Читать книгу Releasing Henry - Sarah Hegger - Страница 13

The lessons with Henry enlivened her days and helped push back the heavy press of her father’s fate. He taught her many things, most of them strange, but he did not seem to mind her questions. Or even her laughter when she found something absurd.

When Henry laughed, which he did not do often, the skin around his eyes crinkled and deep grooves formed on either side of his mouth. When he laughed, his eyes lit from within like the heart of a sapphire held up to the sun.

He spoke little of his family. From what she had gathered, he had two sisters, Faye being the older and Beatrice the younger. Both sisters were married and had borne children. He also had two brothers near his age: Roger and William, and a much younger brother named Mathew. When he spoke of his mother, his harsh expression gentled in a way that made her sad for the mother she had never known.

Bahir relented enough to walk about the boat during their lessons, but his gaze returned always to them. Some days Newt joined their lessons, and he and Henry spoke only in French for her. When they spoke to each other, they reverted to their mother tongue. It fell strange and harsh on her ear, as they clipped the words at a rapid rate. She dearly wanted to know of what they spoke. Especially when Henry would get that distant, cold look on his face, as if he held more secrets and regrets than one man could contain.

She wanted to smooth the frown from his brow, soothe away the sorrow and make him smile again.

Newt, she liked. He made her laugh by teaching her silly words in English. Henry glowered at him when he did, and said something in English, which Newt ignored. She had the feeling Newt did what Newt wanted most of the time anyway.

As they entered the port of Genoa, she stood at the railing between Henry and Newt. To their right and surely high enough to touch heaven, a huge stone tower guarded the harbor mouth.

The harbor was busy, and they stayed out of the sailors’ way. As they navigated the narrow strip of sea into the calmer waters of the harbor, the captain bellowed a stream of instructions at his men. Closer to the dock sailors broke out oars and brought them in.

Alya tried to take it all in, and failed. Buildings of undressed stone crowded the waterfront, square and narrow with mean windows cut into their facade. Instead of minarets, great crosses stretched into the achingly blue sky. Mountains surrounded the city and crowded it toward the sea.

Even busier than Alexandria, a mind-bending array of people hurried back and forth along the cobbled streets in front of the ships. So many ships, their bare masts spiking up and down as they bobbed at anchor.

Some ships looked like theirs, whilst others could have been magical vessels to carry their cargos to the far end of the world. Plain hulls rode the tide alongside lavishly ornamented figureheads.

Gazes trained on the bustle all about them, Bahir and Henry murmured to each other. They spoke of her, and she wished they would say what they needed to aloud.

As he surveyed the port Newt’s eyes sparkled.

A woman in skirts such as Henry had described to her sauntered closer to the boat. Boldly she eyed the men aboard and called something out to Newt. Then she tugged down her tunic and showed her dark-tipped, heavy breasts.

Alya froze. Her face flamed. Never could she have imagined such a thing.

Bahir immediately sprung toward her and turned her about. “You should not look.”

“Bahir.” Alya desperately wanted to have another look at the woman. “Did you see what she did?”

“I imagine the entire harbor saw that,” Bahir said.

“Is she selling her body?” She tried to turn.

He blocked her. “You should not know anything of such women.”

Bahir could be such a dried up old lemon at times. “I know about concubines, and you were the one who told me, so why should I not know about her.”

Newt leaned his hips against the railing and laughed. “She has a point, big man.”

“You.” Bahir jabbed his finger at Newt. “Should keep your mouth buttoned.”

“Or what?” Shoulders taut, jaw locked, Henry straightened.

Bahir stiffened. “Do you fancy your chances now, slave?”

“It does not matter.” Alya put herself between them. Henry and Bahir hissed at each other like cats on a rooftop nearly all the time. “How should we proceed?”

Now they had arrived, nerves fluttered in her belly. The family of whom her father had spoken lived in this city. Somewhere in the mass of honey-stoned buildings lay her future.

“We will need to see you properly attired.” Henry held himself stiff, and his face had grown remote and cold. “We will need to visit the market and find you something.”

“Henry and I will go.” Bahir put his hand on her shoulder. “Newt will remain here with you. Henry assures me he will be able to protect you.”

Of that Alya had no doubt. Despite the relaxed way Newt lounged about the boat, and his ready jokes and smiles, he had the air of a fighting man. More than that, his eyes held a cunning she would not want to cross.

“Keep her safe.” Henry nodded at Newt. “Do what you have to.”

Newt nodded.

“You should stay belowdecks.” Henry turned to her. “We do not know if the danger has followed us here, but it is better to be safe.”

Alya did not relish a day spent in the stuffy, smelly confines of the ship’s belly, but she nodded her agreement. She would spend the time preparing for her meeting with her father’s family. Her family now. She needed to think of them as her family too. Soon she would be one of them.

* * * *

Henry almost pitied Bahir his dilemma. The stupid cur did not want to leave Alya alone with Newt, but neither would he trust Henry with the coin to purchase the necessary items.

From Genoa, the boat would take him and Newt to England. Bahir might be a miserable sod, but he kept his word, and the instructions had already been passed on to the captain.

When they sailed, he would say goodbye to his last connection with Egypt, his girl on the wall. She would never know how she had provided a brief glimmer of hope in his pitiful existence. He would never forget her. Not her cat eyes or her midnight hair. The dark honey of her skin would haunt him for a long time. That he had never gotten to touch it and see if it was as warm and velvet as it looked would be a regret he took home.

He followed Bahir to the busy dock.

A passing sailor stared at Bahir, spat and made a wide circle around him. Here Bahir was the oddity, the stranger. The tide had turned.

Henry stopped a woman carrying heavy baskets of fruit and asked her for directions to the nearest cloth market. She kept her wide eyes on Bahir as she gave him directions. It seems even in Genoa, famed for being the center of trade from far and wide, Bahir’s dark skin marked him as other and suspicious.

“I should lead.” It gave Henry no pleasure to make the suggestion. The way people whispered and stared at Bahir made him feel an unwelcome empathy for the man. Bahir dropped a few steps behind him as they wove their way through the narrow, cobbled lanes leading up from the harbor.

The lane they followed wound around a church and opened through a pair of arches into a bustling market. The dull murmur had been growing as they walked, and now burst over them in a roar of voices. Color abounded from every direction. Bright cobalts and scarlets, yellows that shone brighter than the midday sun, cloth shot with gold and silver that glinted and sparkled jostled for notice with subtler jewel tones, burnt oranges and pristine whites.

As they slipped through the narrow gaps between vendors, Henry marked four different languages being spoken. The common tongue here was trade, and it was spoken over the jangle of coins and the exchange of markers. In the far-right corner of the market Henry found the merchants he sought. Weavers and tailors had suspended their wares on ropes beneath the soaring arches. Quieter commerce took place here as wealthy residents strolled between the merchants. Women for the most part, faithfully dogged by a household guard or a male family member.

He stopped to admire a bliaut of peacock green shot with gold. Delicate beads glistened along the bodice. He could picture Beatrice in a gown like that. The more sedate but lovely rose pink three bliauts across spoke to him of Faye. He would see his sisters again. It hit him in a dizzying wave. He would live to see his sisters wear these gowns. He attracted the attention of the merchant. At Anglesea seamstresses made all the gowns for the castle womenfolk. How they would stare at the notion of buying a gown from a market.

“Not those.” Bahir nudged him and pointed to a garnet red bliaut at the merchant beside them. “She would look better in that one.”

The merchant held both bliauts before Henry. Short and swarthy, he wore a flat cap over his head, the tassels danced around his ears with each move he made. “Excellent taste, sire.” He spoke in French. “From the hands of nuns these come.”

Bahir nudged him harder. “I said the red.”

Henry inspected the beadwork on the green gown. The beads formed delicate flowers joined together by finely stitched gold thread. “How much?”

Bahir growled.

Honestly, if Bahir would use words instead of the nudging and growling like a bad-tempered bear, Henry might feel inclined to explain. Since Bahir did not bother with civilities, Henry saw no reason to. Mother would give him one of her gentle lectures about the behavior of others having no bearing on his own. So long since he had admitted a thought of his beautiful mother into his mind, it twisted now in a sweet-sharp pain.

The merchant named the ridiculous sum of fifty marks.

Henry laughed. He waved the gown away and bent to examine the pink.

“For years, the nuns labored.” The merchant held the gown out for him again. “I could accept no less than forty.”

Henry turned to Bahir. “Show me this red gown you love so much.”

“Thirty.” The merchant leaped into their path again.

“Thirty?” Henry glanced at Bahir and folded his arm. “Thirty for this and the pink one.”

The merchant gaped. “Sire! Now you would rob my family of food. And my youngest laid down with a hacking cough.”

Rubbing his hands together as they moved his way, the second merchant rose from where he sat. Tall and slim, his skin a shade lighter than Bahir, he bowed. “I bring you silks from Damascus. Woven by the hands of the Sultan’s concubines.”

Bahir snorted and pinned the man with a stare.

The second merchant took a hasty step back. “Not the concubines themselves, you understand.” He gave a toothy grin. “But their serving maids.”

Henry hated to admit it, but Bahir’s bear behavior made a useful cohort as they worked. While Bahir grunted, glowered and growled Henry haggled. Together they came away with the green and pink gowns, the red one, and two others for Alya in blue and amber. Bahir had excellent taste as well. They moved on and acquired three silk chemises so fine they could see the light through them.

Alya’s slippers would be fine beneath them, and they wove their way back through the market.

Grabbing Henry’s arm, Bahir hauled him to a stop.

Henry clenched his fists, his laden arms the only thing stopping him from plowing his fist into Bahir’s face.

“There.” Bahir jerked his head at a tailor who sold men’s tunics and chausses. “For you.”

“For me?”

Shifting his packages, Bahir cleared his throat. “I have been thinking.”

“Blessed day!”

With a frown, Bahir cleared his throat. “I cannot present Alya to her family. You must.”

Bahir’s jaw clenched so tight, Henry feared for the man’s teeth. From what they had seen this morning, Bahir might be greeted with the same hostility they saw all about them. Henry glanced down at his raiment. Serviceable, but the dress of a servant. He chose a plain pair of leather chausses and a sedate black tunic. Bahir added a rich surcoat and they left the market.

In silence, they walked back to their ship. What would Alya’s family make of their foreign cousin? Henry’s vow to see her safe weighed heavily on him.

* * * *

It required a sketch from Henry before Alya could dress in her new clothes. Bahir proved adept at the lacing. Eager to show Henry her new finery, she took a step.

The skirts tangled in her feet and Bahir caught her before she went tumbling.

“I believe you must hold them up.” Bahir held his hands before him, thumb and forefinger pinched together, little finger raised.

“Like so?” She pinched the skirts between her fingers. Her ankles and legs showed beneath the hem.

“I think not.” Bahir frowned as he stared at her exposed limbs. “From what the slave said of modesty, I do not believe you should show your ankles.”

“Henry.” She grew tired of the constant sniping. “His name is Henry and he is no longer a slave.”

Bahir gave her an assessing look and then nodded. “As you wish.”

“What I wish”—Alya took a halting step forward—“is to be able to walk.”

“I shall fetch the sla—Henry.” Bahir disappeared up the ladder to the deck.

A large amount of her chest spilled over the bodice of the dress, and it clung to her breasts and stomach in a way that made her feel naked. Strange that a woman could show her top assets, but beneath her skirts needed to remain a mystery.

Heavy footsteps sounded above and then clattered down the ladder.

Henry entered, caught sight of her and stopped. His gaze swept her from head to toe and back again. The glint in his eyes bolstered her confidence.

Holding her arms wide, she swiveled for him, preening a little. “What think you?”

Henry cleared his throat and shoved his fists on his belt. “I think Bahir was right about the red. It looks well on you.”

Well on her? He could do better than that. She straightened her spine and pushed her shoulders back.

Henry’s gaze went straight to her breasts.

She liked that. His gaze tingled across her exposed skin like a touch.

“Alya requires your help.” Bahir stepped between them, his back to Henry. He glanced at her bodice and then raised his brow.

Alya refused to be admonished. Bahir insisted she dress thus, and he had no say in how much of her it left bare.

“I cannot walk.” She peered around Bahir. “I feel there must be a way to do it without looking silly.”

Henry smiled. He did it so rarely she could count on one hand the amount of times she had witnessed his smile. Every time it weakened her knees and brought a flush to her skin.

“The skirts are too long,” Henry said and stepped around Bahir. “Normally you would get someone to raise them so they did not tangle in your feet.” Warm and calloused, his hand clasped hers. Tingles shot up her arm. His voice grew rougher as he placed her hand on her skirts. “My sisters will hold their skirts until they skim their slippers.”

His chest pressed against her shoulder, and some devil within her whispered to keep him close. She gripped the skirt three inches above where he showed her.

Clasping her hand, he moved it. His breath a whisper against her cheek. “Here.”

“Here?” His face hovered so close, eyes containing heat that shot right through her and made her shiver.

He dropped his gaze to their clasped hands. His lashes feathered dark against the strong lines of his cheek. “Right there.”

“I believe we have this now.” Bahir cut through the moment.

Henry stepped back, his face hard now. He gave her a curt nod and strode back above decks.

“Lady Alya.” Bahir’s deep voice rumbled over her. “Do you know what danger you court?”