The Lion's Embrace Read online

  Harriet clenched her fists and struggled to control the urge to slap the smirk off his face. Now was the time to produce her trump card.

  She took a deep breath and asked with her sweetest voice.

  ‘Not even for the map of the location of Khayr ad-Dīn’s last ever loot?’

  Chapter Two

  Saintclair put his tumbler on the table.

  ‘Barbarossa’s treasure map? What about it?’ He tried to keep his voice casual.

  ‘It’s yours, once my father and I are back safe and sound in London. If and only if you take me with you to Tamanrasset, that is.’

  ‘You are telling me that you have the map showing where the spoils of Barbarossa’s last raid are hidden?’

  She nodded. ‘I do indeed, Monsieur Saintclair, have the map of the legendary lost treasure of the Old Chief of the Sea himself.’

  He found it hard to breathe.

  ‘How do I know you’re not making this up? How do I know the map you have is genuine?’

  Her grey eyes looked directly into his, and he felt once again their strange, compelling attraction.

  ‘You have my word of honour as a gentlewoman, monsieur,’ she replied, crossing her hands in her lap and sitting very straight. ‘However, if that’s not enough, I happen to have a letter from my father authenticating the map.’

  She bent down, took a crumpled sheet of paper out of the leather purse dangling at her belt and slid it across the table.

  It took him a few seconds to focus on the spidery handwriting covering the letter enough to understand what he was reading. Professor Montague wrote that the signature on the map appeared to be Barbarossa’s, and that the quality of the parchment and ink, as well as the wording and symbols used, were consistent with a naval document dating from the mid sixteenth century. The old document bore references to the Turkish corsair’s impious alliance with Francis I of France against Charles, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, and to the trail of destruction he left on the coasts of France and Italy after the siege of Nice and Toulon in 951, which Montague explained was 1544 in the Christian calendar. There was also a tally of the loot carried by Barbarossa’s fleet, one hundred galleys filled to the brim with gold and previous artefacts, not to forget slaves to be sold at Constantinople. The second part of the letter was more personal and he only skimmed over it.

  For a prize like the map—and the treasure it led to—he would promise to take Harriet Montague anywhere she wanted. Hell, he would even promise to take her to Timbuktu! He grinned. He might promise, but he’d make it very hard for her to keep up.

  As he read the letter again, he became aware of the tension between Drake and his fiancée. From the way the Englishman had stared open-mouthed at her, it was safe to presume he didn’t know anything about the pirate’s treasure map.

  ‘Hang on a minute, Harriet.’ Drake’s voice was a harsh whisper. ‘What are you talking about? Your father never wrote to me about finding the Barbarossa map.’

  Harriet Montague frowned. ‘Didn’t he? How odd…He found it in Hassan Pasha’s library when he was in Algiers shortly before leaving for Tamanrasset, and sent it to me for safekeeping. He didn’t trust anyone here with it, and he certainly didn’t want it to get lost or damaged during his journey to the Sahara.’

  Drake narrowed his eyes. ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘Safe,’ she replied with a shrewd smile.

  Drake grabbed her hand, his blue eyes harsh.

  ‘I asked you where it was.’

  ‘Archie!’ Harriet breathed out, struggling to pull her hand free.

  Lucas folded the letter, leaned over the table.

  ‘Is there a problem, Drake?’

  Immediately, the Englishman’s expression changed. His lips stretched into an easy smile and he released the young woman’s hand.

  ‘No, everything’s fine. I was just a little taken aback by Harriet’s news, that’s all. It is always a shock for a man to discover that his fiancée has been keeping secrets from him, especially secrets of such importance.’ A harsh look lingered in his eyes.

  Lucas frowned. His first impression had been wrong. The man wasn’t a pushover at all. He was a bully. He wondered how long it would take the young woman to realize that. He hoped for her sake she figured it out before the wedding.

  He slid the letter across to her and smiled. ‘You didn’t get on with your Aunt Elizabeth, did you?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘A line at the end of your father’s letter, referring to some mischief you used to play on her.’

  ‘Oh that!’ A smile stretched her lips. ‘Aunt Elizabeth used to look after me when my father was away on expeditions. He and she never agreed on what was proper for a young lady to know. She used to read my father’s letters before me and black out entire sections she deemed inappropriate for my eyes. So he started writing messages in invisible ink… It was great fun and to this day she still doesn’t know anything about it.’ Her eyes had become dreamy.

  She sighed before turning to him. ‘So, do you agree to take us to Tamanrasset, Monsieur Saintclair?’

  He drank more rum, toyed with his tumbler.

  ‘I would get the map on top of the fee Lord Callaghan is willing to pay?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said at last.

  He had decided, of course, yet he didn’t want to appear too keen. His heart beat hard, his mind already bursting with plans and ideas. He could do so much with the Barbarossa treasure.

  There was something else to consider too. He had to travel south anyway, now that Rachid had fled with the map. Professor Montague’s rescue Mission would be the perfect cover for him and his men. What’s more, if he played his cards right, he might even end up with the ransom money as well. The Professor was already dead, he was sure of it. This could turn out a very profitable trip indeed.

  Out of habit, he glanced around the room and frowned as he recognized a couple of unsavoury characters standing by the door. The men caught him looking at them and slipped out.

  Harriet repressed a grin. Saintclair was hooked. She had won. However, being a male—and an arrogant one at that—he would never admit to being outmanoeuvred by a woman and was playing hard to get. This was a game she could play, too.

  ‘We will need your answer by tomorrow,’ she said, stuffing the letter back into her leather purse, ‘so that we can find another guide if you’re not interested.’ She forced another sip of rum down. It tasted less fiery; she must be getting used to it. She drank a little more.

  ‘I hope your employer is aware of the costs involved,’ Saintclair said.

  ‘Lord Callaghan is a very wealthy man,’ Drake answered. ‘As the chairman of the Museum’s Board of trustees, he felt it was his duty to arrange for Montague’s ransom.’

  ‘There will be men to hire, horses and camels to buy, rights of passages to local dignitaries and tribes to pay. Not to mention buying weapons and ammunitions. And entertainment, of course.’

  ‘What do you mean by entertainment?’ Harriet interrupted. ‘There won’t be time for the theatre, the opera, or the ballet, or anything like that. Why are you laughing?’

  Saintclair cleared his throat. ‘Not that kind of entertainment, Miss. I was thinking of the kind involving playing cards and warm, willing women.’

  She gasped, put her hand in front of her mouth.

  ‘There’s no need to be crude, Saintclair,’ Archie remonstrated. ‘These are things a young lady doesn’t need to know.’

  ‘Miss Montague will soon learn about the facts of life and the nature of men if she insists on coming along.’

  It sounded like a promise—or a threat. Saintclair darted his clear blue eyes into hers. His lips curled into a smile and she found herself grow hot. She put her hands against her burning cheeks, struggled, and failed, to find something clever to say, which rarely happened. It was because of the rum, of course. It didn’t agree with her.

  Archie stood
up and pulled her to her feet.

  ‘Come on, dear, we will leave Monsieur Saintclair to think about our proposal.’

  ‘I’ll walk you back.’ Saintclair drained his rum.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Archie objected.

  The Frenchman stood up, threw the butt of his cigar on the floor and stubbed it out with the heel of his riding boot.

  ‘I insist.’

  It was pitch black as they made their way along the docks. Light-headed from the rum, Harriet held onto Archie’s arm. As they turned into a dark alleyway, Saintclair froze and gestured for them to stop. Footsteps echoed behind them. Someone whistled. Immediately, they heard another whistle in front of them, and two shadows stepped out from a doorway.

  ‘Here they are, I knew it,’ Saintclair muttered through his teeth.

  He pulled his dagger out and pushed Harriet into Archie’s arms. ‘They’re after me. I saw them earlier in the Seventh Star. Take her away, quickly, I’ll deal with them.’

  Looking over her shoulder, Harriet saw that two men behind them blocked their retreat.

  Saintclair pointed to a narrow passage that was shrouded in darkness. ‘Run through there and you’ll end up at the top of the Kasbah.’

  ‘What’s happening, Archie?’ She glanced at Saintclair and Archie in turn, fear tightening around her heart like a fist.

  ‘Come now, dear. Hurry.’ Archie pulled her arm and urged her forward.

  ‘We can’t leave Saintclair alone against four men, he doesn’t stand a chance,’ she protested. ‘You have your pistol, don’t you? You must help him.’

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ Archie retorted. ‘If he isn’t, then he isn’t as good as I thought. Now, run!’

  The passageway led to a narrow street, then a steep staircase. When they reached the top, Harriet put a hand on her heart and tried to catch her breath, but Archie dragged her on.

  ‘Come on, we’re almost there.’

  They soon found themselves in front of the palace’s imposing carved door. Archie rapped his fingers on the thick wood a few times until a sleepy-eyed woman servant let them in.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ Archie declared straight away. ‘And so should you.’

  She turned to him, surprised. ‘What about Saintclair? Are you not going back with a couple of men to check that he is all right?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about him. I heard he was very skilled with a knife.’

  He walked up to her, put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her.

  ‘I’m still not sure about taking you along to Tamanrasset, my dear. Do you really think you’re strong enough to ride hundreds of miles with half a dozen ruffians for company? You saw what Saintclair is like—coarse, brutal, ill-mannered. His men won’t be much better.’

  ‘You’re not a ruffian,’ she objected. ‘You will look after me, won’t you? And you will take care of Father when we find him.’

  ‘Of course.’ He let go of her. ‘But what about your Aunt Elizabeth? She only let you come to Algiers because you promised to wait here, in Lord Callaghan’s palace.’

  ‘I lied.’

  She stood on her tiptoes and pecked a kiss on his cheek.

  ‘Don’t worry about Aunt Elizabeth. I will tell her that you were against the idea from the start but I didn’t listen, as usual. She won’t be surprised at all. You know what she thinks about me.’

  The elderly lady often complained that Harriet would end up a sad and lonely spinster. According to her, being able to decipher ancient scrolls, brush dust off potsherds and animal bones, and sketch the ruins of Greek temples, would never get her a husband.

  It didn’t matter a jot to Harriet. She had no intention of getting married. All she wanted was to follow in her father’s footsteps and help bring forgotten civilizations back to life.

  Archie sighed. His eyes hardened. ‘And there is this business of the map. I still can’t believe you never breathed a word about it.’

  ‘I thought you knew. Father always tells you everything.’

  ‘Not this time. Why offer it to Saintclair? Do you have any idea how precious it is, and I’m not even talking about the treasure itself?’

  ‘The greatest treasure in the world is nothing compared to my father’s life,’ she answered quietly. ‘You said yourself that Saintclair was the best. I needed to offer him something unique, something he couldn’t refuse.’

  ‘A man like him would have been happy with a few jugs of rum.’ He stepped closer, took her hand. He was looking at her with a strange, warm glint in his eyes.

  ‘You look so different tonight, so…beautiful.’ He lifted his hand to his lips. His moustache brushed her skin in a caress so incongruous she opened her mouth but no sound came out.

  ‘I suppose I shall have to get used to the idea the little girl who used to sit on my knees to listen to bedtime stories is all grown up.’ He sounded slightly breathless.

  ‘I have been grown up for a while.’ She withdrew her hand and stepped back, uneasy. ‘And your stories were always far too exciting for bedtime, full of decaying corpses in forgotten tombs, curses written in blood, and old parchments. No wonder I grew up wanting to be like you.’

  ‘You grew up all right, and thank goodness you look nothing like me.’ He took a deep breath and turned away. ‘You should go to bed now.’

  It was with a sense of relief that she bid him good night and climbed the stairs leading to her apartment. For an uncomfortable moment it had looked as if Archie wanted to kiss her—a proper kiss, a lover’s kiss. The thought made her shudder.

  She put her white nightdress on and slipped into the silky sheets of her four poster bed. Sleep, however, eluded her.

  Images of a tall, dark-haired man danced in front of her. His eyes were as clear as a dawn sky, his mouth was sensual and strong. She swallowed hard and sat up, holding her hand to her racing heart. What was wrong with her? It must be that awful rum giving her palpitations.

  She lay down again and stared at the shadows moving on the ceiling as the moon followed its course in the night sky.

  She had never met anyone like Lucas Saintclair. Anyone so arrogant, rude and dangerous. He would have killed that man tonight had she not stopped him. He hadn’t even looked scared when the four muggers stepped out of the shadows to attack him in the Kasbah. He was a strange man, able to converse in faultless French and English, and speak Arabic like a native. He belonged to another world, a world of wilderness, vast spaces, arid plains, and violence. A world she knew nothing about, but was about to step into.

  There were two other things she had found out tonight about Saintclair. His opinion of women belonged in the Dark Ages. And she had outwitted him. He would take up her offer.

  Smiling to herself, she closed her eyes and this time she drifted to sleep.

  Early the next morning, Harriet dressed in a long white gandourah, covered her head with a veil, and went to the souk with Aicha, one of Lord Callaghan’s women servants she had befriended. The market square offered a good view of the bay. The turquoise sea, criss-crossed by small fishing boats and larger ships, their white sails billowing in the breeze, sparkled under the bright sunshine.

  The town climbed up the hill in a semi-circle. Tall white minarets darted like arrows into the pure blue sky among the white-washed walls of houses and palaces nestling in emerald oases of vegetation.

  Aicha had proved a godsend. Not only had she taught her a few basic words of Arabic, but she had found clothes for her to dress up in when exploring some of Algiers’ treasures. Fairy tale palaces with walls covered in colourful mosaics. Secret gardens full of palms, aloes, blossoming almond trees, red and orange cannas and zinnias. And the most poignant and magical of all places—a tiny cemetery hidden in the heart of the Kasbah where she liked to sit every day.

  The young maid had told her about the two princesses whose white graves were shaded by the canopy of an ancient fig tree. They had died of sorrow when the man they both loved vanished in the Sahara dese
rt. Even if Harriet dismissed the story as fanciful and overly sentimental, the cemetery’s peace and cool shade appealed to her.

  She breathed in the marine breeze mixed with smells of food frying on a nearby stove; red peppers and onions, fish and lamb in crispy batter. Live poultry clucked in wooden cages, goats bleated and chewed on hay, donkeys stood placid and laden with baskets overflowing with fresh produce.

  She could almost picture her father stopping in front of the same stalls and licking his lips in front of their displays of honey and date pastries, crumbly halva or Turkish delights covered with a dusting of sugar.

  She bought a honey pastry and was about to bite into it when an uneasy sensation prickled the back of her neck. She turned round. A tall man dressed like a Tuareg, his face hidden behind his indigo blue veil, stared at her. As he lifted his hand to re-adjust his turban, the large silver ring he wore on the middle finger of his right hand sparkled in the sunlight. As soon as he saw her looking, he stepped away and melted into the market crowd.

  Her throat tightened. She couldn’t be sure, but she had the feeling the same man had followed her on previous occasions. She sighed and shook her head. Maybe her imagination was running wild. What reason would anyone have to follow her?

  She spotted a jewellery booth held by an old Bedouin. A good luck charm, that’s what she needed for the journey ahead.

  ‘Fatima’s hand will protect you,’ Aicha explained in hesitant English. She pointed to a gold pendant in the shape of an open hand.

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  Harriet paid for the necklace and insisted on wearing it immediately. The two women then made their way back to the palace, weighed down with baskets of fruit and vegetables, and the pastries Harriet liked so much.

  Lucas Saintclair was standing in the courtyard, waiting for her.

  As soon as she saw him, her pulse started racing and she was glad for the white veil hiding her burning cheeks. Her first thought was that he still looked like a pirate in his black clothes and dusty riding boots. Her second thought, that he had come to accept her offer.