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  She became so engrossed in her selections that she forgot the handsome stranger until she turned to leave the beadwork area and bumped into him when she stepped into the passage. She was knocked backward, but he caught her arm quickly. "My apologies, mademoiselle," he said in flawless French as he released her.

  Intensely aware of where he'd touched her arm, she said, "The fault is mine, monsieur. I am so dazzled by the Fontaine treasures that I didn't take proper care."

  It was all she could do not to stammer since the man was even more compelling this close. The wavy black hair pulled into a queue was his own, not a wig, and his dark eyes had mysteries in their depths. She tried to read his energy, but it was tightly closed.

  Switching to English with only the faintest trace of an accent, he said, "Forgive my forwardness, but you are English, I think?"

  So much for the quality of her French. "Scottish, actually, but close enough."

  "Scottish?" Hot, indefinable emotion flickered in those dark eyes. "I knew a gentleman of Scotland once. Macrae of Dunrath."

  "My father or brother," Jean exclaimed, pleased to have a reason to continue the conversation.

  "Your father, I think," he said, his gaze intense. "It has been many years since we met in Malta. You would have been hardly more than a babe. He said that he had a son, Duncan, and a bonnie wee daughter, but I don't remember the name. Would that be you, or an older sister?"

  "I have no sisters and only one brother." She smiled at him. "I'm Jean Macrae."

  "I am called Nicholas Gregorio." His eyes narrowed. "Does your father yet live?"

  "He died ten years ago."

  "So James Macrae is dead," Gregorio said softly. "A pity. I had dreamed of meeting him again. I trust your brother is well ?"

  "Yes, and with two bonnie bairns of his own."

  "So the Macrae line continues." Gregorio's gaze became abstracted, as if seeing the past, before his focus sharpened on her again. "May I shake the hand of James Macrae's only daughter?"

  His intensity was beginning to unnerve her, but he still fascinated. "Of course." She extended her right hand, thinking it might have been better if she'd not removed her glove. His hand was also bare, and the touch of skin to skin seemed dangerously intimate. But he had known her father, so he was not really a stranger.

  He clasped her hand with a powerful grip and energy blazed through her. Darkness, fury—

  —and the world shattered.

  Nikolai's hand still held the girl's, which slowed her collapse enough for him to catch her before she folded onto the floor. Dear God, but she was light, scarcely heavier than a child! He stared down into the small, pale face. She must be in her middle twenties, but she looked much younger, a prim, sheltered child of the British aristocracy.

  He felt an uneasy qualm. This girl was not the one who had betrayed him into slavery. But the sins of the father were visited on their sons, and on their daughters. For too many years, during burning days and bleeding nights, he had planned the revenge he would take against Macrae. He had reveled in it, and sometimes that lust for vengeance was all that had kept him alive.

  Though he was bitterly disappointed to know that his enemy was dead, he was not really surprised, not after so many years. But until now the time hadn't been right for Nikolai to seek justice. He had needed to obtain freedom and power to put himself in a position to pursue Macrae and his family.

  Ironically, he was in the Fontaine warehouse to purchase goods for his first voyage to London. He had planned this journey for years, for he was finally prepared to seek out his enemy. Now that enemy's daughter had fallen into his hands. Perhaps the force of his obsession had drawn her to him.

  With Macrae gone, vengeance must be wreaked on the son who was now Macrae of Dunrath. And this pallid girl, who had become his by the merest chance, would be his weapon. He studied her with avid curiosity, thinking that her slight body had never known adversity or hard labor. Her coloring was delicate, and her hair so heavily powdered that the color was disguised. He hadn't really noticed her eyes. They might have been a light hazel.

  But she was a pretty thing, in a fragile, high-bred fashion. He had a sudden violent vision of himself assaulting her, ripping off that expensive gown and hammering into her soft, pampered body.

  The fierce desire that accompanied his vision left him trembling. He took a deep breath and laid her on the floor. He would not rape, not even Macrae's daughter.

  Tano returned and halted to stare at the girl. "Captain?"

  "She is the daughter of my enemy." Nikolai's resolve hardened. Fate had brought this Macrae to him, and he would not waste the gift. Later he could decide the best way to use her. For now, he must get her to his ship without being noticed. "She's small enough to fit into one of the merchandise hampers. Bring one from the warehouse and don't let yourself be seen."

  Tano frowned at the girl before turning to obey. Nikolai studied her again, wondering how long she would be unconscious. He'd used a huge amount of power on her—thinking of Macrae had made him burn with a red rage. It was fortunate he hadn't killed her by mistake. In fact, he probably would have if she hadn't been shielded. She was a Guardian, after all. His own power was undeveloped and rigidly suppressed—except for occasions like this.

  He wondered how great her power was—the shield had been quite competent. But perhaps she'd had help with it. When Macrae talked of his children, he had shown pride in his son's great talent, but had not mentioned the daughter's. Likely Jean Macrae did not have unusual magical ability, but he mustn't take that for granted. A captive Guardian mage would be dangerous.

  Tano returned with one of the large wicker hampers used for packing fragile valuables. Nikolai removed the lid, then lifted Jean Macrae and folded her into the basket. She barely fit, her knees drawn up and her arms crossed on her chest like a child. Once more he felt a twinge of discomfort at what he was doing. She'd looked so sweet and innocent when she had smiled up at him, pleased to find a man who knew her father.

  But all who lived were the products of their ancestors. She should have chosen hers more carefully. He dropped her fallen bonnet on top of her.

  "Will she stay asleep?" Tano asked.

  Nikolai touched the smooth, pale ivory of her forehead. Her consciousness was still buried deeply, but he sent more energy just in case. "Long enough." He closed the hamper.

  The next step was getting her to the ship. Nikolai would have to take her himself because of his ability to make people overlook his presence. Though he didn't become invisible, people tended to look past him. "I'll carry her out through the public door. Stay here to let me back in. Then we'll complete our business and leave from the warehouse side, so no one will know that I left and returned."

  Tano nodded and lifted the handle at one end of the hamper. Together they carried it to the public door, then Nikolai took over. Though the Macrae chit wasn't heavy, the hamper was awkward. Luckily, the Justice was moored nearby. After his prisoner was locked in the mate's cabin, he returned to the Fontaine emporium and finished his purchases, his face impassive.

  As soon as the last container was stowed, the ship sailed, blessed by a timely tide. The gods favored his quest, it seemed.

  Jean's disappearance was noted at midday, when Monsieur Fontaine sought her out so they could return home for a luncheon. Her baskets of goods were found, but no trace of her remained. The warehouse and showroom were searched, residents of the waterfront neighborhood questioned with increasing desperation, but to no avail. Miss Jean Macrae, a gently bred young lady of Scotland, had vanished without a trace.

  Chapter

  SEVEN

  ADIA ON THE MIDDLE PASSAGE

  The Slave Coast fortress that held the captives was the largest, most impressive building Adia had ever seen, but it was the gateway to hell. A narrow door, just wide enough to accommodate one person at a time, allowed chained lines of slaves to pass through to the ship. As she shuffled through the door, Adia knew in her bones that she would neve
r see her homeland again. Please don't leave me, Grandmother, even though I'm leaving Africa.

  As always when she asked her grandmother for help, she felt a gentle touch in her heart. Though that response was wordless, Adia's mind turned the feeling into words in her grandmother's dearly remembered voice. I won't, child. I will always be with you.

  Her grandmother's spirit gave her the dogged determination needed to survive. The voyage was an endless horror beyond anything she had ever imagined. Perhaps one in five of the slaves died during the passage. Once three men broke free and jumped overboard, seeking escape in the only way available to them.

  Two succeeded. The third was dragged back to life by sailors who pursued him in a boat. Once the slave was back on board, he was whipped half to death because of his attempt to escape. Kondo, the vicious, snakelike man wielding the whip, was an African and a special aide to the captain. The fact that he was as black as she made him particularly easy to hate.

  Yet even in the midst of hunger and despair, there were blessed touches of kindness. One woman in particular, a Yoruba called Fola, looked out for Adia, sleeping beside her at night and making sure that she got her share of the rancid food. Without a word being said, Adia knew that Fola's daughter had been captured and not survived the march to the coast.

  Slaves were taken to the deck in small, chained groups to get fresh air. Adia thought this was wise of the captain since without these respites from the stench and disease of the slave decks, few would have survived the passage. Once she saw a crewman looking through a peculiar device made of metal. Seeing her interest, the sailor said, "This is a quadrant, girl. It tells us where we are. Want to look through?"

  "Quad-rant," she said carefully, as she accepted the instrument. She listened to the speech of the sailors whenever she could, trying to learn the language. Grandmother assured her that doing so would be of advantage later. She looked through the metal tube, startled to see the horizon and the sun set next to each other. "Thank-you," she said as she handed back the device. Grandmother also encouraged her to be polite, because that would make people more willing to help her.

  Deck outings taught her that the white sailors could be treated as badly as the black slaves. Once Adia saw the captain beat one of his sailors unconscious, wielding the whip himself. Captain Trent had blue eyes, the coldest color Adia had ever seen. The sailor was left bleeding on the deck while other crewmen brought up the bodies of slaves who had died during the night.

  As the first body was thrown overboard, splashing broke out in the water. Adia saw that great finned fish were fighting for the corpse. Fola said emotionlessly, "Sharks follow the slave ships," and put her arm around Adia's trembling shoulders.

  Adia's only escape was in her dreams. Sometimes she was back in the valley with her family, laughing and happy and well fed. Other times she saw herself grown and in a distant land, happy again, though the future was so unclear that she saw no detail of what might produce happiness. Yet the dreams gave her hope, and hope gave strength.

  The moon had gone through one full cycle and half of another before they made landfall. Adia woke, thinking something had changed. The ship rolled as it hadn't since they'd set sail. They must be anchored.

  Other slaves in the hold were waking and noticing the same thing. A ripple of excitement went through the group. No matter what horrors waited on land, life would have to be better in the open air than this stinking ship.

  When two sailors came down with the pots of stewed rice used to feed the captives, someone called, "Where are we?"

  The younger sailor, who seemed less hardened than his crewmates, said, "Jamaica. It's a fine sugar island. Later today you'll be divided into parcels and taken to the market."

  Adia ate a bite of her rice, which today had bits of fish in it. She swallowed it slowly, though she wanted to gulp down the whole bowl. For the last half moon she had been giving most of her rice to Fola. Her friend was a tall, strong woman who needed more food, and during the voyage she had become gaunt with hunger.

  "You must eat, child," Fola murmured when Adia offered the bowl.

  "Now that we are arrived, there will be more food," Adia said. "I have had enough."

  Fola's hunger made her easily persuaded. She finished her rice, then Adia's. Then they waited in the dark and stink of the hold. Finally the hatch opened and slaves were conducted up in groups. The sailors watched like jackals to prevent any escapes, since this close to land a slave would be tempted.

  Adia squinted in the dazzling light when her group was ordered out. This Jamaica was beautiful, with turquoise water and jagged green mountains surrounding a bay. Fat clouds grazed across the sky. A blast of rain hit her boat as they were being transported to shore. She welcomed the squall, which cooled the heat and washed away some of the smell.

  On shore, the captives were kept under armed guard as they were divided into groups equal to two hands' worth of fingers. Adia noticed that the parcels were mixed between men and women, weak and strong, with a child or two per group. There was a single hand of slaves left over at the end, including Adia.

  They were herded into a merchant's yard with high fences, each parcel chained together. After a long wait standing in the noonday sun, a gate opened and a group of white men rushed in, eager to find parcels that pleased them. Adia's English wasn't good enough to follow most of the bargaining, but the yard soon cleared as parcels were bought and the groups herded out by the new owners. Her straggly group of five was the last left. Fola was in one of the first parcels to be sold. They exchanged a last glance before Fola vanished from the yard. It was yet another loss, leaving Adia alone again. Her jaw clenched. She would not cry.

  One of the white men was brought over by the merchant. "Your last chance, Harris," the merchant said. "You know you need more slaves, and who knows when the next ship will arrive?"

  Harris frowned. "This is a weakly lot—they'll all die before I get my money's worth out of 'em." His gaze fell on Adia, and he stepped close, taking her chin in his hands and forcing her face up. "This one has some spirit, but she's just a little scrap who won't be useful for years."

  "I'll give you a good price on this parcel."

  "Not interested in any but the girl." Harris started to walk away.

  "I'll sell her to you at three pence a pound," the merchant offered.

  "Two pence a pound. I'll have to spend a fortune in rice and salt pork to fatten her up."

  The merchant shrugged and unlocked Adia's shackles, then led her into a small room that opened off the yard. Adia was prodded up onto a scale and weighed. Thus, rigid with fury, she was sold like a basket of vegetables. Her new life had begun.

  The only thing that kept her sane was Grandmother's reassurance. "You will die free."

  Chapter

  EIGHT

  Jean awoke feeling vertigo, as if she was rocking back and forth. Gradually she realized that she really was moving, her body rising and falling from the familiar motions of a ship. But what ship, and why?

  She opened her eyes and found that she was lying on a narrow bunk in a small cabin. A porthole admitted enough light to illuminate her stark surroundings. She was rumpled, bruised, and her mouth was dust-dry.

  She swung from the bunk and lurched to the porthole. A distant dark line marked the coast. The ship was well out to sea—too far to swim even if the window were large enough for her to escape. From the angle of the sun, she guessed it was late afternoon.

  The cabin was so small that she could stand in the middle and touch all four walls. The bunk was built in, along with several storage cabinets and a tiny washbasin that was set into a counter. Next to it, a pitcher was set into a well to protect it during rough weather. Mercifully it was filled with water. She drank greedily and felt better.

  The cabinets were mostly empty, probably cleaned out in haste by the prior inhabitant. The cabinet under the bunk contained several worn but neatly folded male garments with her battered bonnet stuffed in on top. The area under t
he washbasin contained two threadbare towels and an irregularly shaped bar of soap. There was also a chamber pot tucked into another cabinet. No weapons or other interesting items had been left behind. Nothing to tell her more about the ship or its crew.

  The lock on the door was solid but simple. She could probably open it with a hairpin and a touch of magic, but there was no point in doing that now, when she had no place to run. Even if she crept out and stole a ship's dinghy, she'd be recaptured in no time. Either that, or used as target practice.

  The slim knife that she wore sheathed on her inner thigh was still in place, so apparently she hadn't been searched carefully. It probably hadn't occurred to her captor that such a demure and useless maiden might be armed.

  She took the two steps back to the bunk and sat down. The last thing she remembered was the man who called himself Nicholas Gregorio. He had taken her hand, there had been a rush of energy, and everything had gone black. She ran a palm over her head. No bumps or pains. She had been knocked out by magic.

  Gregorio must be a mage. But why the devil had he kidnapped her?

  Her stomach lurched again, so she stood and opened the porthole, breathing deeply of the fresh air. Ordinarily Guardians didn't talk about themselves to mundanes, and Gregorio would have been only a boy twenty years ago.

  But he had power, so he was probably a Guardian himself. If he had Guardian parents, her father might have visited the household of the young Gregorio. Her father and Sir Jasper Polmarric had toured the Mediterranean about twenty years ago, calling on Guardians everywhere they visited. Such tours were a way of maintaining bonds among Guardians of different nations.

  If Gregorio was a Guardian, why would he kidnap her? Guardians almost never injured other Guardians, except for the rare rogue mages. Perhaps Gregorio was a rogue. That was more likely than that he was a white slaver—she wasn't so dazzingly beautiful that he would instantly feel a need to steal her away to be sold in Barbary. Though Captain Gordon had commented on the rarity of her red hair, today it was heavily powdered and she looked thoroughly bland.