He frowned, his thumb brushing away her tears. “Come, Emma, it is not in your nature to lose hope.”
She shook her head, potently aware of the heat filling the carriage and distant chanting from the mosque. Never had Russia, and the life she had fought to build, seemed so far away.
“It is not so much a matter of losing hope as it is accepting I do not have the skills necessary to be useful to my sister.”
The carriage came to a halt, and with care, Rajih led her through the gardens to the seraglio, the whisper of his robes melding with the tinkle of the fountains in an oddly soothing sound.
“You are tired and hungry,” he assured her. “By morning you will have regained your spirits and no doubt will have some new means to terrify me.”
Emma nodded, realizing he was right. She could not recall the last time she had slept through the night.
“Yes, I am tired.”
Halting at the arched entry into the harem’s private gardens, he motioned toward a slender woman covered in veils who hurried forward.
“Put yourself in Samira’s hands.” He brushed his lips over her forehead. “She has a magical touch.”
With an uncharacteristic sense of weariness, Emma allowed herself to be led into the cool shadows of the harem. Perhaps it was the heat, or the weeks of gnawing anxiety, or the long journey, but suddenly Emma felt in dire need of a few hours of peace.
Reaching the inner apartments, Emma allowed Samira to help remove her gown and undergarments. She sighed in pleasure as the heavy fabric slid away and she understood the logic of the loose robes and silken trousers preferred by the local women. It was far too warm for European clothing.
Once naked she allowed the servant to lead her into the sunken baths, stretching out her body and leaning her head against the tiled edge to study the glass dome that loomed above her.
Slowly the tension drained from her muscles and she cleared her mind of Anya and Dimitri and Caliph Rajih. For a few hours she desired only to forget her troubles.
A delectable hour later she left the baths and wrapped herself in a thin towel. Samira gestured for her to follow her into a shadowed alcove where velvet pillows had been piled in the center of the tiled floor. Arranged beside the pillows was a silver tray with various bottles of oils and burning pots of incense.
There was another flurry of gestures and Emma awkwardly lowered herself facedown onto the pillows, hiding her face in the velvet softness as she felt the towel being tugged aside. She was not a noblewoman accustomed to having servants seeing her naked, and certainly not touching her with such intimacy.
She heard a shuffle of feet and the clink of bottles before she sensed someone kneeling at her side. Warm oil was poured over her bare back, the intoxicating scent teasing at her nose and sliding sensually over her skin.
Still adjusting to the strange sensations, her breath caught in pleasurable surprise as warm male fingers stroked down the curve of her back. It felt…sinful. Decadent. And utterly wonderful.
“Rajih,” she breathed, not needing to turn her head to recognize his scent.
“Does my touch please you?” he murmured softly.
“You should not—”
“Shh.” He spoke directly into her ear, his fingers lingering on the rigid muscles at the base of her spine. “Allow me to ease your tension.”
“I thought men were forbidden to enter the women’s quarters unless they were…”
He chuckled as she stumbled over the word. “Eunuchs?”
“Yes.”
“But I am not just a man,” he said, his innate arrogance threaded through his dark voice. “I am caliph. I go where I please. And it pleases me very much to be here with you.”
She shivered, knowing she should send him away. “I will not become your concubine.”
“Perhaps you should wait until you are asked to fill such a position, Emma.”
“But you…”
Baffled by his reprimand, Emma shifted so she could glance over her shoulder, her words faltering at the teasing smile that curved his lips.
Rajih was always handsome, but with his robes loosened to reveal a glimpse of his golden chest and his carved features softened, he was near irresistible.
“I am offered the finest beauties to be found throughout the world,” he reminded her, his slender fingers wielding their magic as they moved up her back. “Women with hair of fire or as dark and glossy as a raven’s wing. Women who have been trained in the fine arts of pleasing a man or those who have been sequestered since they were babes to ensure their purity.”
Despite the mocking shimmer in his eyes, Emma knew he was not boasting. He was a prince among his people, not to mention extraordinarily attractive, and she was quite certain any woman would consider it an honor to capture his attention. And, of course, in this part of the world, it would be very likely that the various sheiks and clan chiefs would offer the most beautiful of their women for his pleasure.
She smiled, astonishingly indifferent to her shameless lack of clothing and his brazen touch as she followed his lead.
“Some of them princesses, no doubt.”
“Certainly.”
“Hmm.” Her gaze swept around the shadowed alcove. “And yet your harems remain empty.”
Without giving her time to anticipate his intent, he bent down to brush his lips along the line of her shoulder.
“As you know, I have been away from my home for several weeks.”
Her hands clenched the pillows, her body reacting to his skillful touch despite her reluctant heart.
“And your females managed to escape during your absence? How unfortunate.”
He nibbled a path to her neck. “Do not fear, I have only to reveal my interest in seeking companionship to have the seraglio filled with graceful females, all eager to please their master.”
She made a sound of disgust even as her body threatened to melt beneath his warm caresses.
“Master?”
He nipped the lobe of her ear, the heady scents of incense and precious oils making it difficult to think clearly.
“But of course. At heart I am still a savage.”
“Then it is convenient I am not destined to be a member of your harem. No man shall ever be my master.”
The moment her brave words echoed through the still air, Emma knew she had made a mistake. Rajih sucked in a sharp breath, his hands sliding into her damp curls and arching her neck so his lips could create havoc along the line of her throat.
“You challenge me to prove you wrong, habiba,” he husked.
“I—” A burst of heat exploded in the pit of her stomach as he reached the sensitive spot at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “Oh. That is not fair.”
His laughter feathered over her skin. “Are there rules to our game?”
“You think this is a game?”
“A most delightful diversion.”
Her toes curled as she struggled to think clearly. “Am I the prize to be won?”
“If you prefer, I am willing to be your reward,” he chivalrously offered, shifting until his hard arousal pressed against her thigh. “Tell me what you desire.”
Belatedly realizing that matters had progressed beyond what was comfortable, Emma stiffened.
“Rajih…”
She was not certain what she intended to say, but in the end it did not matter as there was the rustle of robes and a veiled servant was suddenly kneeling in the doorway of the alcove.
“Master,” the woman murmured.
Swearing at the intrusion, Rajih wrapped Emma in the towel and shifted to block her from the view of the servant.
“I requested that we not be interrupted.”
“Forgive me, Caliph, but your steward insisted you would wish to speak with Girard Bey.” Her head was pressed to the tile floor. “He has information that is of interest to you.”
For a moment Emma could feel the tension coiling through Rajih as he battled with the urge to send the servant away a
nd his obvious curiosity about his unexpected guest.
At last he thrust his fingers through the dark satin of his hair and accepted the inevitable.
“Offer him coffee and assure him I will join him shortly,” he commanded.
“Yes, Caliph.”
In silence, the servant rose and vanished from the alcove. Rajih turned to offer Emma a tight smile, his eyes smoldering with a frustrated desire.
“Forgive me.” He rose to his feet in an elegant motion, straightened his robes. “I fear our entertainment will have to be postponed until later.”
“Wait.” Clutching the towel about her body, Emma rose and grasped his arm. “Please.”
He covered her hand with his own, his eyes smoldering with promise.
“So eager, Emma? I promise not to keep you waiting for long.”
She ignored his sensuous words, her thoughts returning to Anya.
“Does this man have information concerning my sister?”
His lips twisted, as if chagrined by her response, but his voice was gentle.
“No, Emma. Girard Bey is very much a gentleman of the city. I must depend upon those who consider the desert their home to locate the missing caravan.” He lifted her hand to his lips before heading out of the alcove. “Return to the baths. I will join you as soon as I am able.”
Emma forced herself to count to one hundred before she scurried to her private chambers and hurriedly pulled on the loose satin robes in rich blue and trimmed in gold that had been left on the low bed. It was odd to feel the cool satin brush her bare skin with no undergarments to act as a barrier, but she was in too great a hurry to consider modesty.
With quick steps she moved through the harem, ignoring the guards who stood at the doors and the numerous servants who gawked as she headed toward the formal quarters of the house. She was not certain whether or not females were allowed beyond the seraglio, but she was determined to follow Rajih.
It was not that she suspected he would deliberately lie to her, she assured herself. But she sensed he would be quite willing to hide information. Even if it concerned Anya.
It was the sound of voices that led her toward the large saloon on the opposite side of the house. Halting at a side door, she peered into the room, absently admiring the mosaic on the floor and the soaring ceiling that was painted with a lovely scene of a desert oasis. The low divans were crimson velvet with gold satin pillows and the high windows were shuttered against the sun, leaving the area bathed in welcome shadows. On one divan a middle-aged gentleman in a pale green, European-cut jacket and black breeches was settled, his thin face and small eyes reminding Emma of a rodent.
“Caliph,” he was saying, his thick French accent revealing his heritage. “Forgive my intrusion.”
Emma pressed against the door frame as Rajih appeared through an archway, a silver tray in his hands. A faint smile touched her lips. While the Frenchman was obviously dressed in the latest fashion, and possessed the air of a well-pampered nobleman, he was easily overshadowed by Rajih who was wearing what many men would consider little more than a dress and carrying a tray as if he were a common maid.
There was something harshly masculine about the Caliph that would cast any other man in the shade.
Well, any man but Dimitri Tipova.
She scrubbed the treacherous thought from her mind as she watched Rajih set the tray on a low table in front of the divan.
“My doors are always open to you, my friend,” he said, reaching for the crystal decanter. “Sherry?”
The stranger leaned forward to grasp a small glass, and then—to Emma’s shock—tucked a tidy pile of francs into the inner pocket of his jacket.
“You know my weaknesses too well,” he said with an oily smile.
Rajih shrugged, seemingly accustomed to offering money along with his sherry.
“Pleasures are not weaknesses and it is my honor to ensure your stay in my country is one of comfort.”
The man sipped his sherry. “So kind.”
“I presume that you have information for me?” Rajih prompted.
“Oui.” He set aside the empty glass. “You requested that I send you notice if I learned of any Russians arriving in Cairo.”
“And?” Rajih demanded.
“I have reason to believe the Russian ambassador has just welcomed a small party into his home.”
Emma frowned. Was it possible that the Russian ambassador was involved in the slave trade? And if he was, could he truly be so shameless as to have the girls brought to his home?
It seemed a needless risk when the pasha was so adamantly opposed to the barbaric practice.
“Do you have a name?” Rajih asked.
“Dimitri Tipova,” the Frenchman said, unaware as Emma pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle her shocked cry of disbelief. “So far as I can determine he has no title, but it seems as if he is being offered a gracious welcome so he must be a favorite of the Romanovs. Is that the man you seek?”
Rajih dipped his head, his expression resigned rather than astonished. Almost as if he had been expecting Dimitri to travel to Cairo.
“It is.”
The Frenchman grimaced. “It will not be an easy matter to have him removed from Cairo if he is under the protection of the ambassador.”
“Do not trouble yourself, Girard,” Rajih smoothly assured him. “I will deal with Dimitri Tipova.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DIMITRI WAS WELL AWARE that his ability to blend into any surrounding was his greatest talent.
He could move as easily through the gutters of Moscow as across the glittering ballroom of the Winter Palace. And with the proper clothing, no one would suspect he was an imposter.
Such a skill had allowed him to rise from a lowly pick-pocket to the Beggar Czar.
Now, however, he felt distinctly disturbed.
It was not the Turkish robes he had donned in favor of his tailored clothing, or the small boys who stood at his side waving palm leaves in an effort to stir the stifling heat that filled the low brick house with its arched entryways and tiled floors. He had traveled through the near Orient on several occasions and had become accustomed to their traditions.
No, his unease was caused entirely by the fat gentleman sprawled on the low divan across from him.
Dimitri wasn’t privy to Alexander Pavlovich’s reason for offering Baron Koman the position of Ambassador to Egypt, but he suspected the czar had been anxious to rid himself of the vile man’s presence. Why else would he send him to the most distant post possible, regardless of the fact he was utterly incompetent?
Dressed in loose robes and puffing on a water pipe, the rotund Russian lounged on his cushions, waiting for the pretty maid to refill his plate. His blond hair was thinning and his heavy features already red and swollen from his years of dissipation.
He reminded Dimitri of the decaying ruins outside of Cairo that were being swept away by the desert sands. He could only wish the same fate for Baron Koman.
Oblivious to Dimitri’s seething dislike, Koman waved his full plate in Dimitri’s direction.
“Oxtail?”
“Thank you, no.” Dimitri hid a shudder as he rose from the divan and paced toward the fountain in the center of the floor. The heat and smoke from Koman’s pipe were making his stomach churn. “I prefer to avoid a heavy meal so early in the day.”
“Which accounts for your fine figure while mine…” The Baron laughed. “Well, it sadly reveals my love for my fine chef and my distinct distaste for bestirring myself. I blame the damnable heat. Only a savage would be foolish enough to dash about when a sensible man would seek the shade.”
“The natives would probably be equally shocked to witness us tunneling a path through the snow.”
“True enough, my boy.” The baron licked his fingers, eyeing Dimitri with a curious gaze. So far as he knew, Dimitri was a favored friend of Alexander Pavlovich, as well as of the Duke of Huntley, who had come in search of Russian girls being sold in the slave
trade. There was no need to explain that he was also a hardened criminal who was under threat of death in a number of countries…although not Egypt. At least not yet. “And there are benefits to living in a place that is not entirely civilized,” Koman continued, a lecherous gleam in his eyes. “When you have finished your meal, we will travel to the bath where a man may find whatever pleasure he might desire.”
Having visited a number of baths in Cairo, Dimitri was unfortunately aware of what pleasures were offered.
“An enticing invitation, but I am anxious to speak with the caliph.”
“My dear Tipova, as I warned you last eve, a man cannot simply demand an audience with the caliph,” the baron protested. “There is very rigid protocol that must be followed.”
Not for the first time, Dimitri regretted his decision to call upon the ambassador. On the journey to Egypt it had seemed a reasonable decision to seek out the baron and request his hospitality for the duration of his stay. Huntley had warned Dimitri that rampaging like a madman through Cairo in search of Emma would not only make enemies of the locals, but would embarrass the woman he had come to claim.
Now he accepted that he had sadly miscalculated. The fat buffoon was never going to stir himself. Besides, Dimitri was in no mood for diplomacy. The need to find Emma was like a savage fire burning in his gut. He did not care if he had to sift the damnable country sand grain by sand grain to find her.
“I have a letter of introduction from the Duke of Huntley,” he growled. “What more could I need?”
“Who is to say with these heathens? Best for me to approach the caliph when the timing is appropriate.” The baron’s tone was patronizing. “Until then I promise to keep you suitably entertained. You mentioned an interest in the local brothels? I know of a female who can dance the—”
“My only interest lies in finding the Russian girls who were stolen from St. Petersburg,” he interrupted.
Koman heaved a deep sigh as he struggled to lift his considerable bulk off the divan.
“I would expect such a tedious lack of appreciation for the exotic pleasures from Alexander Pavlovich,” the older man mourned. “But I had expected better from you, Tipova.”
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