Chapter Thirty-seven
If Derek had stopped to think, that would have been the end of it. The knife would have found its target, plunging through his back straight to his heart. And the blade was long enough to have passed through him, going on to impale Shahar as well.
But he didn’t stop to think. Shahar’s scream was laced with fear, not outrage at his seduction, and his instincts demanded immediate response, not questions.
He rolled, taking Shahar with him, right into the legs of the assailant.
The man lost his balance, falling over them, his knife sinking so sharply into the pillows it pierced right through, the tip breaking off on the marble floor beneath.
But the weapon was not made any less dangerous by losing its point.
It was still deadly enough to slash through flesh and bone, and was swiftly brought into play to do just that.
Derek only had time to shove Shahar away from him, the man was on him so quickly.
He couldn’t even spare a glance to see if he had abandoned her to other assailants, though professionals weren’t likely to bother with a woman until their objective had been met, and he was that objective.
But the man didn’t get immediate help. He was strong enough not to need any, as Derek painfully found out.
And if the blunted, jagged edge of the dagger didn’t have difficulty breaking through his skin, it would have sunk deeper than a mere half inch before his own strength forced it out, his hands nearly breaking the man’s wrist before it was jerked away.
The second stab was deflected with his forearm, and that gave him a chance to land a fist on the assassin’s jaw.
But in his position on the floor, there wasn’t much power behind it.
Mere seconds passed before the knife was back, slashing at his throat this time.
But the longer reach of his arms saved him, and a palm to the chin of the assassin so he couldn’t see his target.
The blade fell short of its mark, and Derek was able to latch onto the wrist again, determined not to lose it this time. Now it was simply a matter of strength, and an awareness that there could only be one survivor in this contest.
Chantelle crouched on the floor, both fists pressed to her mouth, her eyes riveted to the deadly scene before her.
She didn’t think to run for help, nor did she wonder why there wasn’t any help forthcoming after her piercing scream.
Her instinct was to do something herself, but she was terrified to take her eyes off the grappling pair even for a moment, afraid that it would be over if she did.
And the assailant was so huge, now that she could see him clearly.
There was solid bulk filling his robes, a broad back, thick shoulders, and arms that were probably just as thick.
How could Jamil, who might be strong but was so much slimmer, hold him off for very long?
She had to do something and quickly, before the fear she was experiencing paralyzed her even more.
She stumbled to her feet, glancing frantically about for a weapon that would make a likely club or…
Her eyes flew to the table as she suddenly remembered the long knife Jamil had used to carve the roast. No servants had come in to clear the table.
The knife was still there, but could she use it?
Could she actually kill a man? What would happen if she didn’t?
Jamil could die, of course, and that gave her the incentive to run to the table and snatch up the knife. But she was more terrified than ever with the lethal thing in her fist. How could she do it? How could she not? She didn’t want Jamil to die, did she? Did she?
She acknowledged the answer only on a deeper level, for she was already moving toward the deadly struggle on the floor, and before she could question the right or wrong of it any further, she raised the knife to plunge it into the assailant’s back, just as he had meant to do to Jamil.
But she had gotten too close to them. A leg jarred her, ruining her aim, and somehow that broad back wasn’t there to receive the blade, but Jamil’s head was.
Chantelle blanched even as the momentum prevented her from drawing back, it all happened so quickly.
She saw the knife nick Jamil’s ear as she fell against the assassin.
And then she went crashing into the wall, unaware that she had knocked the large man so off balance that Derek was able to change their positions, and she got thrown over in the process.
The pillows set up against the wall cushioned the impact, so that Chantelle wasn’t even stunned. But she had lost her knife in the fall. And when she looked back, the two combatants were still. No, oh, God, no!
“Jamil?”
He raised his head, and Chantelle crumpled with relief, sinking back into the pillows. Now she felt bruised and battered. But what must he be feeling?
“Are you all right, Shahar?”
“Me?” she choked, and then sucked in a gasp as he stood up. “You’re bleeding!”
It came out as an accusation. Derek glanced down at his chest but knew the cut was too minor to be concerned about.
“It is nothing.”
“But why did he…how could this…where the devil are your guards?” she finally got out, anger replacing her fear.
“I believe I told them I would skin them alive if they interrupted me tonight for anything. They obviously took me at my word. But they are mutes, after all, and would not have heard anything.”
“I screamed loud enough to alert the guards at the end of the hall.”
“So you did.” Derek grinned. “But even if they would have responded to a woman’s scream, which is doubtful in your case, since the entire palace knows what trouble I have with you, the guards at the door would not have let them in.”
She ignored the insinuation that her screams could only mean he had lost patience with her. “Then how did he get in?” She looked at the man lying motionless on the floor and shuddered, seeing the dagger protruding from his chest and the wide pool of blood around it.
“A good question.”
Chantelle watched him march to the door, only now realizing that the guards outside must be dead.
But they weren’t. They came in the room, followed soon by many others.
And the Dey’s personal guards weren’t dead either.
They were still in the garden where he had banished them, which left both entrances guarded, but obviously not very well.
It was no wonder the mutes were so upset on finding the dead man in the room.
They were guilty of either inattention or collusion.
But then the rope was found, dangling next to the garden doors, explaining at least how the assassin had gotten this far into the palace, but not how the two Nubians could have missed seeing him shimmying down from the high roof.
“It is my own fault.” The Dey exonerated them to an older man who had come in after the guards and seemed more upset by the incident than anyone else. “I warned them to stay away from the doors and simply patrol the garden walls.”
“You deliberately left yourself vulnerable?” the old man asked incredulously.
Jamil said something that Chantelle didn’t hear, but she blushed furiously when the old man looked at her with disgust afterward. Whoever he was, he blamed her, and no doubt everyone else would, too.
Some physicians came to fuss over the Dey’s wound. The dead man was also examined. A heavy bag of coins was found in a pocket, but nothing else.
Chantelle stopped watching the proceedings. Her anger had turned to guilt, and the full realization of what had happened hit her hard. Jamil could have died. My God, she had nearly killed him.
She glanced up to see one of the doctors dabbing something on the Dey’s ear and she paled, her stomach turning over.
What if he thought she had done it intentionally, that she had taken advantage of the moment to free herself of him?
Hadn’t she just told him tonight that she hated him?
She had no reason to help him, none that she could think of, none that he would think of, certainly nothing that made sense.
The body was carted from the room, the blood wiped up from the floor, and those pillows that had been stained by it exchanged for new ones.
Chantelle moved over when the pillow she was sitting on was taken away, but she didn’t get up, even when the room began to empty.
She was recalling her angry remark to Kadar that she was going to get her head chopped off tonight, and experiencing the full dread of its being a distinct possibility now.
Finally only Jamil and the two Nubians remained in the room.
The Dey drained a glass of kanyak, which he had requested, then abruptly dismissed the two black men back to the garden.
They nearly balked at this; in fact, they did seem to argue with him.
Chantelle couldn’t understand one bit of the sign language they used, but she did understand that they didn’t want to leave Jamil alone again.
But of course the Dey was finally obeyed and left alone—with her.
“Why did you send them away?” she asked as he approached her. “Or do you mean to kill me yourself?”
He dropped to his knees in front of her, his eyes narrowing. “What silliness is—”
Chantelle didn’t give him a chance to finish. In a panic, she threw herself at his chest, nearly knocking him over, and clinging tightly when he righted himself.
“I’m sorry!” she wailed against his throat. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear I didn’t. I was aiming for his back, but I tripped and—”
“I know.”
“His back wasn’t there any—” She pulled away to look up at him. “What do you mean, you know?”
He laughed at the umbrage that had slipped into her tone. “What happened to ‘I’m sorry’?”
“Then you don’t think I was trying to kill you?”
“Were you?”
“Of course not!”
“Then give me credit for knowing the difference between help and hindrance, and timely help at that.”
“Timely?”
“My arms were nearly ready to give out from trying to hold him back when your fall unbalanced him enough so that I could get him off me. You probably saved my life.”
“I did?” she said in awe, but after a long moment of thought, she added, “Then you owe me a great boon, don’t you?”
“If you are thinking of asking for your freedom, little moon, do not. I want you too much to let you go, even in gratitude for my life.”
If he had said anything else, his earlier declarations would have rung false. As it was, that answer didn’t disappoint her as it should have.
“Could I ask for something else?”
“What?”
“Constancy?”
“You wouldn’t rather be showered in riches?” At the shy but negative shake of her head, he gathered her close. “You will wish you had chosen the riches when you beg for mercy and find none.”