Lawrence leapt from his chair by the fireplace, snatching a fire poker and wielding it like a saber. “What is it? What’s the matter?” He seemed braced for a fight, legs spread in a crouched stance.
Zehra’s blood roared in her ears as she struggled to calm. No, she was not in Persia. She was safe. Wasn’t she?
“I…” She swallowed thickly, her throat raw from the scream. “I had a bad dream.”
Lawrence relaxed and walked over to the washstand by the bed. He poured her a glass of water from a pitcher next to the porcelain basin.
She accepted the glass, drinking deep until it was empty. Her body was covered in a sheen of sweat, and she lifted her hands, examining them for blood. She knew it wouldn’t be there, but she felt it all the same.
“What are you looking for?” Lawrence filled her glass again.
“It’s nothing. I’m so sorry I woke you,” she whispered.
Lawrence leaned over the bed. She was surprised that she did not instinctively shy away from him.
“Sweetheart, something terrible has happened to you. I see it shadowing your eyes—there’s a ghostly glimmer of pain behind them. But if you won’t talk to me, I cannot help you.” He cupped her face with one palm, and his warm hand felt so good against her skin. There was something about the way he touched her, spoke to her, as though he was too close, yet not close enough. She felt suddenly cold beneath the thin fabric of the chemise and longed for him to wrap his arms around her and warm her. It was madness, craving a stranger in this way, yet she did.
“Perhaps one day I can tell you,” she said. “But not today.”
His lips curved down into a frown, but he nodded. “I understand. Tell me what can I do. There must be something.”
Zehra looked away from him, her eyes studying the plasterwork of the ceiling. Golden light, with painted roundels depicting scenes she recognized from classical mythology. She was more used to geometric patterns than depictions of people and was arrested by the sight of the art she saw above her now. Such beauty in the home of such a roguish bachelor. It was unexpected.
“Zehra?” He spoke her name with tenderness, and she finally met his gaze.
“Would you…hold me?” She knew it was improper, whether in England or in Persia, but being held was what she needed most. Whenever he touched her, the pain and fear of the past seemed to fade to a distant, hazy memory. She knew it was only a temporary solution, but she clutched at any chance, however small, to ease her memories and forget.
Lawrence’s eyebrows rose. “Hold you? Are you quite sure?”
“Quite sure,” she echoed.
“Er…right.” He removed his boots, then eased down onto the bed beside her and opened his arms. Zehra was flooded with a rush of emotions as she slid into his embrace. She was asking so much of this man, a total stranger, and she could give him nothing in return. Her eyes filled with tears, and she buried her face against his chest. His scent enveloped her, and she relaxed almost immediately.
“Better?” he whispered. His warm breath fanned the crown of her hair.
“Yes.” Zehra was silent a long moment. “I am not a weak woman.” She wasn’t sure why she needed him to hear her say that, but she did.
“I know, sweetheart. I think you may be the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”
The tension in her body eased a little, and she let out a breath slowly. Could she share part of it with him? Perhaps a little…
“My parents were killed. I found them, their bodies, before I escaped from my home. It was…” There were no words, not ones strong enough to express her grief and pain.
His arms tightened around her. “My God. What happened? Why were they killed?”
Zehra curled her fingers into his shirt, desperate to hold onto him.
“My father stood in the way of a power-hungry man, someone he trusted. That man betrayed us to help another shah take our land. That is why I cannot go back.” It was all she could say. If she breathed Al-Zahrani’s name, made that threat in the gardens a reality, it could never be unsaid. It was better if Lawrence never knew of the danger. He might seek Al-Zahrani out, and that would get him killed because Lawrence was a man of honor and Al-Zahrani was not.
Lawrence stroked her hair with a soothing caress. “You’re safe with me. I swear to you.” Lawrence’s lips touched her forehead in a chaste kiss that seemed to string together parts of her broken heart. “Sleep. I’ll hold you as long as you want.”
“You’re a wonderful man,” she murmured, settling deeper into his arms as they both shifted to lie back on the bed.
He chuckled, the sound making her feel warm and relaxed.
“If you ever perchance meet my mother, you’ll have to tell her that. But I doubt she would believe you.”
She smiled a little. “Meet your mother? Heavens, let’s pray that never happens.”
“Why not?” He asked, half teasing, half serious.
Zehra nuzzled his chest. “Because she will undoubtedly wish to know how we met, and you will have to say, ‘Mother, she is my slave, I bought her at the most dreadful brothel for seven thousand pounds.’ I fear she would drop dead on the spot from such news.” She chuckled a little despite herself.
“Yes, well, I suspect learning I’d spent seven thousand pounds on anything might do that.”
“And not the part about owning a slave?” she teased.
Lawrence growled a little. “You are not my slave, Zehra. You’re free to come and go as you please. I only ask that you be safe. I can set you up in your own house, supply you with clothes, food, whatever you wish until we figure out what to do next.” He cleared his throat. “I ask for nothing in return.”
She found the slit in his shirt and rubbed her fingertips along his bare chest, enjoying how warm his skin was. She knew she was tempting him, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. He was strong, warm, and utterly masculine. He made her feel feminine and safe in a way she hadn’t in many weeks.
“You’re killing me,” he whispered.
“Am I?” she asked, smiling.
“Touch me anywhere else and I might not be able to stop from touching you back,” he warned, but there was a tenderness in the threat that made her burn with new hungers, ones she’d never felt for a man before. “Think of my poor honor.”
She continued to brush her fingers over his chest and buried her face in his shoulder. The feel of his arms around her and being tucked against his side was hypnotic. It was lulling her into sleep very, very slowly.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Good. Just remember, no nightmares can grow where sunlight blossoms.”
“What?” she asked, waking a little. It sounded like something her father might have said.
“It was something my father always said to me as a boy.” Lawrence chuckled. “He taught me to picture everything that frightened me as dark shadows and then to imagine that I carried a beam of sunlight in my hands, and I could shine that beam across the shadows, burning them away with the light.”
Zehra took a moment to imagine her past horrors, which were already cloaked in shadows, and then cast sunlight upon them in her mind. She couldn’t be sure if it worked, but she didn’t feel quite as helpless as she had before. The darkness had given these visions power, and imagining the light had given her strength. She only hoped it was enough.
“You are a wonderful man.”
Her rescuer brushed his knuckles across her cheek and let out a slow, deep breath, but he didn’t speak. She smiled a little but couldn’t ignore the lethargy creeping along her limbs as she fell into a blissful, dreamless sleep where she hoped nightmares could not follow.
Chapter 4
Lawrence woke to the chiming of the grandfather clock in the corridor outside his bedroom.
Half past seven. It was still early, and they had gone to bed in the wee hours of the morning.
He shifted, feeling the welcome weight of Zehra in his arms. Her head rested on
his chest, and their legs were entwined. Her chemise had ridden up, and he had one hand on her left thigh. She had one hand in his hair, as though she’d fallen asleep stroking her fingers through the strands. A smile twisted his lips. She liked his hair—just as he liked hers.
He wondered if she was genuinely at ease with him, or if it was something she’d done unconsciously during her sleep. Either way, he liked that she was touching him. He wanted her to feel safe with him, to feel she could be around him, even touch him without fear.
I want to be a man she can trust.
He carefully moved his hand from her thigh and reached up to stroke his palm over the dark coiling locks that tumbled down her back. She didn’t stir as he continued to play with the gleaming spools of her hair.
Memories of last night slowly returned, and he fought off a shudder. She’d seen her parents murdered…and then she was sold into slavery. She’d endured hell itself and was still alive, still sane.
My God… What was he going to do? She couldn’t go home—it was too dangerous. But what could she do here? Zehra was the most stunning creature he had ever beheld and would make any man a fine mistress, but she deserved more than simply being kept by some man, especially given her past. She was no one’s pet. And she should never be forced to do anything she didn’t wish to do.
He studied her delicate features, the small upturned nose, high cheekbones, and dainty chin. Despite her fine Persian features, there was something arrestingly familiar, almost English about her, but he couldn’t say what. Something prickled at the back of his mind, but he still couldn’t figure out why looking at her caused a stirring inside him.
He brushed her hair back from her neck and caught a glimpse of something he hadn’t seen last night. A golden chain hung around her neck. He traced the chain down to a thumb-sized locket that rested on the swell of her breasts. He lifted it up and examined it more closely. The scrollwork on the crest was familiar, giving a faint tug on his memory.
He began to open the locket but then froze. Guilt crept through him on stealthy paws. No doubt it held portraits of her parents and was the only thing she had left of them. It would be wrong to intrude upon such a memory uninvited. He laid the pendant back down and removed his hand. It was odd. He’d never worried about a woman like this before. Seduction had been a game and the woman the prize.
Yet nothing about Zehra was simple, and she was no prize to be won. He was tempted beyond imagining to seduce her, but he refused to be such a callous bastard. Imagining himself in her place for but a moment squelched any such urges, though not the passions that had kindled them.
I must be a man she can trust.
Lawrence waited several long moments, enjoying her quiet breathing and the simple feel of her body against his. She’d slept through the remainder of the night without fear or dreams as far as he could tell, and he had no desire to disturb her.
The door to his bedchamber opened, and his valet, George, peered in. Lawrence gave the man a small nod, and he crept into the room to see to his duties as quietly as possible. Only then did Lawrence, regretfully, slip out of bed. He tucked Zehra beneath the blankets, pausing to admire her exquisite beauty.
“Sleeping like a lamb, that one.” George chuckled as he and Lawrence stepped into the dressing room, where George was preparing a bath for him.
“Indeed. She needs it, poor thing.” Lawrence stripped out of his clothing.
His valet cleared his throat. “Is it…er…true, what Mr. MacTavish said about her, sir? That she came from the White House? She doesn’t look like a—” George blushed to the roots of his hair.
“That’s because she isn’t.” Lawrence didn’t want Zehra to be treated like anything other than the princess she seemed to be. “Treat her like royalty. Anything she needs, see that she has it.”
“Of course.” George bowed. “I’ll lay out your clothes and return when you’re ready to dress, unless you need anything else?”
“Thank you. I’ll be fine.” Lawrence hummed softly as he eased into the copper bathtub, sighing as hot water relaxed his stiff muscles.
Last evening had been a tense affair, and until this moment he hadn’t truly relaxed. Even his sleep had been fraught with memories of the auction and raid, and his current concerns were far from over. It was only a matter of time before his younger brother, Avery, came storming through the front door accusing him of the very crime he was supposed to help stop.
That thought ruined his perfectly good bath. He hastily scrubbed his body and washed his hair before climbing out and shaving, feeling vexed the entire time. Once he was done, he gathered the clothes that George had left him. He had just pulled on his trousers when Zehra appeared in the doorway, wearing her chemise and a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
Her eyes trailed down his body, then back up, before her face darkened with an enchanting blush. He couldn’t help but grin. He’d never been ashamed of his body, and he was aware that women found him attractive. He took after his elder brother, Lucien, in that and other things. They’d both spent years bedding enough women to make Don Juan blush, and he had escaped more than one forced trip to the altar by the skin of his teeth.
“Everything all right?” he asked, staying a safe distance from her. The last thing he wanted was to scare her after everything she’d been through.
“Yes. I woke to find you gone and…” She was still red-faced as she clutched the blanket tight around her. Her dark hair was unbound and fell around her shoulders in waves. He couldn’t forget the feel of his fingers sliding through those thick, glossy strands. He wanted so desperately to fist his hand in her hair and pull her head back for a kiss. His body tightened, and he forced himself to ignore his arousal, which was damned near impossible.
“I would never leave you alone. My entire staff is here if you ever feel for a moment that you are afraid or…”
“I’m not afraid,” she interjected. Her eyes flashed with defiant fire. “After everything I’ve seen… I am not afraid.”
He didn’t correct her by saying that even a brave soul could experience fear. As he’d once heard his father say, bravery was not the absence of fear, but having the courage to face it. She seemed ready to face hell itself, because she had already been through it.
“If you like, we can have breakfast in the dining room downstairs in an hour. My servants will have a fresh bath prepared for you.”
“Here?” she asked, glancing about his dressing room.
“Er…yes, or the room across the hall, if you wish it. I do not know what your customs might require, but I will do my best to accommodate you.”
Her mysterious eyes settled on him again, and she nodded. “I shall bathe here.”
It shouldn’t have pleased him, but it did. He did not typically like the idea of sharing his space with anyone, let alone a woman. Before, he’d kept his lovers in fancy houses across town, avoiding the long-term intimacy that came from shared spaces. Yet with Zehra, he wanted her close and within arm’s reach. Even across the hall seemed too far away. He told himself it was only because of his concern for her safety, and yet part of him called him out as a liar.
“Give me but a moment. I will finish dressing and send up footmen to draw fresh water.” Picturing Zehra naked in the copper tub made him burn, and he would have to leave the room or else face that temptation again.
Do not seduce her. Be a gentleman. She deserves that much from you.
She left the dressing room, giving him a minute to cool himself down. After he’d finished getting dressed, he exited his dressing room and found Zehra by the freshly lit fire, a book in her hands.
“Catching up on a bit of reading?” He winced, regretting his poor choice of words. It wasn’t as if they had books on board slave ships. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
She looked up, a small smile on her lips. “It is all right. I understand what you meant. And this is certainly an interesting book. This woman finds herself stranded on an island after her ship bre
aks apart on the rocks. She swims to shore but is utterly alone until she spies a figure on a distant hill…”
“Aw… You found out my secret.” He recognized the book. It was called Lady Isabelle and the Lord of the Dark Isle. It was one of L. R. Gloucester’s works, a rather torrid Gothic novel.
“Your secret?” Zehra’s eyes narrowed.
He chuckled. “Yes, I like to read novels. This one is a bit…well, I won’t spoil it for you.” He couldn’t wait to see what she thought when she reached the scene where the mysterious lord makes love to Isabelle in the library after dinner in his castle. Would Zehra find any pleasure in that? Or would she be outraged and scandalized? He hoped it was the former. She didn’t seem to be the sort of woman who abhorred pleasure; there was an openness and sensuality to her that he could not miss.
“Hmm.” She turned her attention back to the book, but he had the distinct impression that the second he turned his back on her, she would be watching him.
Appreciate the view, Miss Darzi, because I will be sure to do the same.
With a sly grin, he exited his chambers and called for a footman to fill the bath again. He also found one of the upstairs maids, a girl named Eva, to tend to Zehra for now while they searched for a proper maid.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs and entered his study, he skidded to a halt. Someone was sitting at his desk, looking over some papers. Avery looked up, and his expression was filled with disappointment, just as he’d expected.
“How the bloody hell did you get in here? MacTavish would’ve sent for me.”
Avery scoffed. “Not likely, brother. If old MacTavish had heard me, I would not be fit for my duties.”
Lawrence crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for his little brother, a damned spy of all things, to start lecturing him on morality.
“Well?” Avery asked expectantly, still seated at Lawrence’s desk. The position of control had been put in Avery’s favor, and Lawrence didn’t like it one bit.
“Well, what?” he snapped back. Lord, sometimes Avery behaved just like their father. He was the only Russell child out of the entire brood who took after him. It made Avery their mother’s favorite.
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