Prologue

PROLOGUE

MAY, 1823

3 5.8894°N, 5.3213°W

Port of Ceuta, North Africa

Saida Hossini ran blindly down the crooked, narrow, cobblestone alley behind the warehouses lining the path to the harbor front docks, her lungs burning from the effort. A dog in pursuit of a cat dangling a fish from its mouth suddenly shot out of a darkened side alley. All she managed to see before she sprawled headfirst into the dirt and pebbles was a flash of fur out of the corner of her eye.

She'd raced out the front door of her apothecary without a thought to where she'd find sanctuary, or a plan beyond escaping the mob that soon would be upon her. Sharp stones ground into the palms of her hands and shredded the tender skin. Her knees beneath her burkha probably looked the same. No time to worry about cleaning her wounds now.

She'd be stoned to death if the friends of Samir, the rug merchant, caught up with her before she managed to find passage away from Ceuta. She didn't care where she went. She'd left the door to the apothecary open, knowing she'd never be able to return, never be able to re-claim her birthright. Her shop full of the smell of herbs and healing plants would forever be lost to her, the shop her mother had owned, and her grandmother before her.

If only she could find a ship leaving immediately, or better yet, a fisherman rowing out to the sea. It was still early in the morning. The tide was probably still pulsing out to sea. Some of the fishing fleet surely would be cleaning and stowing their nets before setting out to bring in the day's catch of red mullet and prawns.

Her heart surged into a stuttering beat when the sounds of shouts and scuffles of rushing sandal-shod feet grew louder behind her. The vengeful mob couldn't be much more than several sets of harbor steps above her.

In that instant she spied a particularly broken-down warehouse which seemed empty and perhaps abandoned. She made an abrupt side step and shot inside. Once inside a tight courtyard, she ran up against a heavily fortified wooden gate. Apparently, the warehouse was occupied after all. She had no idea who dwelt within, but they could do no worse to her than the mob outside.

When she pounded desperately against the gate for several seconds without success, she looked for a toehold and began climbing to the top. She dropped down into a darkened space and tried for several seconds to adjust her vision to find a way through the cavernous interior. She'd no more than pushed her hands in front of her to find another wall or door when she was firmly grasped from behind by what felt like an immovable mountain.

A man's hand firmly closed over her mouth before she could scream, and dragged her deeper into the depths of the warehouse with him. She'd expected him to stink of garlic, onions, and the stench of a porter from the harbor, but instead, her nostrils were assailed by the scent of the finest bergamot and peppermint. Who in the name of Allah had her in his clutches?

Obadiah Lassen had been through tight situations all over the Mediterranean in his duties as Captain Eleanor Goodrum's number one man. He'd seen a lot of hellacious battles go down, but this one had him mystified. The slight girl he held confined in his arms was so delicate, the wild beating of her heart made her seem like an exotic bird terrified of its bonds and ready to fly into hell itself to get away from whatever the mob passing by outside had in mind.

Just then the mysterious woman bit down hard on one of his wrists, and he had to revise his earlier musings. He swore a French oath, gave her a hard swat on her rump, and swung her over his shoulder, well out of the reach of any of his, um, vulnerable parts. This was no exotic bird. She was more of a hellcat. He'd turn this conundrum over to his boss and let her sort out the mystery, hellcat-to-hellcat.