girls,
but I was rather annoyed when they accidentally set fire
to the bedroom. I didn't yell at them until I'd gotten them
to safety, though."
"That's true, my lady. But they swore it was a
miracle that restored your voice."
"The miracle was that I didn't sack them."
"You shouted at them like a fishwife."
"I have never met a fishwife, but I will take your
word for it. Of course I shouted. They very nearly burned
down my home."
Huseby smiled. "Wouldn't want that to happen, my
lady. We Husebys and Pynes have lived there nearly two
hundred years. Fine old families—and their retainers—
need their places."
"I want to go home." Honoria sighed. "I am so
heartsick, Maggie. Homesick!" she hastened to correct
herself. She had surged to her feet, and now sat back
down, her bottom-hitting the chair with a firmness that
was almost painful. This caused her to twitch in a most
indecorous fashion. She swore.
Huseby watched her calmly through all this.
"Homesick," she said with an understanding nod. "Yes.
Of course."
Honoria was annoyed at the woman's mild tone, but
then, everything had annoyed her since she'd come up to
London. She sat back in her chair and folded her hands on
the desktop once more. She sounded as calm as usual
when she said, "Everything is simpler at home."
She kept busy at home. She kept to herself. She
occupied her mind with books. She had enough physical
exercise so that she got a good, honest night's sleep when
she took to her bed from sheer exhaustion. Her days were
orderly, her pursuits intellectual; she occupied time with
good works and charity rather than frivolous social
engagements. She rarely even thought of Derrick Russell.
If Moresco's dark presence was harder to banish from her
soul, at least she didn't go about mistaking every
devilishly handsome, tall, broad-shouldered man with
wavy brown hair and amber eyes she encountered for a
Spanish corsair who'd no doubt been hanged eight years
ago.
Hanged. Without realizing it, a hand went to
Honoria's throat. A fist squeezed her heart, and she
couldn't breathe for a moment.
"Simpler." Huseby nodded. "Your life is simpler
when you've got everything under your control, you
mean."
Honoria took a deep breath. She didn't know he'd
been hanged. He was clever enough to have escaped.
"Precisely. Which is just as it should be." She managed to
smile despite the fact that she really wanted to cry. She
hated that tears had been threatening for hours and hours.
Come to think of it, how often, even in London society,
did she encounter devilishly handsome, tall, broad-
shouldered men with wavy brown hair, eyes like warm
honey, and… his voice?
"James Marbury," she said, surprising herself. "What
do you know about him?"
Servants knew everything. Huseby didn't try to deny
it. "The butler says he heard that…"
Chapter 5
Overhead the sun blazed down out of a perfect sky. The
whitewashed walls of the Casbah rose above the sparkling bay,
gleaming like a pearl against the forested mountains behind the
ancient town of Al-Jaz'ir. Diego moved from the deck of the moored
galley onto the gangplank, dressed in fresh white robes and a
twisted scarlet and black turban. His clothes proclaimed him to be
a renegade westerner, a corsair under the patronage of the Bey of
the city and the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. He glanced up to
read the time in the way the shadow of a minaret slashed across the
blue tiled dome of a nearby mosque. Al-Jaz'ir — or Algiers in his
native Western tongue — did not feel like home to him, and never
had, but for once he was happy to have made it back to the
corsairs' last safe haven. Their small fleet had had to dodge French
war ships, and Diego guessed they were massing to mount an
attack on the ancient stronghold within the next few weeks .
They all knew it wouldn't be a safe haven much longer. That
world was ending, but in the meantime, it was still a noisy, busy
place, full of
but I was rather annoyed when they accidentally set fire
to the bedroom. I didn't yell at them until I'd gotten them
to safety, though."
"That's true, my lady. But they swore it was a
miracle that restored your voice."
"The miracle was that I didn't sack them."
"You shouted at them like a fishwife."
"I have never met a fishwife, but I will take your
word for it. Of course I shouted. They very nearly burned
down my home."
Huseby smiled. "Wouldn't want that to happen, my
lady. We Husebys and Pynes have lived there nearly two
hundred years. Fine old families—and their retainers—
need their places."
"I want to go home." Honoria sighed. "I am so
heartsick, Maggie. Homesick!" she hastened to correct
herself. She had surged to her feet, and now sat back
down, her bottom-hitting the chair with a firmness that
was almost painful. This caused her to twitch in a most
indecorous fashion. She swore.
Huseby watched her calmly through all this.
"Homesick," she said with an understanding nod. "Yes.
Of course."
Honoria was annoyed at the woman's mild tone, but
then, everything had annoyed her since she'd come up to
London. She sat back in her chair and folded her hands on
the desktop once more. She sounded as calm as usual
when she said, "Everything is simpler at home."
She kept busy at home. She kept to herself. She
occupied her mind with books. She had enough physical
exercise so that she got a good, honest night's sleep when
she took to her bed from sheer exhaustion. Her days were
orderly, her pursuits intellectual; she occupied time with
good works and charity rather than frivolous social
engagements. She rarely even thought of Derrick Russell.
If Moresco's dark presence was harder to banish from her
soul, at least she didn't go about mistaking every
devilishly handsome, tall, broad-shouldered man with
wavy brown hair and amber eyes she encountered for a
Spanish corsair who'd no doubt been hanged eight years
ago.
Hanged. Without realizing it, a hand went to
Honoria's throat. A fist squeezed her heart, and she
couldn't breathe for a moment.
"Simpler." Huseby nodded. "Your life is simpler
when you've got everything under your control, you
mean."
Honoria took a deep breath. She didn't know he'd
been hanged. He was clever enough to have escaped.
"Precisely. Which is just as it should be." She managed to
smile despite the fact that she really wanted to cry. She
hated that tears had been threatening for hours and hours.
Come to think of it, how often, even in London society,
did she encounter devilishly handsome, tall, broad-
shouldered men with wavy brown hair, eyes like warm
honey, and… his voice?
"James Marbury," she said, surprising herself. "What
do you know about him?"
Servants knew everything. Huseby didn't try to deny
it. "The butler says he heard that…"
Chapter 5
Overhead the sun blazed down out of a perfect sky. The
whitewashed walls of the Casbah rose above the sparkling bay,
gleaming like a pearl against the forested mountains behind the
ancient town of Al-Jaz'ir. Diego moved from the deck of the moored
galley onto the gangplank, dressed in fresh white robes and a
twisted scarlet and black turban. His clothes proclaimed him to be
a renegade westerner, a corsair under the patronage of the Bey of
the city and the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. He glanced up to
read the time in the way the shadow of a minaret slashed across the
blue tiled dome of a nearby mosque. Al-Jaz'ir — or Algiers in his
native Western tongue — did not feel like home to him, and never
had, but for once he was happy to have made it back to the
corsairs' last safe haven. Their small fleet had had to dodge French
war ships, and Diego guessed they were massing to mount an
attack on the ancient stronghold within the next few weeks .
They all knew it wouldn't be a safe haven much longer. That
world was ending, but in the meantime, it was still a noisy, busy
place, full of
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