Read Online No Brighter Dream: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 3 by Katherine Kingsley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Katherine Kingsley
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go straight to the Turkomen and offer herself up, she decided. Better, she could find the nearest cliff to jump from. It was a pity. If he were a violent man, he would instantaneously have her head severed from her shoulders, but there wasn’t any chance of that.
No, she thought sadly, it would be far worse. He’d level that horrible cold look he had, the one that had turned her veins to ice on more than one occasion, and pronounce her gone, cast off, never to darken his days again.
“Oh, Allah,” she said earnestly, gazing up at the sky beseechingly. “Please, please keep my secret safe. I couldn’t bear it if Handray sent me away. I really couldn’t.”
The very thought made her heart pound in panic.
Ali stole a quick glance over at Andre. She’d been unable to shake the depression that had come over her that afternoon at the thought of her probable fate, the cruelty of her master who didn’t care enough about her to keep her, all because she was a lowly female.
Dinner was over and he was busy cleaning his saddle leather, his dark head bent over his task, oblivious to her black thoughts.
Then she looked across at Jojan, whose fair head was equally bent, but in the worthwhile task of writing a letter to his mother. Ali knew, because she’d asked and he’d told her.
Handray never wrote letters. He only wrote in his book. She’d asked him why he didn’t write to his family as Jojan did, and had her head taken off for her trouble.
“You are my servant,” he said curtly. “Confine yourself to questions of a nonpersonal nature. Is that clear?”
It was more than clear.
She knew all about Jojan. He had a mother and a father and three sisters whom he missed very much, and who all lived in a little village in France. She knew that his father was a farmer, so they were not grand people like her master, but they were content.
It was a nice story about a happy family, and that contentment was reflected on Jojan’s face.
Handray was another question altogether. One very big question. Maybe, like herself, he didn’t have a family any longer … but not ever to speak of them?
It occurred to her that he had never once asked about her family, either—not that she could have answered truthfully, but it hurt her that he didn’t even care enough to want to know. He might think they were all dead of plague, but that shouldn’t make any difference.
The fact was that Handray didn’t care about much of anything but his old buildings. She was nothing more to him than the person who cooked and carried and cleaned, who gave him pleasant baths and massaged him when he was tired.
“Why are you glaring at me?” Andre asked, glancing up as if he’d felt her eyes on him. “Is your stomach indisposed, or are you merely indulging in a fit of bad temper?”
Ali scowled even more darkly. “You are very nasty. I have made you a brilliant meal and now you speak like this to me?”
Andre gazed at her with interest. “Let us ignore for the moment that it’s your job to make brilliant meals, along with all the other duties you’re paid to perform,” he said. “Since when did scowling become part of your repertoire? Have I done something to offend you, said something unkind to cause you to look at me in such a manner?”
“No,” Ali said, feeling ashamed.
“Then I’d thank you to keep your bad temper to yourself. You are treated extremely well for a servant”
He was right, of course. She was a servant and had no place expecting anything other than tolerance at best. Indeed, she ought to consider herself lucky that he didn’t beat her. “I am sorry. I did not mean to offend.”
He released a small sigh. “All right. Your apology is accepted. However, it occurs to me that you might be feeling neglected. I haven’t told you a story in a good week. Maybe that would sweeten your mood?”
Ali nodded, although her heart wasn’t really in it. “Yes, please,” she said, trying her best to sound
No, she thought sadly, it would be far worse. He’d level that horrible cold look he had, the one that had turned her veins to ice on more than one occasion, and pronounce her gone, cast off, never to darken his days again.
“Oh, Allah,” she said earnestly, gazing up at the sky beseechingly. “Please, please keep my secret safe. I couldn’t bear it if Handray sent me away. I really couldn’t.”
The very thought made her heart pound in panic.
Ali stole a quick glance over at Andre. She’d been unable to shake the depression that had come over her that afternoon at the thought of her probable fate, the cruelty of her master who didn’t care enough about her to keep her, all because she was a lowly female.
Dinner was over and he was busy cleaning his saddle leather, his dark head bent over his task, oblivious to her black thoughts.
Then she looked across at Jojan, whose fair head was equally bent, but in the worthwhile task of writing a letter to his mother. Ali knew, because she’d asked and he’d told her.
Handray never wrote letters. He only wrote in his book. She’d asked him why he didn’t write to his family as Jojan did, and had her head taken off for her trouble.
“You are my servant,” he said curtly. “Confine yourself to questions of a nonpersonal nature. Is that clear?”
It was more than clear.
She knew all about Jojan. He had a mother and a father and three sisters whom he missed very much, and who all lived in a little village in France. She knew that his father was a farmer, so they were not grand people like her master, but they were content.
It was a nice story about a happy family, and that contentment was reflected on Jojan’s face.
Handray was another question altogether. One very big question. Maybe, like herself, he didn’t have a family any longer … but not ever to speak of them?
It occurred to her that he had never once asked about her family, either—not that she could have answered truthfully, but it hurt her that he didn’t even care enough to want to know. He might think they were all dead of plague, but that shouldn’t make any difference.
The fact was that Handray didn’t care about much of anything but his old buildings. She was nothing more to him than the person who cooked and carried and cleaned, who gave him pleasant baths and massaged him when he was tired.
“Why are you glaring at me?” Andre asked, glancing up as if he’d felt her eyes on him. “Is your stomach indisposed, or are you merely indulging in a fit of bad temper?”
Ali scowled even more darkly. “You are very nasty. I have made you a brilliant meal and now you speak like this to me?”
Andre gazed at her with interest. “Let us ignore for the moment that it’s your job to make brilliant meals, along with all the other duties you’re paid to perform,” he said. “Since when did scowling become part of your repertoire? Have I done something to offend you, said something unkind to cause you to look at me in such a manner?”
“No,” Ali said, feeling ashamed.
“Then I’d thank you to keep your bad temper to yourself. You are treated extremely well for a servant”
He was right, of course. She was a servant and had no place expecting anything other than tolerance at best. Indeed, she ought to consider herself lucky that he didn’t beat her. “I am sorry. I did not mean to offend.”
He released a small sigh. “All right. Your apology is accepted. However, it occurs to me that you might be feeling neglected. I haven’t told you a story in a good week. Maybe that would sweeten your mood?”
Ali nodded, although her heart wasn’t really in it. “Yes, please,” she said, trying her best to sound
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