Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One Read Free Page B

ye look a’ that, Henry!”
    Curious to know what had caught their attention, Clarissa turned to look toward the large square-rigged ship, letting her gaze slip in envy over the details of the ship that was so much grander than the tiny cramped craft aboard which she had sailed.
    And then she saw him.
    He stood at the head of the gangway, legs apart and fists on hips. He wore a full-sleeved shirt, unfastened nearly to the waist to reveal a mat of fine black hair on a golden chest. The hems of his baggy trousers were stuffed into gleaming black boots. A wide leather belt embroidered with colorful designs spanned his narrow waist. Tucked behind it was the curved blade of a scimitar. As he surveyed the port city, a sudden breeze caught and billowed out his burnoose, making him seem as majestic as a ship’s mast under full sail.
    From her perspective, and through the dimming effect of her widow’s veil, Clarissa could not distinguish his features. Yet as he made his way down the gangway, his stride confident— no, masterful, she thought in admiration—she was reminded of the only man she had ever known who possessed this combination of swaggering authority and icy disdain.
    “Uncle Quentin?” she whispered incredulously.
    Was it possible? But of course! It would be like him to turn up in England long after everyone had given up hope of seeing him again.
    Flooded with giddy joy and relief that Aunt Heloise would not now have to face her last days without the comfort of her long-lost husband, Clarissa rushed toward the adjacent gangway with a hand lifted in greeting. “Uncle Quentin!”
    She gave no thought to the spectacle she was making of herself as the crowd on the pier parted to allow her passage. Uncle Quentin enjoyed spectacles, preferred them, Aunt Heloise would say.
    As he reached the dockside, she stepped into his path and impulsively threw her arms about him, hugging his hard-muscled body. For a moment she rested her head on his chest, struggling to master strong emotions of gratitude and relief. Then she lifted her head and said in the Arabic language he had taught her many years earlier, “Welcome home, burra sahib. We feared you were dead!”
    One moment she was enveloped in the thick folds of his linen robes, which held the commingled aromas of ambergris, tobacco, and the unique scent of the man. The next she was being propelled backward to arm’s length by hands on her shoulders.
    For several seconds she stood blinking up at the dark figure whose features were eclipsed by the brilliance of the sun directly behind him. Then she thought she understood the reason for his surprise. He did not recognize her in her widow’s weeds.
    She reached up to draw back her veil and said in the elaborately formal speech of the East, “Has it been so long, great master, that you do not recognize your humble handmaiden?”
    Stepping out of his shadow to allow the sun to fall fully upon her face, she saw his features clearly for the first time.
    An arresting face gazed down at her. The jutting nose, black brows, and long mouth nestled in a silky black goatee marked him as a man of uncompromising temperament. A faint scythe-shaped scar over his left brow marked him as a man of action. Eyes, green and hard as jade, stared out at her from a face burned brown by the sun. It was a handsome and dangerous face … but it was not her uncle’s.
    “Bismillah!” Clarissa whispered, echoing Uncle Quentin’s favorite phrase. “I beg your pardon,” she murmured and tried to back away.
    He did not release her. As his cool green gaze passed deliberately over her, she felt a distinct chill though the day was warm. Then her face seemed to catch fire with embarrassment. Yet she could not look away. She saw his pupils expand until the irises became brilliant coronas, marking the depth of his interest.
    When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly warm, the tone shockingly intimate. “Do you know me now, Bahia?” he inquired in