He took a deep breath, bracing himself for what was to come. "Most of the Barbary pirates were actually corsairs who were chartered by their government. The true corsairs operated under an elaborate system where the great European trading nations paid for safe conducts for their ships. There were rules about which foreigners could be sold in the slave market, and the local consuls could reclaim any of their citizens who were captured illegally."
He stopped by the window, his shoulders rigid as he stared out into the blackness. "But there were some ships that operated outside the rules. Even though we were sailing under the British flag and should have been safe, we were attacked by pirates. Half of Jamie's crew was killed outright. The rest of us were captured and taken to an illegal slave market in Tripoli."
It had been stiflingly hot, the air thick with the stench of fear and pain. "Charles Weldon was there. He was making an extensive tour of the Mediterranean and was an honored visitor in the city. I think he came to the market from pure curiosity. Since I was a child, I was separated from Jamie and the rest of his crew, and taken to the market with a group of women and children. I saw Weldon and guessed that he might be English, so I broke away from the group and ran over to him. I said that I was English and begged for his help."
Even a quarter century later, the memory was indelible. Weldon was young and handsome, immaculately turned out in spite of the Tripolitan heat. His nostrils had flared with delicate distaste when accosted by the scruffy child. "So you're English. Couldn't be anything else with that dreadful cockney accent." A light note of amusement in his voice, he had lifted young Michael's chin. "You're a pretty lad, though you could certainly use a good scrubbing. I've never seen eyes of such a color.''
By then a guard had arrived to take Michael back to the group. As he was being dragged away, Weldon had said languidly, "I'll see what can be done."
Peregrine's hands clenched convulsively, the pain of biting nails pulling him back to the present. "Christians could not buy slaves, so Weldon arranged to buy me through his host. As he took me to the house he was renting, I told him about Jamie McFarland and the others. I knew that if the British consul was notified, arrangements might be made to release them, so I begged Weldon to contact the consul. He said he would do it."
Besides relief for himself, Michael was delighted that he could do something for Jamie after all the sea captain had done for him. Several weeks later, Weldon told me that he had not bothered to notify the consul. It was many years before I was able to return to Tripoli. When I did, I tried to learn what had happened to Jamie and the other crewmen, but they had vanished without a trace. I'm sure that Jamie died in slavery, though God only knows how or where. But I didn't know that at first. I thought I had been saved from slavery."
A couple of quiet days had passed at Weldon's house. He hardly saw his benefactor, who had ordered him to take a bath and burn his ragged clothing. A fine Arabic robe in his size had been supplied. There had been fresh fruit and luxurious foods. Then, about the time that Michael was beginning to feel bored and anxious, Weldon had sent for him.
Michael had gone eagerly. He had been fascinated by the dashing young man who had rescued him. Surely a man with such power could have done the same for Jamie McFarland. Perhaps Jamie himself was waiting to take Michael away.
Instead, there had been only Weldon, mildly drunk and wanting amusement. At first Michael had not understood what the charming young aristocrat had wanted. Though uncomfortable with the way Weldon touched him, he had tried not to show it, not wanting to offend his benefactor.
When Weldon's attentions became inescapable, Michael had tried to run away. He had fought, frantic as a trapped animal, when Weldon caught him and forced him down on the divan. But he had been only a child against a grown man.
It was almost impossible to continue, for the years had not dimmed the images or the emotions. When Peregrine finally managed to speak, his voice was unrecognizable in his own ears. "I was not a whore, but he used me as one."
From the sound of Sara's horrified gasp behind him, she knew what that meant. But she could not possibly know how it had felt: the shock, the horror, the pain. And most of all, the shattering humiliation, the knowledge of wrongness, of defilement that could never be cleansed away.
"I fought. God, how I fought," he said bitterly. "Perhaps that was a mistake, for fighting excited him, but it was impossible to surrender to something so despicable. After a week or two, Weldon began to tire of fighting, so he tied me to the bed and used a whip to teach me better manners." Weldon had enjoyed that immensely, his eyes gleaming, hardening with arousal as he slashed away, over and over, with all his strength. It had been an African whip of rhinoceros hide, supple and evil.