No Brighter Dream

by Katherine Kingsley

Overview

In the final historical romance of the Pascal trilogy, a chance encounter in a faraway land leads to lifelong love.
 
Making his way through Turkey, Andre de Saint-Simon saves the life of a young Englishwoman. He has no intention of keeping her by his side—no matter how charming she may be. But when he discovers that Ali is the long-lost daughter of his mentor, Andre feels obligated to return her to England. Maybe with some distance he might be able to forget her . . .
 
Determined to win Andre's heart, Ali endeavors to turn herself into a proper lady. When Andre finally returns home, Ali carefully orchestrates his arranged marriage—with herself in the role of bride.
 
Legally bound to the waif he once saved, Andre refuses to admit his growing desire for the woman Ali has become. But he can only deny his heart's true home for so long . . .

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781626811461
Publisher:	Diversion Publishing
Publication date:	09/01/2018
Series:	The Pascal Trilogy , #3
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	384
File size:	6 MB

About the Author

Katherine Kingsley is the bestselling author of seventeen novels. The recipient of two Romantic Times Career Achievement Awards and four Reviewer's Choice Awards, she is also a two-time Romance Writers of America RITA finalist. Her novels have been published around the world.
Kingsley grew up between New York City, London, England, and Charleston, South Carolina, and spent twenty-five years in the Vail Valley of Colorado where she was a firefighter/EMT and teacher before becoming a full-time writer. She currently lives in Southwest Florida with her husband and two Jack Russell terriers and spends her autumns in Mykonos, Greece.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

March 1864 Constantinople, Turkey

Joseph-Jean strode through the Great Bazaar of Stamboul, looking for Andre. He'd finally managed to collect the firman from the pasha that would be their passport for the next eight months of work — a trip he was not particularly looking forward to, given Andre's frame of mind.

"Make way, make way," he said, skirting a peddler shouting at the top of his lungs and waving his arms about in a dangerous fashion. A vendor nearly knocked his hat off with the tray of cakes he was carrying on his head, and he had to swerve to avoid the boy running past him with a hanging silver tray that held glasses of tea.

He could barely think above the cacophony of noise coming from every direction. Groups of veiled women bargained in the streets, men sat cross- legged on carpets in front of their shops smoking narghiles, merchants haggled, and donkeys wandered down the streets, weaving around people clad in ornately woven vests, chalvars, red fezzes, and turbans. The variety of color and costume alone was enough to boggle the mind. It was a madhouse.

Still no sign of Andre, who had most likely concluded buying supplies. Joseph-Jean thought for a moment. Andre might like climbing about in the middle of nowhere for months on end, but he also relished cleanliness.

Joseph-Jean headed out of the bazaar and straight to the hamam. Minutes later, draped in nothing but a sheet, he followed a Turk through a low stone door into the huge, domed main chamber. Shafts of light from small windows high above cut through the heavy mist like silvery ribbons, dimly illuminating the interior.

Sure enough, Andre was lying on the raised marble slab in the middle of the room, with a magnificently mustached Turk clad in a scanty loincloth busily scrubbing off layers of Andre's skin with a coarse mitt.

"I thought I'd find you here," Joseph-Jean said. "Not a bad idea, considering what we're in for." He started to wash in one of the stone basins against the wall, then sat down to steam while he waited his turn to be scrubbed and pummeled and pounded.

"Did you have any success?" Andre asked, turning his head.

"I got it," he said. "The pasha finally pulled himself together. We can leave at first light. I've alerted the dragoman, and the horses are ready."

Andre grunted. "It's about time. I suppose it was the set of silver plates that finally did it."

"Well, there was a lot of bowing and scraping and extremely flowery language that went on, so I'd assume so. There's nothing like handing around a little baksheesh to get what you want."

"I just love bribery," Andre said dryly as the Turk flipped him over and proceeded to de-breed his front side. "Now shut up, Jo-Jean, and leave me to my pleasure. As you say, there's going to be little enough of that where we're going."

Joseph-Jean cupped his fist on his chin and watched, since there was nothing better to do. Eventually the Turk rinsed Andre down, rolled him onto his front again, filled a chamois bag with soap suds, and then deluged Andre with it, slapping him rhythmically with a horsetail. He then settled into massaging what was now Andre's very clean, very smooth skin.

Yet even in a state of what should have been the utmost relaxation, Andre's face appeared taut and strained. Joseph-Jean worried for him.

It had been three years since Genevieve had died, and nothing had changed. If anything, Andre had become more withdrawn with time. He had not recanted a single one of the terrible accusations he had made to his father that awful night. Nor had he ever spoken of his father or Genevieve again. He stayed at Saint-Simon only long enough to see her buried, and the next day he left for Constantinople, taking Joseph-Jean with him.

They returned briefly to England once a year, where Andre kept a house in London. He didn't visit his godparents, the Earl and Countess of Raven, with whom he had once been very close. He didn't visit his grandfather, the Duke of Montcrieff, with whom he had never been close, but whose title, lands, and fortune he would inherit. He only consulted with other scholars, mostly historians and archaeologists, handed over each year's work to the trustees of the British Museum, who funded his expeditions, and left again.

It was as if all the life had gone out of him when it went from Genevieve, leaving him nothing more than a shell. He concentrated on his work and he was brilliant at it. But people had taken to calling him "the black marquess," not only because of his coloring and his dress, but also because he never smiled.

He had transformed himself from the warm, generous person he was by nature into someone cold and curt, a man without emotions.

It was a tragic thing that a love that had burned so brightly and given Andre such happiness had equal power to destroy him. For no matter how good Andre was at concealing his feelings, Joseph-Jean knew the terrible depth of his pain.

He wondered how long Andre could continue like this.

April 1864 Cragus Mountains

"I'm going to have a wash before dinner," Andre said, putting away his journal and stretching. It had been a long, chilly day and the night was bound to be even colder, but he was determined to brave the freezing water of the stream nonetheless.

He knew he ought to have become accustomed to all manner of hardships by now, living outdoors from April through October, but the one thing his body refused to adjust to was the punishment of the cold. He was determined to force it to. Discipline was the key to survival — although there were times that he wondered why he bothered with survival at all.

"Don't hurry," Joseph-Jean replied. "Tonight's meal won't be any better than last night's. It's the same old goat." He stirred the foul-smelling stew, then clapped the lid back on the pot.

Andre regarded the pot with disgust. "God, I'm tired of slop."

"If you hadn't thrown Hamid out on his ear ten days ago, we wouldn't have had to worry about it. You'd think you'd know better after wandering all over Asia Minor. This is ridiculous, Andre. We really can't do without a dragoman."

"I couldn't stand another minute of his complaining," Andre said, pushing his camp chair back. "He behaved as if he'd never crossed a mountain pass before."

"I don't think he had, not one like this. The track's not safe for man or beast."

"I don't think that entitled him to call me a madman, the insolent devil." Andre rummaged in his pack, looking for his soap and towel. Privately, he had to agree with Jo-Jean. It was ridiculous trying to navigate the pass on their own, as well as inconvenient to be without a servant. But he wasn't about to admit to his own stupidity. Jo-Jean already had enough to berate him for without added ammunition in the form of Hamid's dismissal.

"You know, I do believe it was the appearance of the lions that finally did it to him," Joseph-Jean said, grinning. "And if I'm honest, they nearly did it to me as well."

"At least you kept your pants dry, unlike our friend. Damn! Where's the blasted soap gone?"

Joseph-Jean glanced down at him. "How should I know? I'm lucky if I can lay my hands on any of my own belongings."

Andre looked away, a stab of pain tearing at him as a trick of light turned Joseph-Jean's eyes the exact shade of Genevieve's cornflower blue.

It happened often, a sudden expression that crossed Jo-Jean's face or a familiar gesture that brought Genevieve acutely to mind. He sometimes wished Jo-Jean looked like someone else entirely, instead of sharing his cousin's fair hair and blue eyes, her wide smile. But it couldn't be helped, and he supposed in the end it made little difference. He lived with the pain every waking moment as it was.

He finally found his towel and tossed it onto the ground, still digging for the soap. "The things I do for England," he muttered.

"Never mind England. Look at the things I endure for you," Jo-Jean replied. "At the pace we're going, you're going to have the entire province mapped and every last ruin cataloged by autumn."

"I'll settle for having the Xanthian ruins finished by November," Andre said, pulling the soap out. "I suppose Charles Fellows made my work easier by sending so many of the sculptures to England, although this scholastic habit of removing artifacts from their original site is one I cannot abide. At least Frederick Lacey left things where they belonged."

"Except for himself," Joseph-Jean said dryly, referring to Lacey's unfortunate disappearance near Anatalya twelve years earlier. "And that's another reason we need a dragoman, Andre. We don't want to lose another fine scholar to bandits. I have to confess, I personally don't much like the idea of being set upon, especially with only one of us carrying a weapon."

"And you think that idiot Hamid would have been any good at chasing off bandits? Chances are high that he would have run screaming in the other direction and left us to our own devices." He slung his towel over his neck. "Put some tea on, would you? I'll be right back."

He walked down to the stream, stripping off his jacket and shirt and splashing water on his face and chest, shivering involuntarily. It was unbelievably icy, coming directly down from the snow-covered peak of Mount Massicytus.

He suddenly felt a prickling at the back of his neck, as if eyes were on him. Slowly straightening, he looked around. But there was nothing to be seen but sparse forest and the clearing in which their tents stood. Deciding he was imagining things, he bent back to the stream to finish his rudimentary and torturous bath, then dried himself and shrugged into his clothes, quickly returning to the warmth of the fire.

"Ready?" Joseph-Jean asked, pouring steaming black tea into cups and putting one directly into Andre's shaking hand. "You're looking a little blue around the gills, my friend."

"I'm frozen solid," Andre said, cautiously sipping from the cup, taking a moment to savor the warming effect of the tea. "I ought to have washed in the damned cup. Never mind, we'll be in Xanthos in about a week."

"And then it will be hotter than Hades. Here, sit down. The stew's ready." He ladled it out onto two plates and added sliced bread.

Andre dipped his fork into the mess and tasted it. "Christ," he said, making a face. "This is truly disgusting. You draw a great deal better than you cook."

"I warned you," Joseph-Jean said, forcing down a mouthful. "My God, what I'd give for a servant who could prepare decent food. Promise me, as soon as we reach civilization you will hire someone?"

"I swear it on my life," Andre said. "Just so long as it's not Hamid. Speaking of which ..." He put his fork down and sat up straight, looking around the clearing again. "You don't suppose the fool followed us, do you?"

"Over the pass? Are you mad? He rode as fast as he could in the opposite direction. Why?" He reached for his pistol.

"I thought ... oh, never mind. I've had an uncanny feeling that someone's been watching us, but we haven't come across any sign of civilization for days."

"And I, for one, can't wait until we do," Joseph-Jean said, relaxing and shoving the pistol back in its holster. "And not just for the benefit of some decent food. I find it bleak up here."

"Cold, yes, but bleak? I hadn't noticed." Andre threw the rest of his bread toward the bushes and pushed his plate away, the stew half-uneaten. "Here, do you want any more of this? I can't bear another bite."

"You must be joking. Go on, get back to work. I'll wash up." Joseph-Jean cleared the table and started toward the stream with the plates.

Andre went back to writing, but he still couldn't shake the feeling that someone was nearby. His intuition had always served him well, even when logic spoke against it.

And then a movement caught the corner of his eye. Indeed, his intuition had proven correct. A small brown hand snaked out of the bushes at the edge of the clearing in the direction of the packs they had unloaded.

Furious at this attempt at thievery, he rose and softly skirted around the backside of the bushes. All to be seen was a bottom clad in baggy chalvars, thin little legs, and the worn soles of a pair of sandals.

Andre leaned down. With one hand he grabbed the chalvars and with the other the back of the boy's shirt. In one easy movement he hoisted him skyward.

"And just what do you think you're doing?" he asked in Turkish.

The boy uttered a strangled cry and struggled wildly, arms and legs flying everywhere. Andre abruptly dropped him, and he landed on his bottom, a whoosh of air exploding from his lungs.

He stared at Andre with wide eyes. "Effendi — I meant no harm!"

"Oh? And what were you intending on doing with my pack?"

"No, no — it was not your pack I wanted. Only what you had discarded." He stood shakily and pointed, his bony little body trembling with fear.

Andre looked. There on the far side of the bush was the hunk of bread that he'd tossed away.

"I am not a thief," the boy said, his chin going out. "I did not think you wanted it."

Andre's gaze raked the child. His clothes were ragged and he was far too thin, his dark eyes enormous in a small square face, his thick dark hair unevenly hacked. Andre thought him no more than twelve at the very most. "Your name?" he demanded.

"Ali, effendi."

"And your village?"

"My people are gone. The plague took them."

Joseph-Jean, alerted by the commotion, came quickly up from the stream, pistol at the ready. The boy gave him a look of alarm and put his hands out before him imploringly.

"Put it away," Andre said. "He's harmless, just a hungry child."

Ali swallowed with relief as Joseph-Jean lowered the pistol.

"What are you doing up here on your own?" Andre asked. "Surely you know it's dangerous?"

"I have walked from the plains of Dembre, effendi. I am going to Izmir."

Andre stared at Ali. "You have walked from Dembre?"

"Yes, how else? I have no animal. But I should have gone through the valleys instead. I thought it would be shorter to come this way."

"Good God," Andre said softly, amazed the boy had survived this far.

"Please, effendi, may I take the bread? I am very hungry." So saying, Ali fainted.

Andre sighed and scooped the child up in his arms, giving Joseph-Jean a look of resignation. "Why," he said, carrying Ali over to the fire, "do things like this always happen to me? Get the water jug, Jo-Jean, and a spare blanket."

He felt Ali's brow to see if it was feverish, relieved to find that it wasn't, since he didn't much like the idea of contracting plague. Then he dipped a cloth in water, wiped Ali's dirty face with it, and wrapped him in the blanket Joseph-Jean brought over.

"Damnation! What are we going to do with a malnourished infant?" he said. "We can't very well leave him here when we break camp tomorrow, can we?"

"No, I don't think so," Joseph-Jean replied. "We'll have to take him with us at least as far as Minara."

"I am in no frame of mind to act as nursemaid to a Turkish urchin," Andre said with annoyance.

"Naturally you are not, but I doubt he will survive much longer under these hellish conditions, not on his own and this far from any village."

"And what do you propose we do with him when we get to Minara?"

"Perhaps we can make arrangements for a family to take him in?"

Andre shook his head. "Well. He's suffering from exposure and starvation and certainly exhaustion. He probably won't live long enough to get to Minara, so it might well be a moot point. Still, I suppose I would rather know how many days it took for him to die rather than spend the rest of my life wondering about it."

Joseph-Jean nodded slowly. "Good. Apparently, despite your best efforts, you're not nearly as heartless as you like to make out. Can you get him to wake up and take some nourishment?"

"What do you want me to do, shake him till his brains rattle? Anyway, that stew would probably finish him off." He pushed a hand through his hair, thinking of what medicines he had in his pack. "I imagine he'll wake up in his own good time. He needs warmth and sleep more than food right now."

Andre looked down at the thin child, his face pale beneath the brown skin. He didn't look sturdy enough to have even contemplated the journey, let alone have made it this far.

"Amazing," he said. "He has to have been sustained by something to have come over the mountains from as far south as Dembre."

"A remarkable will, perhaps?"

"Perhaps. Or maybe his story is mere nonsense and he really was after the packs. In either case, we're stuck with him for the time being." He placed Ali on the ground by the fire. "He'll be better off close to the heat tonight. I'll watch over him. You get to bed."

"Are you sure?" Joseph-Jean said in obvious surprise.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "No Brighter Dream"
by .
Copyright © 1994 Julia Jay Kendall.
Excerpted by permission of Diversion Publishing Corp..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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