A Most Naked Solution

by Anna Randol

  A thin, dark man slanted toward the house, his gait smooth and posture straight.

  Bennett pulled back to his place behind the tree. One of the beaus the ambassador had mentioned? The door flew open at the stranger’s approach, and Miss Sinclair raced toward him. Bennett braced for some tawdry lover’s greeting. Instead, she stopped a few feet from the man. The Turkish man bowed, but she didn’t return the gesture. A servant then.

  Miss Sinclair draped a length of fabric over her hair and lower face as she talked. She nodded to the man once more, passed by him, and leaped into the carriage.

  The coach jolted into motion.

  What did she consider more important than a meeting to ensure her safety? Bennett swore under his breath and abandoned the scanty shade offered by the palm. She had agreed to work for the British army. It was time she learned to obey her commanding officer.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mari choked on the cloyingly sweet smoke in the dark opium den. How could her father stand this place? She understood that once he’d smoked the opium, the room no doubt resembled a luxurious palace, but he chose to enter while still sober.

  The lamps used to vaporize the noxious substance flickered dimly. She pushed aside the faded, filthy curtain enshrouding the bed the proprietor had pointed her toward. The man inside flinched at the sudden intrusion of light falling across his sallow complexion.

  He offered her a beatific smile. “Mari-girl, how lovely to see you.”

  The tightness in her jaw made it near impossible to speak. “Time to come home, Father.”

  “Ah, but I’m having such a lovely time with all my friends here.”

  She glared at the odd assortment of men who littered the small establishment, all either in the process of losing themselves to opium or helping unfortunates to stay there.

  “These men aren’t your friends.” She could have bitten her tongue as she spoke. She knew her arguments had no effect; why couldn’t she stay her words?

  “Ah, my dear, why are you upset? Am I late for tea, perhaps?”

  She blinked back a stray tear. Confound the smoke. “Come.”

  He sat up in his small enclosure. She offered him a hand, but he waved it off. “Don’t fret yourself.” He swung his feet off the bench and rose, swaying dangerously. “It’s a surprise that clarity of mind is not accompanied by clarity of motion.” He chuckled at his wit.

  Mari tucked herself under his arm before he fell. No, it wasn’t a surprise. It had happened earlier this week and the week before and every week since she’d started fetching him home herself. She refused to meet the smirking gaze of the proprietor as she half dragged her father from the den. Luckily, her father had entered one of his languid moods and did nothing to resist her. He hummed tunelessly as they walked, lost in his own thoughts. She kept her head down to avoid the interested stares of the men drinking coffee outside at the nearby kahve. She hated to see the curiosity, or worse, pity in their eyes.

  Only a few more seconds and they’d reach the coach. They would return home, and if the week was a good one, she’d be free from this for another four or five days. If it was a bad week . . . Well, she refused to think further on it.

  A solid wall of green wool stepped into her path. Mari careened into it. Her father teetered in her hold until a large, scarred hand gripped her father’s shoulder to steady him.

  She grimaced and glared at the pale, puckered lines slashed across the back of the hand. She had to crane her neck to see more than the black braiding and silver buttons of his uniform. Feeling disadvantaged, she stepped back, dragging her father with her.

  That hand did not match the rest of the man.

  A tall, blond Adonis escaped from a Greek pedestal.

  When Achilla, her maid, had described Mari’s new protector in those terms earlier, Mari had attributed the effusive praise to her maid’s approval of the male sex in general. After all, it hadn’t taken much to convince Achilla to take her place at the meeting and get the first glimpse of Mari’s protector.

  Achilla hadn’t exaggerated.

  Mari shook off her initial awe. Ridiculous. His hand obviously belonged to him. She scanned him again. Indeed, his nose appeared as if it had been broken a time or two. His black eyelashes were definitely too long for a man and too dark for a man with golden hair. A small curved scar indented his left cheek, its color a shade lighter than the ruddy color staining his perfectly chiseled cheekbones.

  Leave it to the British army to dress in a uniform designed for the damp dales of England while in an Ottoman summer. How exactly did he propose to ensure she did the Crown’s bidding when he might expire from the heat at any moment? Her estimation of the man dipped further.

  Confound it. She’d hoped by sending Achilla to the meeting this morning, she would be able to fetch her father without interference and buy herself a short respite.

  She’d failed on both accounts.

  His steel blue eyes raked her with an insultingly frank perusal. She stiffened. None of her servants would’ve betrayed her whereabouts. How had he found her?

  Her arm tightened on her father. The major had followed her. Skulked after her like a common footpad. Her business here didn’t involve him. It didn’t concern the British government or affect the agreement to gather more information they’d coerced out of her. He had no right to intrude.

  His eyes rested on her father, and pity entered into his gaze.

  Her free hand clenched at her side. How dare he? How dare he judge her or her father? She stepped to the right to move around the major.

  He mirrored her motion. “Miss Sinclair?”

  Mari turned back the other way. He had followed her to the opium den, and he could trail her home because she had no intention of speaking to him here. Thanks to her father’s weakness, her life provided enough fodder for public discourse. She refused to add to the subject matter.

  The major blocked her again.

  She exhaled through clenched teeth. “Would you be so good as to move, sir? My burden is not precisely light.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re Miss Sinclair.” The words were not a question.

  Major Prestwood moved toward her father, but she led him a step out of the major’s reach. “And you, sir, are arrogant and overbearing. Step aside.”

  He did not comply. “You could use my aid.”

  “I can manage. Besides, I don’t know you.”

  His eyebrow rose. “If you had kept our appointment this morning, you would.”

  Mari glared at him, grateful her veil hid her blush. “As you can see, I had other pressing concerns.”

  “Concerns that should have been brought to me.”

  Mari had to count to ten before speaking. Insufferable, insufferable man. “I know nothing of you, sir, and from this brief acquaintance, I am convinced that I would be most pleased to keep it so. I did not ask for your assistance and I do not desire it.”

  Her words didn’t have a noticeable effect on the man standing before her. In fact, he appeared bored by her outburst. “I’m to watch over you. My orders are clear whether you sanction them or not.”

  The man could teach a few things to a stone wall. Was he afraid she’d renege on her agreement? That she’d regain her senses and run away from all this? Her shoulder ached from supporting her father, and she shifted under the weight. Oh, she’d do their bidding. The British had ensured that.

  And she’d been too weak to deny them.

  She directed her disgust at him, grateful to have a target other than herself. “Fine. We will discuss it later over tea. Or do I have to clear that with you as well?”

  Major Prestwood stiffened, and she gloried in provoking the small reaction.

  “So much rage directed at the world,” her father sighed next to her, startling her.

  Mari gritted her teeth. Her father was right. There was no point in letting this man aggravate her. If she had her way, she wouldn’t have to deal with him much longer.

  As she calmed, how
ever, she noted a low rumble. The men at the kahve across the street gestured in her direction and argued with one another.

  Oh heavens. It must appear a veiled woman was being accosted by a British soldier. Ottoman men took the safety of their women quite seriously.

  Major Prestwood continued to glare at her. “Why do you wear this? You are British.” He tugged on the corner of her veil, and it fell away from her face.

  Two men at the kahve leaped to their feet with cries of outrage.

  Her breath lodged in her throat and she darted them a quick glance.

  Major Prestwood followed her gaze. The situation finally penetrated her protector’s thick skull. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.

  The aggressive action only further enraged their audience, and the two young, turbaned men pushed their chairs back with a clatter. Their yellow boots and clean-shaven faces marked them as Janissaries stationed in Constantinople, members of the sultan’s overstaffed and underused military force. Men bored and longing for a fight. They drew their swords.

  Mari bit back an oath. She had to save Major Prestwood. Although life would be much easier if she did not . . . She sighed and lowered her voice. “If you value your life and various parts of your anatomy, start walking with me to my coach.”

  She pulled her father, but he ignored her urgent tugs and kept strolling as if he hadn’t a care. And considering his poppy-eaten state, he most likely didn’t.

  Staccato footsteps pounded on the road.

  They wouldn’t make it to the coach before the soldiers intercepted them.

  Prestwood stepped closer to her side. “I’ll hold them back while you get to safety.”

  Mari briefly closed her eyes. Perhaps she’d be doing the world a favor if she allowed the camel-headed man to be cut to pieces and left at the city gate. “I’m in no danger. They’re advancing because they think you’re accosting me.”

  Prestwood stepped back from her. “The devil you say.”

  “Just get in the coach. I’ll deal with the men.”

  Prestwood glowered at her. “I will not leave you to face armed men.”

  The men were almost on top of them.

  Confound it. Before she could rethink the monumental foolishness of her actions, she let go of her father and grabbed Major Prestwood by the front of his emerald jacket. “You are right, my love. We should never fight again!” She rose on tiptoe, and planted her lips on his hard, unyielding mouth.

  The two Janissaries skidded to a halt mere feet from them, the steel of their swords glinting at the edge of her vision. They argued with each other in Turkish about the nature of the kiss.

  She had to convince them. She pried Prestwood’s hand from the hilt of his sword and then slowly slid her hands up the major’s chest. Heavens, the man’s lips weren’t the only thing about him that was hard. She wrapped her arms around his neck, threading her fingers through the deceptively silken blond hair that escaped his hat to brush his collar. Sweet heavens, what good did it do for a man to have hair so soft? The strands slid through her fingers, making her long to clench her hands tightly so they didn’t escape her. Panting, she lifted her lips a scant inch from his. “Pull the veil from my hair so they can see who I am. I’ve been here to collect my father before.”

  Prestwood’s arms wrapped around her waist and his lips softened, sweeping over hers. “If you are going to sell this as a lovers’ quarrel, you need to act like you’ve been kissed before.” He caught her gasp of outrage by deepening the kiss.

  With a gentle tug, he drew the veil from her hair. He slowly sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the trapped flesh.

  But she wasn’t about to let him control the kiss. This was her plan. And she had been kissed before, curse him. True, it had been absolutely nothing like this one, but if he was concerned about convincing their audience, he need not fear. She had read quite a bit on the subject.

  She pressed herself more fully against him and copied what he’d just done to her lips. But her studies hadn’t prepared her for the jolt of pleasure that came from the small hitch in his breathing. She wanted to crow in triumph, but then his hand dropped down to cup her backside—her backside!—and she was sure she’d be shocked later, but all she could think about now was trumping his move. And the fact that his body was pressing against all the spots begging to be touched, sending heat between her legs.

  She groaned and shifted, her nipples rubbing the rough wool of his jacket though the silk of her caftan. She gasped at her audacity and the foreign sensation. Heavens, that was—she rubbed against him again—incredible.

  What would his hands feel like there? Would his touch ease the burning or only increase it?

  His hand caressed up her side, promising to reveal the answer. One more inch and his finger would brush the side of her breast. His hand stalled so close, the warmth of it heated the very flesh that ached for his touch.

  Did he seek to drive her mad?

  Wantonly, she leaned forward. But Prestwood stepped back, causing her to stumble.

  The Janissaries had sheathed their swords. Around them, the crowd of men cheered and hooted.

  How long ago had the danger passed? And how had she allowed herself to become so lost that she had no idea of the answer? She spun away and collected her father, who studied a rock in the road.

  “Do you suppose this rock might have been trod upon by an ancient Roman?”

  She helped him to his feet and resisted the urge to snap at him. “Perhaps, Father. Take it with you if you want.” She turned back to check on Prestwood. He stood directly behind her. His face wore the same arrogant, bored expression from earlier.

  The cad. As if she had not just saved his skin. As if he had not just kissed her so senseless she’d forgotten herself in the middle of a public square.

  The British might have been able to blackmail her into continuing her work, but that didn’t mean she had to accept the watchdog they sent to ensure she bowed to their wishes.

  They might have been able to gain her compliance with threats, but they didn’t control her as completely as they thought.

  Bennett sat in the backward-facing seat of the coach and glared at the other two occupants. What in the blazes had just happened? Not only had he been so distracted by the aggravating Miss Sinclair that he’d failed to notice the discontented audience, but then he’d mauled her in the street like a randy recruit.

  If he’d thought the urge to write about her strange, it was nothing compared to the yearning he now felt to touch her again. To experience the vibrancy that had shaken him to his core.

  Experience the vibrancy?

  Colonel Smollet-Green had been correct. Poetry led to weak, milksop officers.

  Bennett had been too long on the battlefield and too long from the soft touch of a woman. Nothing more. He needed to bed one, not write about one.

  He studied Miss Sinclair. Her hazel eyes were indeed incredible—soft brown pools stirred with ribbons of jade and flecks of gold surrounded by thick, dark lashes his sisters would have killed for. Her eyes slanted upward slightly at the corners, granting her an exotic, mysterious air that promised silken sheets, spiced oils, and nights of untold delight.

  The eyes rested in a sun-kissed face underlined by strong cheekbones and a straight, Roman nose. Her lips—Bennett pulled his gaze from their seductive, just-kissed fullness. His memory was far too active to dwell on that feature.

  Rather than a soft English kitten, she was a panther. And like a panther, she appeared ready to go for his throat.

  He met the challenge in her gaze with one of his own. She shouldn’t have tried to deceive him.

  Completely and utterly unacceptable. Sophia had done that, allowing herself to be beaten time and time again.

  Love for his sister had made him gullible and blind. He’d believed her when she had not attended family gatherings, claiming a sudden illness, even though she’d never been sickly as a child. He had believed her when she’d cla
imed the bruise on her cheek resulted from bumping into a door. Hell, he’d even teased her about it.

  But he’d allow no emotions to interfere with his protection of Miss Sinclair. As soon as he received the locations the government wanted sketched, he’d arrange for her to draw them. Then he could leave.

  Her hazel eyes flashed. “Stop glowering. It isn’t my fault I had to save your life.”

  No, he wouldn’t let her rouse him this time. “Thank you for your quick thinking.”

  She frowned and lowered her brows. Searching for the trap in his words, no doubt. She crossed her arms and stared out the window.

  Her father, Sir Reginald, slouched next to her, a bemused smile on his face. Sir Reginald had given his daughter her coloring, but there the similarities ended. His face lacked the sharp angles that defined hers and his addiction had taken its toll, robbing the man’s skin of luster and his eyes of life.

  Miss Sinclair glanced at him and caught his survey of her father. She quickly turned back to glare at the pane of glass beside her. Too quickly.

  He sought to put her at ease. “His sickness is no reflection on you.”

  Her mouth dropped open and her face jerked toward him. “Of all the arrogant, overbearing— Why do you suppose for one minute that I care a whit for your opinion about me or my father? Just because some imbecile assigned me to you, it doesn’t allow you free rein in my private life.”

  Bennett clenched the seat cushion until his fingers ached. Control. The army had taught him control. As a Rifleman, he could hide unmoving in the brush for hours while enemy troops moved inches from his position. A mere slip of a woman didn’t have the power to rile him. “On the contrary, for the next month, it belongs to me entirely.”

  Hell, how had that escaped?

  Miss Sinclair sputtered. “The devil it does!”

  Bennett rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I’m here to protect you—”

  “That’s a polite way of putting it. I agreed to do the drawings, not to accept a jailer.”