When a Rogue Falls

by Caroline Linden

  He had taken one look at Zehra and knew he couldn’t let her be taken by another man. There was something about her eyes and how she moved. It brought back memories so far in the recesses of his mind, and they seemed to whisper to him, but he couldn’t pull them into the light, couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing—or half remembering.

  Yes, there was something about Zehra that he could not get out of his mind. She reminded him too much of the young woman from the brothel years before, though not directly in looks, of course. It was the situation as a whole. It felt as though he’d been given a second chance to right a past wrong.

  He stared hard at the parchment. With a curse, he crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the fire. As he watched the embers eat away at it, he sighed and looked up at the ceiling to where Zehra sat now, one floor above.

  She was a lovely woman who’d been through a horrifying ordeal, and he was moved by her in ways that were far too dangerous. He’d never considered himself a true gentleman—he took after his older brother, Lucien, far too much. As his mother had said more than once, “Rogues run in the family.” If he kept Zehra under his roof for very long, he would have trouble remaining a gentleman.

  Yet he was not a man who ever forced seduction on any woman, either. He did have some scruples he still clung to, by God. But if she gave him any indication she wished to share his bed, he most certainly would not turn her down. The problem would be in determining if such a request was genuine or out of some sense of obligation. He wouldn’t abide the latter.

  Lawrence leaned back in his chair, frowning. This week his entire family was to be present for various summer parties in London, and he would no doubt be forced to attend these events as well, but what of Zehra?

  He would have to keep his Persian princess safely tucked away for now. He could still see the look of fear in her eyes as she begged him to keep her, even though he’d promised her freedom. Something had frightened her about being returned home. It was a mystery—one he had every intention of getting to the bottom of once she had a chance to rest.

  Lord, he was thankful no other man had bid against him. Seven thousand was an unbelievable sum, one he would have trouble explaining should anyone question his accounts—that was assuming the White House was able to use it, which was unlikely given that the Bow Street Runners were tearing the brothel apart. But he had won, and he was relieved she’d come home with him. She was safe now and would remain so under his watch.

  Chapter 3

  Zehra sipped her wine, even though her belly quivered with an ache born of days with little to no food. She fought to ignore the beating headache rising in her head by examining the bedchamber of her rescuer. His tall four-poster bed with a dark-green coverlet looked inviting, perhaps too much so. He had a shaving stand, complete with a washbasin, and a chest of drawers. A tall bookcase stood against one wall, and it was filled with books, some old, others quite new. She carried her wine glass with her as she approached the shelf.

  “Who are you, Lawrence Russell?” she whispered, reading the gilded spines on the shelves. Gothic novels, poetry, sciences, art, philosophy. He was well-read, it seemed. Surely a man who was well-read was less likely to be a cruel man. At least, she hoped so.

  He claimed he had bought her to protect her from other men. But she had learned the hard truth of late that she could trust no one—not strangers, not even friends. Her parents lay dead because they’d trusted a man they thought was their friend.

  Zehra closed her eyes. Tears trickled down her face, and the cool spring air drifting through the open window dried the wet streaks. She mastered herself, bearing the pain of her loss. There would be a time to mourn, but not yet, not until she found her mother’s family and learned if they would offer her a home or cast her out.

  She could almost hear her father’s voice. “You must be strong a little while longer, my desert rose, just a little longer.” Desert rose. How often he’d called her that. Her mother had laughed with delight at the name whenever Zehra would dance in a puddle of colorful rose petals, breathing in the heady perfume of nature’s finest flower.

  For a moment, she was borne back into the past, and sunny memories swept her far from this dark, cold island. Her father sat before a fire in a pit, the night sky glittering with stars, as he played the setar, an instrument similar to an Indian sitar. He sang in a haunting voice. Zehra would sit wrapped in her mother’s arms, as her mother whispered to her the words of her father’s music.

  * * *

  I am a candle burning for you,

  My heart is aflame with ardor for you,

  Yet you shall never come home,

  My gleaming pearl, my dearest heart,

  I wait…I wait in the darkness, burning bright into the night,

  Hoping against hope you will find your way home.

  * * *

  She had been too young to understand the look between her parents then, the softening gazes, the intimate secrets that lingered in the air unspoken between them.

  But that life was over. She would never find her way home because it was her home no longer. All that was left was a burned palace, blood coating the smooth floor tiles. The stain of evil in that place would never fade, not for her. Even if she could go back, she would never return to the palace.

  Her eyes flew open when the bedchamber door creaked. She turned, expecting to see Lawrence, but instead saw a dark-haired maid carrying a tray of food. “Excuse me, miss, the master asked for food to be sent to you.” The woman smiled, her countenance warm, and Zehra wiped her tears from her cheeks. She took a moment to collect herself, trying to paint a cheery smile upon her lips as she faced the servant.

  The maid placed the tray on the table by the fireplace and lifted up a warm blanket. She gestured for Zehra to sit in one of the nearby chairs.

  “You look dead on your feet, miss. Why don’t you sit here? The master has a fine chair by the fire, and it’ll do you some good to rest.”

  The tall wingback chair did look rather cozy, she had to admit. After she sat, the maid tucked the blanket around her lap.

  “For the chill, miss,” she explained. “It can get a bit drafty at night.”

  “Thank you,” Zehra said, moved by the servant’s thoughtfulness. Her mother had rarely talked of England, but she said that the servants in England were far different from those Zehra had grown up with. She’d been raised to be held in reverence by those around her, and they would not dream of speaking to her, but this woman had treated her in such a friendly way. Zehra liked it. It made her feel less alone, and right now that mattered more than anything.

  “There’s leek soup, some cold meats, and fruit. If you need anything else, just pull the bell cord by the bed and someone will be up to see to whatever you need.” The maid offered another smile and left Zehra to eat.

  She looked at the metal dome over the plate and pulled it off. The delicious scents that teased her nose came as such a relief. She felt like weeping all over again. She went straight for the meat, wanting to soothe her hunger pangs.

  A few minutes later, she’d cleaned the plate and was mopping up the last bit of soup with a slice of bread. For the first time in a week, she felt full. She leaned back in the chair, warmed by the fire and blankets, a sense of peace overcoming her…

  She wasn’t sure how long she slept before she was jerked awake at the sensation of being moved. She struggled as panic overrode her rationality as memories of being bound and imprisoned on the slave ship came flooding back.

  “Easy, love, it’s only me. Your room has been prepared. I was simply going to take you there.” The masculine voice was familiar, and she realized in her sleepy haze that it was Lawrence who was carrying her. “You will be left alone then, I promise.”

  “My lord, please, I cannot sleep alone. Not tonight.” She clutched his shirt, curling her fingers into the fine fabric. She didn’t know why she’d suddenly begged him to stay with her, but for some reason as he carried her, she’d felt sur
e he would not harm her.

  His fine features were shadowed by flame, and she realized the room around them was dark. The lamps had been extinguished, and only the fire remained lit.

  “You’re welcome to my bed. I can have a cot brought up if you wish for a servant to stay with you for the night. Or myself, if you prefer.” His eyes channeled the moonlight from the nearby window, making her breath catch with their bright intensity. In her own land the men she’d met had possessed dark eyes of a hundred different hues, yet this light color, like wheat mixed with emerald, was unlike anything she’d ever seen. Her own bright-blue eyes were rare, she knew, but she found the endless tumbling facets of green and brown in Lawrence’s far more enchanting.

  Lawrence cradled her to his chest as he walked to his bed and laid her down. Despite his kind offer, trying to reassure her that he desired nothing from her in return, his quick and uneven breaths betrayed him. It seemed he was struggling to remain the gentleman he claimed to be. Still, it said much of his character that he could fight these demons so well, and she did not wish to offend him.

  “You would have my thanks if you would stay in this room for the night.”

  Lawrence nodded. “There are plenty of blankets, but if you get cold, I have more. I’ll just stay here in the chair. Call if you need anything.” He turned away, and Zehra had a moment to study his fine figure silhouetted against the firelight. Then she lay back in the bed for a brief moment before she realized her gown was too tight, her breathing shallow. The gown she’d worn on the slave ship had been more comfortable than this, likely because the slavers had wanted easy access to the women they took and didn’t care for corsets or stays. She sat back up and tried to reach behind her to unbutton the gown, but she couldn’t. With a shiver, she looked toward Lawrence, who was still facing the fire.

  “My lord, I have no way to unbutton this gown. The ladies at the White House left me rather helpless.” She eased off the bed and walked toward Lawrence. He swallowed hard, and she swore she heard him mutter a curse before he sighed.

  “Yes, of course, how thoughtless of me. You mustn’t sleep in that gown. Shall I call up a maid to help?”

  Zehra thought of the late hour and winced. She didn’t want to drag a maid from her bed. “No, we should let them sleep. I trust you, my lord.”

  “Trust me?” He chuckled ruefully. “Very well, then.”

  He twirled a finger, indicating for her to turn her back to him. She did, holding her breath as his fingers began to pull at the laces. She relaxed as the gown became loose against her bent arms and then fell to the floor. His sudden intake of breath made her blush and smile. There was a part of her that was boldly sensual, unafraid of such things in many ways. She was a virgin, but she was not uneducated in the ways of men and women.

  “Please, Lord, don’t tell me you need help with the stays.” Lawrence’s voice was low and rough. She sensed she’d pushed him too far.

  “No, I can manage. Thank you, my lord.” She stepped out of the puddle of her gown and stripped out of her remaining clothes, leaving a pile of stays, slippers, and stockings on the floor. Clad only in her chemise, she climbed back into Lawrence’s bed and settled in for the night. She was so exhausted that she only heard him wrestling with the chair and a small pillow for a few minutes before she surrendered to sleep.

  Avery Russell stepped into the chaos of the White House, his eyes taking in the Bow Street Runners and the local magistrate, a man named John Dearborn, as they took statements from several brothel patrons. Three men were restrained by iron shackles and seated at a card table in the main gaming room.

  “Russell.” One of the Runners, a man called Sam Cady, nodded and spoke to Avery as he came over. “We’ve put a stop to the auction. Unfortunately, the madam threw her account books into the fire, destroying the names of the men who paid to attend. All of the ladies have been placed in an adjoining room, but…”

  “But what?”

  Cady shrugged his large shoulders and nodded toward the restrained group of men. “One of the gentlemen here swears another man bought a slave, the first one to be sold. He and the girl aren’t here.”

  “Someone got away?” Avery’s hands curled into fists as he thought of some poor woman being carried away to a place where no one would find her, where she would be abused and defiled, where she would most likely never leave.

  “Did this talkative fellow give us a name?”

  Cady shook his head.

  “Which man was it?” Avery demanded. He headed toward the prisoners. Cady shadowed behind him.

  “Bloke on the left, the young one.”

  Avery grabbed the man, who seemed close to Avery’s age, and snarled into his face.

  “Who took the first woman? Give me a name!”

  The young man gasped as his chair was pushed back to balance on two legs. “I—I don’t know, but I got a good look at him! I swear!” With his hands bound behind him, he would have a nasty fall if the chair toppled over, which was exactly what Avery wanted him to fear. A threat of violence could be more effective than actually using it. A man’s imagination was his own worst enemy.

  “What did he look like?” Avery growled.

  “He looked like you!” The man screeched as his chair teetered on its back legs.

  Avery froze. “What?”

  “He looked like you,” the man repeated. “Not exactly, mind. His hair was a darker red, but the face…very similar.” The man stared at him, but Avery was no longer paying attention. He let the chair fall back on all four legs.

  Lawrence. What the bloody hell had his older brother done? He had been sent to gather information about the auction, not participate!

  “What is it?” Cady asked, flexing his hands into fists. “Do you know who he’s on about?” Cady was a good man, but his brutish build and height made him a damned scary sight when angered.

  Avery shook his head. If his brother had bought a slave, there had to be a damned good reason. Had Lawrence thought he could play the hero, imagining himself rescuing the poor woman?

  The problem was, a magistrate would not see it that way. Buying a woman like this was enough to condemn any man. Thankfully, Avery had spent years as a spy for king and country. He was used to controlling his reactions and finding ways out of impossible situations. He turned to Cady.

  “Leave this to me. I’ll find out who the man is, and when I do, there will be justice,” he vowed. Cady nodded and returned to the other Runners, leaving Avery alone. Avery headed for the madam’s office, wanting to see what was left of the ledgers. He saw a small fireplace against the back wall opposite the desk. Three fat ledgers with marbleboard bindings were still smoldering on the hearth. Ashes littered the ground beneath the grate where the ledgers had been tossed.

  Avery knelt down and carefully peeled back the pages. Most of it was illegible, and some pages crumbled even as he turned them, but he could just make out a few names and numbers.

  “No…” He whispered a curse as he pushed apart the last pages to see the names more clearly.

  “Lawrence Russell – One item – £7,000.”

  Lawrence, what have you done? You damned fool.

  Pulling out a match from his inner pocket, he re-lit the fire and tore out the final page, casting it into the flames. There could be no evidence, no trace of his brother’s actions.

  I will fix it. I will find the woman and protect my family’s name. No one need ever know about this.

  He turned and left the madam’s office. The magistrate was in charge of the scene now, and Avery could easily disappear into the darkness. He had reports to make. His superior, Sir Hugo Waverly, would need to be informed of the success of the breakup of the slave ring. With several influential Arab and Persian ambassadors in London for secret peace talks to stem the war between the Ottoman and the Qajar empires, it was crucial that this event never be discovered.

  Avery slipped out of the White House and called for his horse. He needed to get home and rest, but co
me morning, he would go to Lawrence’s home and demand answers. He would also have to take the poor woman to the port at once with the rest of the women and ship her home.

  He only hoped he could keep Lawrence from facing the law if his brother had done something so foolish as to truly buy a slave. He would be hard pressed to save his brother if that was the case.

  Zehra couldn’t wash the blood off her hands. The palace halls were filled with screams, and the night sky was illuminated with fire. Smoke crept along the corridors, prowling for victims. Bodies littered the bedroom and antechamber.

  Zehra stared in shock at the two bodies closest to the bed. Her mother lay still, her golden hair spread across the silk sheets, her throat slashed. Blood pooled beneath her neck, and her sightless blue eyes looked through Zehra into oblivion.

  A tall dark-haired man lay at her feet, his body still, a scimitar grasped in one hand. He had killed four men before being cut down.

  Papa…the word didn’t escape her lips, but it was followed inside her head by a piercing scream of anguish.

  Later she could move again, and then she was sprinting down the corridor, coughing as the home she’d cherished burned around her.

  “The princess!” someone shouted in Farsi. Terror seized her heart, but she didn’t stop. She had to escape.

  As she reached a large open window that led to the gardens, a dark figure stepped into her path. She ran into him, and he gripped her body with one arm and clamped a hand over her mouth.

  “It’s Al-Zahrani, my princess. I’ve come to rescue you. Come with me, quickly.”

  She followed him out of the window into the night.

  * * *

  Zehra shouted as she jolted upright. The night still held on to the world outside. Had she only been asleep an hour before the nightmare woke her?