Caversham’s Bride

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Tangier, Morocco, February 1819

Marcus Renfield Halden, ninth Duke of Caversham, stepped off the gangway and onto the pier just before sunset, expecting to be greeted by someone, as arranged, from Hakim’s household. The crowded red-tiled roofs of terra cotta buildings and the smell of spices and leather from Tangier’s port greeted Ren with the familiarity of an old friend. With his ships unloaded and secured, he forwarded his trunk to the palace and arranged for the watch on each vessel.

He scanned the crowded pier. Hundreds of dockworkers and sailors of all nationalities were transferring cargo to and from the ships docked alongside his, with more resting at anchor in the bay. Everyone seemed to have a purpose or destination. Everyone except the pathetic creature leaning lazily against a building across the wharf, his dirty white turban knocked askew. Ren didn’t know why this particular vagrant stood out in the crowd, certainly this man garbed in a stained, coarse kaftan and worn-through babouches, was not his escort to the palace of Prince Hakim. His friend’s servants were always impeccably groomed.

Sure that Hakim had simply forgotten him, Ren drew one last puff from his cheroot and tossed the stub into the water. He started to walk, intending to hire a cart to take him to the palace outside Tangier. He hadn’t gone a quarter of a mile when he sensed someone following him. Every instinct in him told him it was the vagabond. With his hand on the pistol beneath his jacket, Ren turned to face his stalker.

The man’s stooped posture indicated a life of hard work, and Ren was sure the beggar simply wanted coin or food. As the poor wretch drew closer, he noticed the filth on the other man’s hands and face, and the foul odor of his body. He pulled a coin from his pocket, meaning to toss it his way once the other man was near enough.

With his head bobbing, the man began to speak in an unfamiliar tongue. There was something about the scrounger—he couldn’t quite place it, so he shook off the feeling. Knowing most Arabs in this part of Morocco spoke fluent Spanish, Ren asked if he did.

His follower shook his head.

The possibility was remote, he knew, but he tried French.

Again, the hunched-over man shook his head, his turban falling to the side, threatening to come unwound. Something wasn’t quite right, Ren knew, because a Muslim man’s turban was always wrapped tight. Ren held out his hand with the coin, ready to toss it, when he got a most unusual response from the man.

“I speak English, Your Grace.” The miscreant stood straight, nearly as tall as he, and his laughing cocoa-brown eyes met Ren’s, his brows arching. “Almost as well as you.”

Ren’s eyes narrowed, then he recognized the man. He was momentarily stunned, but not completely surprised, by the garb his friend was wearing. He reached out to greet Hakim in an embrace, but the noxious odor made him cringe and step back. Ren held out his hand to shake instead.

“I know,” Hakim said as they shook hands. “It offends me as well. Let’s go to the palace so I can bathe this stench from my person.”

“What was the purpose of the disguise? A joke?”

“When I heard you came alone, I wanted to surprise you. Did your bride not make the voyage with you?”

“There is no bride,” Ren said tersely. He ignored the topic and continued walking, not wanting to think about, much less talk about, his aborted engagement and his own cousin’s role in the whole nefarious and villainous plot. The pain from the betrayal was still too new, the wound still too fresh. “Have you waited long?”

“I arrived just after noon prayers.” The Prince fell in alongside Ren. “I take it you will tell me later why you arrived alone?”

“Maybe. We’ll see if your smell at that time doesn’t irritate my nostrils.”

Ren and Hakim traveled another half of a mile, leaving the docks and entering the souk market area. Here they blended into the crowd of multinationals, all eager to bargain for the fine Moroccan produce and exquisite handiwork. They reached the booth of a fish vendor where a cart and donkey waited at the rear of the man’s stall. Behind a curtained partition, Hakim pressed a gold coin into the vendor’s hand and thanked him. The man bowed and praised him as though he recognized his prince. Ren looked at Hakim curiously. The two men climbed into the back of the donkey cart, and after it began to move, he explained, “My driver is the brother of a faithful servant. He has helped me before.”

The cart proceeded slowly through the throngs of pedestrians. The trio watched as a skirmish ahead halted their progress. Hakim said something to his driver, and the man scanned the crowd for a way around the mass of people.

Then he saw her. Garbed in flowing black robes, her face covered by a sheer gray veil, a woman frantically pushed her way through dense foot traffic. As she neared their cart, Ren saw a bald hulking beast of a man plow his way through the crowd, obviously in pursuit of the veiled female.

The hunted woman lifted her gaze to Ren. A knot formed in his chest, preventing him from breathing. She possessed the richest emerald-colored eyes he’d ever seen—eyes filled with desperate fear.

Ren made a move toward her, but Hakim’s hand on his arm stopped him. “It is not wise to interfere in the business of others. She is most likely a run-away slave, and must be dealt with accordingly.”

“She is in need of our assistance,” Ren argued, as she was captured by the giant. The woman screamed as the beast held her in a vise-like grip, dragging her away.

“’Tis our way,” Hakim stressed.

Ren slumped back in the cart, unwilling to offend his good friend’s hospitality by causing a scene. But the terrified look in the woman’s eyes haunted him. Then he thought of a possible solution.

Vaulting from his seat, Ren pursued the bald giant and the woman he dragged with him. Somewhere in the scuffle she’d lost her head covering and veil, leaving her mahogany tresses to flow behind her. He picked up the material and continued on his mission through the crowded souk. He followed them to an empty warehouse, but neither the woman, nor her captor, were in sight.

Ren pushed at the wooden door and entered the dim, cavernous room. An old man rounded a corner, leaning heavily on a cane, a look of surprise came across his face as Ren stopped directly before him.

“I am looking for a woman,” Ren stated in Spanish, unsure if the man spoke English.

“Every man who comes to me is in search of a woman,” the gray-bearded man replied.

Ren held up the opaque material. “She lost this.”

The old Arab reached for the cloth, but Ren snatched it back. “Not until I have some answers.”

“To what questions, señor?”

“What crime has she committed that she was so cruelly hunted down and dragged away?”

“She escaped. A woman is a valuable possession to a man such as myself.”

Ren reached into his coat pocket. “How much for her?” he asked as he took out a bag of coins.

“If you wish to purchase her, you must do so tonight,” the old man said. He looked over Ren’s appearance before turning from him. “When there are others to bid against you.” The old man ambled toward a curtained alcove, where a guard waited for him. He stopped, turned and leveled his rheumy gaze directly at Ren. “My wares draw men from the upper-most echelons of power. Men who pay the highest prices, for I have the finest selection available.”

He pounded his cane twice, and a guard came forward. “Now be gone. Return after Isha, our evening prayer, if you are so inclined.”

Ren stood, shocked at the old man’s curt dismissal of him, then reluctantly left the building. He found Hakim sitting in the cart, a few yards ahead, waiting.

“It was as I said, was it not?” Hakim asked.

Ren nodded, and glanced back toward the door. “I’m returning tonight. Something about her—the pleading and fear in her eyes perhaps. I cannot stand by and do nothing to help her.”

“And will you purchase the freedom of every other woman up for sale?” Hakim shook his head, holding on to the falling turban “Most start off this way, you know, not accepting of their fate. But that changes once they are safely ensconced in a harim. They realize what they give up is little in comparison to the luxuries they receive.”

He listened to Hakim’s words, and tried to interpret his explanations as truth, but was unable to do so. Terrified emerald eyes haunted him.

Later, as the two men crossed the enormous and ornate palace courtyard, Hakim snapped his fingers and a servant appeared from the shadows. “I hope your accommodations are satisfactory.” He ordered the man to show Ren to his rooms, then turned back to him. “After you rest, a servant will escort you to the dining hall. An old friend of mine, a physician, will join us for dinner.”

Ren nodded and followed the turbaned servant who led him to his suite. In the center of the enormous room was a massive bed, low to the ground and covered in a mountain of silk pillows in pale blues, rose and silver. Ren instructed the servant to prepare his bath. While he waited, he surveyed the room, which was easily as large as his suite at his main residence, Haldenwood, or at any of his other homes. Fine gauze curtains blew gently from the wall of arches that led to the courtyard beyond. The solitude of that private garden beckoned him.

He walked outdoors and tried to remember how long it had been since his last visit to Morocco, and this very palace. Three, four years? Surely before his father and stepmother’s death two and a half years ago, and before he ascended his title, when life was far less complicated. Spying a bench, he took a seat in the early evening shade of a large date palm. This time of year, the weather in Tangier was near perfect, though he was sure in the summer months what little shade the tree provided made an enormous difference to one seeking relief from the heat. The top of the high wall around the garden was carved stucco, intricately worked into a delicate pattern similar to the main gate and courtyard, but not quite as grand. In the center of this outdoor haven, a small fountain gurgled with the gentle sound of flowing water, creating a relaxed, almost serene atmosphere.

The sturdy bench where he sat was crafted of the finest mahogany, and surrounded by blooming plants. The secluded corner provided a magnificent retreat for his weary soul. He hoped that remaining here a few days would revitalize him and help him exorcise the recurrent demons plaguing him of late.

The questions about his failed betrothal were inevitable, and he didn’t think he could avoid answering them as easily a second time. So how was he going to mask his anger and pain from his friend? Even now, several months later, whenever he thought of it, bitter bile rose from his knotted gut. Thomas and Margaret had betrayed him in the worst possible way. Because if he was correct in his assessment of events over the past few months, his cousin attempted to kill him to gain his title and fortune. Now he had to protect himself, his family, and all he owned.

Ren took a deep breath and reentered his room. The servant had finished filling the tub in the adjacent dressing room, and another had laid fresh clothes on the bed. Ren dismissed both servants and prepared himself for the evening ahead, dreading his friend’s interrogation.

The opulent dining hall was devoid of guests when Ren entered. The servants were still setting out a large bowl of tajine and a platter of couscous, arranging them in the center of the low, round dining table.

Hakim soon arrived wearing a jallaba of royal purple silk with threads of silver woven through it, and a jeweled turban that befit his status as a prince of Morocco. Another man accompanied Hakim. Instead of wearing a turban, he wore a yarmulke, and his kaftan was belted at the waist. Draped around his neck were the cords that signified his status as a physician. Hakim’s friend stood slightly taller than he, but was thinner in build, and also had dark brown eyes, except under thick dark brows. Ren nodded at the man, who returned a smile in earnest.