For the first ten years of her life, Tanya had thought this man and his wife were her parents. Finding out differently had brought her joy, not pain. But who her real parents were she didn't know. Iris Dobbs had been able to tell her only that the woman who had given her to them when she was a baby had claimed to be her mother one minute, then no relation to her the next. But the fever had made the woman say all kinds of crazy things.

Iris had died eight years ago. She had been Tanya's only buffer, taking many of the beatings meant for her. In fact, it was one of those beatings that had killed Iris, though Dobbs had got away with calling it an accident simply because she was his wife.

The things a husband was allowed to do didn't bear thinking of. And not for the first time Tanya swore that a husband would never make a chattel out of her, because she'd never have one. If she'd learned anything living with Dobbs all her life, she'd learned how precious her few rights were, and she wasn't about to give them up for anything. She just wished she'd known she had some sooner, wished she'd known that she could leave if she wanted, without being hunted down like a runaway slave. It had taken one of the barmaids to point this out, when she had witnessed Dobbs taking the stick to her, by asking why Tanya stayed.

In fact, Tanya had threatened to leave then. She'd been all of eighteen, or thereabouts, and could easily get a job in another tavern, since she knew everything there was to know about running such a place. That was when Dobbs had first tempted her with ownership of The Seraglio. But the promise of his leaving the tavern to her was all she'd had, until his illness. Then she'd insisted on having it written down on paper, that precious paper hidden under a floorboard in her room.

The Seraglio was all but hers now to do with as she would. It might exhaust her and cause one headache after another, but it represented independence, peace, and total control, or soon would — things she'd never had before, and which she craved now with a passion. To have them, she only had to take care of Dobbs for his remaining days, no more than she'd done all her life anyway.

Tanya left him as soon as she could, for she hadn't exaggerated. There was never enough time in each day to do all that was required of her. The three helpers were no help where cleanup was concerned. Dobbs had never wanted to pay them extra when he had Tanya at no cost, and so they left at the close of business even if the common room looked like a storm had come through it.

It usually was a filthy mess, with mugs left on tables, ale spilled, chairs toppled, some broken, cigar butts mixed with spittle on the hardwood floor. Tanya usually attended to it all before she retired for the night, but last night there had been a fight over the current barmaid, Aggie, between one of the local planters' sons and a sailor from The Lorilie, just docked that morning. Dobbs used to handle all the fights, with a cudgel in one hand and a pistol in the other. Now Tanya had to depend on Jeremiah, who tended the bar; and while Jeremiah might have the bulk necessary to intimidate two drunken customers, he did not have the gumption.

It wasn't the first time Tanya had had to step in between two brawlers since she'd taken over the running of The Seraglio. Getting a couple of bruises before the fighters realized she was interfering was pretty common, too, but last night had been an exception, since she had been tired and out of sorts, and in no mood to reason first.

Normally she drew no notice, for she'd learned at an early age how to mask delicacy and fine features with severity, drabness, and a gauntness that could be achieved by using theatrical makeup, if not by actual exhaustion. She was a fixture of the place, sometimes serving customers when Aggie was harried because April was performing, sometimes working behind the bar when Jeremiah didn't show up for work. She was always there, ready to attend to whatever was necessary — even breaking up fights, she, not even five and a half feet tall, with her hair severely pulled back and bundled at her nape, wearing a serviceable black skirt, unadorned and unbustled, and one of Dobbs' old gray shirts that reached her knees. The shirts were belted to accommodate the wicked-looking knife she'd been wearing at her hip ever since Dobbs had taken ill, a longer bladed weapon than the knife she'd carried in her right boot for as long as she could remember.

She'd brought both into play last night, slashing in a wide circle that effectively separated the two antagonists. She hadn't had to say a single word after that. The planter's son, who was a regular and well aware that she didn't palm her weapons unless she was prepared to use them, apologized for the disturbance and resumed his seat. The sailor, there for the first time, was too surprised to offer any more trouble, and Jeremiah, late into the fray but handy just the same, escorted him to the door.

But despite the ease with which she'd ended the fracas, Tanya's nerves had still been on edge for the remainder of the night, and such extreme tension was debilitating. That was why she'd gone straight to bed as soon as she'd locked up. She could accept violence against herself more easily than she could accept having to dole it out, because receiving it had been a matter of course her whole life. Inflicting some of her own went against her grain. Yet she didn't hesitate to do so when it was necessary, and it had been necessary a number of times over the years, and more often in just the past six months.

In spite of everything she did to appear unappealing to The Seraglio's customers, a drunk sometimes didn't see too well, and all it took was the sight of a skirt to make one think he'd found an available female. She'd had her share of pinches and pawing, for the most part ended with a sharp word or a well-placed cuff to the side of the head. If a man was drunk enough to have blurred vision, he was drunk enough for her to handle. It was those times when she was caught alone outside the common room by men not so drunk, in either the storeroom or the kitchen, or on her way to the stable out back, or even followed into her room once, that she'd had to get serious about protecting herself. But those attempts were made by men who'd known her for a long time, weren't fooled by her normal appearance, and now thought to take advantage of Dobbs' incapacity.

The only good thing she could say about Dobbs was that when he'd been hale and hearty, he'd been a potent discouragement to anyone who wanted to lay his hands on her. Once, he'd nearly beaten to death one of his own friends who had tried to kiss her, and that kind of news spread fast. Not that he had been protecting her virtue then or in other instances. He simply hated fornication with a passion and wouldn't stand for it under his roof. If Aggie and April wanted to accommodate customers in that way, and both of them often did, they made private arrangements. More recently they sneaked off to the stables whenever things slowed down. Dobbs' reaction wasn't normal, certainly, but it was amusing, since Iris had once confessed that it was because he couldn't do it anymore himself. Typical of Dobbs, then, not to want anyone else to do what he couldn't.

Tanya spared only one sigh as she looked over the common room before she got busy. There was also the beer shipment to see to, lunch and dinner to prepare, new candles to order, which required a three-block walk past gambling dens, brothels, and seedier taverns that were open day and night, since The Seraglio was located in one of the worst sections of Natchez. And then, just before it was time to open the doors, April's little brother stopped by to tell Tanya that The Seraglio's main attraction had sprained her ankle and wouldn't be able to perform tonight or any time soon. Just what she needed to hear minutes before opening. A headache began immediately.

Chapter 3

"What in hell are we doing here, Stefan?" Lazar complained as he watched a red-bearded man in fringed buckskins banging on his table with an empty beer mug, crudely demanding that the show begin. "We could have awaited Serge at the hotel, which at least offers a modicum of comfort."

"You have gone slumming before—"

"Not where every mother's son is armed to his teeth," Lazar hissed.

Stefan chuckled. "You exaggerate, my friend, but even so, like Vasili, I'm feeling restless enough to welcome a diversion, no matter its form."

"Oh, God," Lazar groaned, slumping down in his chair. "With both of you seeking trouble, we're bound to find it."

Stefan cocked a black brow. "Who said anything about trouble?"

"A diversion to you is nothing less than a rousing good fight. And I know you are exasperated — we all are after what we learned today. But you, if you will forgive my saying so, are an unpredictable bastard in such a mood."

Stefan snorted without taking offense. Longstanding friends were occasionally allowed to insult him with impunity.

"I assure you I will start nothing that I can't finish."

"Assurances like that I don't need."

"Stop worrying, Lazar. We are here only to keep Vasili company, and to keep from going at each other's throats while we play this waiting game

"And what is Vasili's excuse?" Lazar queried, watching the man in question move casually about the room, speaking to the patrons as if he were a regular.

"He was intrigued by the name of this place when he heard it mentioned on The Lorilie, along with a description of its main attraction. But then he is so homesick he will settle for even the most laughable performance if he can see one single belly undulate."