could match it if he must, but today he chose a more
circumspect course. Salah seemed to take no notice of the guards'
alert gazes as he strode up to where Ibrahim Rais was seated with
a covered bronze dish on the floor by his feet. Diego kept a careful
distance, waiting to be invited. Ibrahim Rais's bearded chin lifted
sharply, but Salah took no notice of the old man's annoyance at this
breach of protocol. He planted himself before Ibrahim Rais and
demanded, "Why did you send for me, old man? You know I'm
setting sail for Alexandria. You're not going to stop me this time."
Tense guards drew closer, but Salah went on as if he didn't
notice. "I've served you well, but our time is over. I'm taking my
spoils and going home to my wife."
"Leaving me," Ibrahim Rais said softly, regretfully. Diego
flinched at the deceptive gentleness in the old man's tone. "To be
with your wife." He gave the big Egyptian corsair an evil, deadly
look. Diego's gaze went to the bronze bowl. He knew what was
coming, and wanted desperately to look away.
"The French fleet will be here in a matter of weeks," Salah
pointed out. "Time we all cut our losses and ran. I'd rather go
home than run with you, Ibrahim."
"What if I sent for your wife?" Ibrahim Rais rose slowly to
his feet.
Salah shook his head. "I'd rather go to her."
"Too bad. Your wife is already here." Ibrahim Rais kicked
over the bronze container, and Salah screamed as the woman's
head tumbled out. The guards closed in on him. Diego backed
away, sickened, disgusted, glad that he'd made more cautious plans
for his own escape.
Chapter 7
After dinner, Honoria stood her ground by the piano near the open
garden door. They were all looking at her, of course, behind their
fans and beneath their demurely lowered eyelashes. She was well
aware of how ladies could stare without seeming to do so. The men
were still enjoying their after dinner brandy, but soon they would
join
the size of a dove's egg. Diego did not have to think too hard to
imagine what a man could do with the fortune a diamond such as
that could bring. But he did not let himself imagine anything about
it here in Ibrahim Rais's presence. The old corsair had too uncanny
an ability to read other men's intentions; to survive around him,
one learned stillness and caution. Instead of looking at the bare
spot on the wall, or the white bearded man seated on the divan
until he was sure his hatred wouldn't show, he slowly looked
around the rest of the large room. Diego's nerves tightened further
as he saw that there were more guards present than usual — not a
good sign. He kept his visage calm, his step light. He bowed
respectfully toward the man seated on the divan and kept his hands
away from any weapon, but his skin pricked a warning of danger .
He had not been in this room for months. It was large and
beautiful and lofty, said to be as lovely as the bey's throne room.
Having been in the Bey of Algiers' throne room once, Diego knew
that the description was not quite true, but the luxury Ibrahim Rais
bought with theft and peoples' lives was indeed impressive. Diego
always had to fight hard not to spit on the finely glazed white and
black tiled floors of his "benefactor's" house. He had lived in this
house for years, knew every room and passage, knew all the slaves
by name, and called most of them friend. He had thought once that
commanding his own ship was all he wanted. Then he had added
wanting a house of his own to his list of desires. Though both those
desires had been fulfilled, he still felt hollow inside. Neither of
those small steps toward freedom gave him more than a taste of
what he really wanted.
He was not alone in the reception room with Ibrahim Rais,
and he was glad of that. Salah was a big man, with a big, booming
voice, and a bold, flamboyant presence, a man happy to be the
center of attention. Diego admired the man's swaggering bravado
and could match it if he must, but today he chose a more
circumspect course. Salah seemed to take no notice of the guards'
alert gazes as he strode up to where Ibrahim Rais was seated with
a covered bronze dish on the floor by his feet. Diego kept a careful
distance, waiting to be invited. Ibrahim Rais's bearded chin lifted
sharply, but Salah took no notice of the old man's annoyance at this
breach of protocol. He planted himself before Ibrahim Rais and
demanded, "Why did you send for me, old man? You know I'm
setting sail for Alexandria. You're not going to stop me this time."
Tense guards drew closer, but Salah went on as if he didn't
notice. "I've served you well, but our time is over. I'm taking my
spoils and going home to my wife."
"Leaving me," Ibrahim Rais said softly, regretfully. Diego
flinched at the deceptive gentleness in the old man's tone. "To be
with your wife." He gave the big Egyptian corsair an evil, deadly
look. Diego's gaze went to the bronze bowl. He knew what was
coming, and wanted desperately to look away.
"The French fleet will be here in a matter of weeks," Salah
pointed out. "Time we all cut our losses and ran. I'd rather go
home than run with you, Ibrahim."
"What if I sent for your wife?" Ibrahim Rais rose slowly to
his feet.
Salah shook his head. "I'd rather go to her."
"Too bad. Your wife is already here." Ibrahim Rais kicked
over the bronze container, and Salah screamed as the woman's
head tumbled out. The guards closed in on him. Diego backed
away, sickened, disgusted, glad that he'd made more cautious plans
for his own escape.
Chapter 7
After dinner, Honoria stood her ground by the piano near the open
garden door. They were all looking at her, of course, behind their
fans and beneath their demurely lowered eyelashes. She was well
aware of how ladies could stare without seeming to do so. The men
were still enjoying their after dinner brandy, but soon they would
join
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