Fortune's Flower (Passport to Romance Book 1)

by Anthea Lawson

  “What?” Richard looked from one to the other. “What are you talking about?”

  “The mosaics! We are going to see the Roman mosaics.”

  James nodded. The look on her face was worth all the effort it had taken to arrange this. “Come.” He held out his hand.

  An arched door in the wall swung inward. “Welcome, James Huntington and guests,” a young, turbaned man said. “I am Ahmed, your escort, showing you the wonders of the palace. Please, be welcome.”

  “We are honored to be your guests.” James let the young man usher them into a courtyard filled with an orderly planting of orange trees. Fruit and flowers mingled together in their branches, and the sun sparkled off a fountain in a square pool at the center.

  “How enchanting.” Lily took a deep breath of the scented air.

  She looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her, framed against the glossy leaves. He had a sudden, ridiculous urge to sketch her, but no markings he made on paper could hope to capture the essence of the woman who stood in front of him.

  Their guide waved them forward. “Shall we go? There is much to see. The hall of the mosaics is this way.” He led the party to an arched door, the lintel inlaid with blue and yellow tiles.

  Inside, the air was cooler and the light dim after the bright courtyard. The room soared two stories, supported by inlaid columns. A balcony ran around the upper perimeter, and windows high above let in shafts of light.

  “Here are the great artist’s treasures of my homeland,” Ahmed said, gesturing to the richly patterned mosaics set in the pale marble floor. “They are nearly two thousand years old, to when Rome ruled here.”

  James watched Lily closely, wanting to savor her every reaction. For a moment she stood unmoving, then slowly began to walk between the mosaics. Her eyes traveled over each work of art as she paused to admire the details—but there was something more in her expression. Joy? Thankfulness? Pleasure at seeing the mosaics? He did not know—only that when she looked up at him, her eyes alight, something inside him gave way. It was all he could do not to gather her into the center of his embrace.

  “James,” she said, voice filled with emotion. “They’re more beautiful than I ever imagined.”

  “I’m glad they please you.” If his quest failed, if they had to leave Tunisia tomorrow, the entire adventure would’ve been worth it just for this moment. Just to see the joy in her eyes.

  She held out her hand to him and drew him to the edge of the tiles. “Look here—see the vines twining up out of the blue vases. There are angels, or cupids, in the branches—and what is that exotic bird?” She leaned closer. “It would be impressive if it were painted, but to think they achieved the pattern and depth with tiny squares of glass.”

  “You like this one?” Ahmed gestured. “Come, I will show you the rose lady.” They followed him down the great hall. “Here she is. With the sun shining upon her, she is shown in all her beauty.”

  Sunlight beamed down from the upper windows, slanting onto the mosaic before them. The colors of the tesserae deepened and brightened like a thousand tiny jewels.

  “Spectacular,” Lily said. “Look at her basket of roses—it glows. Why, she could be in any garden in London, gathering blooms on a bright summer morning. I think we are not so different from the ancients who made these.”

  “Except for their taste in clothes,” said Richard. “I don’t think you’ll find anyone picking roses in London so dressed—or should I say, undressed…” He bent forward for a closer inspection. “Can you imagine anyone in Society picking roses with just a wisp of drapery over her thighs? She’d better mind the thorns.”

  “It’s a good thing you play the piano so well.” Lily took out her sketchbook. “Otherwise I’d think you completely devoid of artistic sentiment.” She turned to Ahmed. “Don’t you have any of heroes slaying wild beasts to occupy his simple mind while I sketch?”

  Ahmed grinned. “I have better than that. I will show him the mosaic of the wild beast devouring the hero. It is over here…”

  James watched the two make their way across the hall, then wandered among the mosaics. He needed to put some distance between himself and Lily if he was to allow her the space and time to sketch.

  She shared the rose lady’s light, her pencil driving across the page, the rest of her perfectly still, blue-green eyes narrowed in concentration. She glowed, her dress illuminated, her face radiant. Then she paused to turn the page and glanced up, sending him a quick smile before returning to her work.

  Forcing his gaze away, he continued to stroll the room, describing a slow orbit around her until Richard and Ahmed returned.

  “Lily,” her cousin said, “you don’t intend to spend all afternoon here, do you? Ahmed says the palace stables hold the finest horses in all Africa, and there is a garden with a reflecting pool and a parade ground, and the walls of the harem compound to see.”

  She glanced at the mosaics laid out down the hall and bit her lip. “Well, I was hoping…”

  Richard frowned. “Ahmed, are they really the fastest horses in Africa?”

  “Oh yes, without a doubt. No others can compare.”

  James stepped forward. “I’ll stay with Lily. I had a chance to see some of the palace on my earlier visit.”

  “Do you mean it? I will not be long, I promise.”

  “Off with you, then,” Lily said. “I can see that you won’t be happy until you have beheld the horses.”

  “If you need refreshment,” Ahmed said, “I have prepared a room with food and drink upstairs.” He indicated the flight of stairs at the far end of the hall. “Now come, Richard. We will pass near the harem on our way. You may look at the outer walls, but no higher, for to glimpse a concubine of the bey is to forfeit your eyes.” The two young men walked down the hall in animated conversation.

  As the door closed behind them, Lily looked at James. “I daresay we won’t see Richard for some time. He really is over-fond of horses. But won’t you be dreadfully bored?”

  He strode over to where she stood beside the rose woman and held out his hand. “No,” he said. “I don’t imagine that I will.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  James could see the warm color rise on Lily’s cheeks. She glanced down to her sketchbook and then back to him. The look she gave him made his blood quicken.

  “Tell me, James, what outrageous bribes did you pay in order to arrange for our presence here this afternoon?”

  “Outrageous bribes? I wouldn’t go so far as to call them outrageous.”

  Lily smiled. “Outrageous or not, I thank you.” She swept her arm to encompass the room. “For all of this.”

  “It was nothing—” he started, but before he could finish she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. The sudden, unexpected gesture said more than any words of thanks ever could. He looked at her, her smiling eyes, her lips slightly parted—how easy it would be…

  As if sensing his thoughts, she took a step back, hand going to her hair. The air between them was heavy with awareness—they were alone. She glanced about, her eyes fixing on the balcony that ringed the hall. “I would love to see the mosaics from above. It would provide an excellent change in perspective.”

  “Then by all means.” He held out his hand to her, and after an instant’s hesitation she took it, allowing him to lead her to the stairs. They climbed in silence, her slender hand in his.

  “Look,” she said, going to the low railing of the balcony. “They are like paintings from here. One can hardly see the individual bits of colored glass and tile.”

  Directly below them lay a mosaic of Neptune driving a chariot over the waves, his hair in wild locks, a long blue scarf draped over his arms. Lily studied it a moment. “Would you like to know what I see?”

  James nodded. “Very much.”

  “The scarf shows the movement of the chariot. See how it billows back? And it echoes the stripe of blue along his horses. Whoever conceived this design had an excellent model. L
ook at Neptune’s face, so full of intent and purpose. And his form, perfectly proportioned. See how the artist used darker tesserae to bring out the muscles of his… chest.” She halted, blushing.

  James watched the transformation from artist to woman. Neptune was as unclothed as the rose woman she had sketched earlier. “The Romans’ code of dress was rather more relaxed than our own. Do you think them immodest?”

  She looked down again at Neptune.

  “No,” she said at last, “not immodest. They seem more idealistic. Here is a male figure so well formed that he can represent a god. And the rose woman—a female whose unadorned beauty rivals that of her flowers. But tell me, what do you see?”

  James looked at the images arrayed below. “There.” He pointed. “A warrior carrying a woman.” In the mosaic, the woman’s naked breasts were pressed hard against the warrior’s bronzed skin, her arms clasped around his neck—he was bearing her where he would. James recalled standing at the bow of the Sidonia, Lily in his arms—how she had responded to his kisses and melted into his embrace.

  He straightened and stepped toward her. “It seems the Romans were less idealistic about love.”

  “I think not. See how her arms are wrapped so tightly around the warrior’s neck. Perhaps he has just returned after a long absence and we see them in that moment of reunion. He is not bearing her anywhere she does not wish to go.”

  James caught her hand. “Come, then. Let us see what refreshments have been provided—or would you rather I tossed you over my shoulder and carried you in the Roman fashion?”

  “Oh…” Her eyes opened wide, but she met his gaze and did not look away.

  He led her to where a door stood open midway down the gallery. The room inside was furnished with a low, silk-draped couch and two backless chairs. The inlaid table beside them was set with an array of refreshments, and from the arched, open windows beyond came the sound of the fountain splashing in the courtyard pool.

  “How perfect.” Lily was looking everywhere but at him, though she made no move to pull her hand away, and he did not release her. “Like something from the Arabian Nights. I feel as though we have stepped into a fable.”

  He did not have to carry her off—she would come willingly. This day would be about her pleasure, and he had far more than gazing at mosaics in mind.

  James drew her inside and closed the door.

  It was perfect—an ideal setting for an afternoon of slow, sweet kisses. “If this is a room from a storybook, then you must be the Persian princess. Take your ease, my lady.” He seated her on the couch, then poured two goblets from the moisture-beaded flagon on the table.

  “What is it?”

  He tasted. “Chilled honey wine.”

  She took the goblet he held out, and sipped. “It’s very… unusual. But quite refreshing.”

  He took a swallow, letting the cool liquid soothe his throat. “What else do you desire, my princess? Tangerines, pistachios, honeyed dates?”

  She leaned back into the silken cushions and inhaled. “A tangerine—as the scent of citrus blossoms is filling the air. Peeled and segmented, please, as befits my rank.”

  He selected one and drove his thumb in, peeling the rind away in one curving whole. Juice trickled between his fingers. “It’s quite messy. I wouldn’t want it to drip on your gown.”

  “How shall I eat it, then?”

  “Allow me to assist you.” He went to his knees before her and held out a slice, lifting it to her lips. Her gaze flew to his face, then to his fingers, holding the succulent tangerine slice. After a brief hesitation she opened her mouth. He placed it against her lips, then slid it slowly inside, letting his fingers brush the softness of her lips. Where would this game lead them? Her eyes closed—he could see the shiver of sensuality and awareness flow over her. Heat tightened his groin.

  “Another?”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “They are delicious. But be careful—I could become accustomed to such luxuries.”

  “Then it would be my pleasure to indulge you.” He brought another piece to her waiting mouth.

  This time she leaned forward and flicked her tongue against his fingertips, then slowly licked the juice from them. He nearly groaned at the sensation.

  “My turn.” With a teasing smile, she took a slice from him and placed it against his lips. A rush of tangy citrus filled his mouth. He opened and took her finger in, savoring the sweet juice with his tongue. She drew in a sharp breath.

  “It tastes delicious from your fingers,” he said, “but it would be better still from your lips.”

  Her eyes heavy-lidded, she parted her lips, allowing him to set the last slice of tangerine between them, the fruit partially exposed. His heart pounding, James leaned forward and opened his mouth over hers. It was the sweetest kiss he had ever tasted—the cool, wet tangerine, the hot moistness of her mouth. He let his tongue lightly touch hers.

  “James.” Her voice was a sigh of pleasure.

  He brought his hands to cup her face and brushed his lips against hers. She trembled at the touch and laid her hands on his shoulders.

  She tasted of oranges and honey. His lips quested at the corners of her mouth, finding the sweetness and savoring it, keeping his kisses light. He slid his fingers back into her hair, thumbs tracing the delicate curves of her ears. She swayed forward, the curves of her breasts brushing his coat.

  Slanting his mouth over hers, he opened his lips and let his tongue smooth along the seam of her mouth. It opened, granting him access to the warmth, the wetness, her tongue lightly flicking against his, eager to join in the dance. Heat spread out from their fused mouths, slid through his veins like honeyed fire. She was so beautiful, so responsive.

  “Wait,” she breathed, pulling back. “You have pleased me well. Come, join me on my throne.” She patted the cushions.

  He shifted, settling beside her and taking her hands. Lacing his fingers through hers, he said, “I would like to please you more.”

  Her eyes met his, curiosity and desire flaring in their depths. “Yes.”

  She lifted her hand and set it against his cheek, slipping it in a soft arc over his face, then around to the back of his neck. The feel of her fingers brushing against his hair incited such yearning, such desire. He pulled her to him, one arm curving around her waist. His lips quested along her jaw, nibbling at the soft skin of her neck, tasting her, and her head fell back as she arched into him.

  Lifting a hand to her breast, he cupped her and brushed his thumb across the peak. A soft moan rewarded his caress. Slowly he drew her down onto the cushions, supporting her until she lay against the bright silks. The heat of her blazed along his side.

  He pressed his mouth to her temple, scattered kisses across her forehead, her cheeks. She smiled up at him. Holding her gaze, he rested his fingers on the top button of her dress. She nodded, and slowly he unfastened the row of buttons, the backs of his fingers lightly brushing against her breasts as he worked down to her waist. Her eyes widened, but she made no move to stop him. The cotton dress opened, sliding back from the silk of her chemise, leaving only the thin fabric molding to her curves.

  “Lily,” he murmured, folding back her dress to expose the skin of her throat and shoulders. He lightly traced her collarbone, felt her pulse leap beneath his touch, then dipped his head, tongue following the curve of her neck, tasting her clean, faintly salty skin. Her body intoxicated him—he wanted to savor her, inch by inch, touch her as he had dreamed of so often during these last weeks.

  Gently, he dipped lower, breathing against the skin of her chest, licking softly. His lips met the edge of her chemise, coasted along the smooth fabric, up the curve of her breast. She drew in a deep breath, her heated, silk-covered skin rising to his lips. He bent his head and placed his open mouth over her nipple.

  Slowly drawing his tongue across the taut peak, he let the moistness penetrate the silk. Soon the thin layer of fabric was all but transparent, wet and clinging. His warm tongue cares
sed her, making her gasp and sink her fingers into his shoulders.

  He moved his hand to her other breast and lavished the same attentions upon it, fingers alternately plucking and stroking. Hands and tongue slowed, teased, then without warning he sucked fiercely at her nipple and tightened his fingers about the nub of her other breast. She shivered beneath him, sighing in pleasure. Her hands moved to grip his head, fingers threading through his hair.

  At last he levered himself up and returned to the warm richness of her mouth. Tongues darted and tangled, melded together. Her arms encircled him, coaxed him against her. He complied, letting her pull him down until he lay firmly against her, pressing her into the cushions. Every inch of him was aware of her beneath him. He slid one leg between her thighs, pushing lightly upward until he touched the heat of her. She was still for one startled moment then her body seemed to take over, rocking slowly back and forth against him.

  Urgently, he ravished her mouth, his erection pressed against her hip, fanning the flames higher. He knew he needed to pull back. They were already going further than he had intended—almost further than he could bear.

  Somehow she had tugged his shirt free of his trousers, her hands now stroking his back, palms skimming his taut muscles. James moaned against her lips. It was one thing to caress her, to feel her responses, to explore her rising sensations together. But he would not be able to control himself if she insisted on turning the tables this way.

  “James,” she whispered.

  He lifted his head to look at her, her lips moist from his kisses, her eyes darkened with emotion and desire. Gods, but she was lovely.

  Gathering his strength, he began to roll off her, but she tightened her arms around him.

  “No,” she breathed, staring dreamily at him, a half-smile on her lips. “Show me more.”

  He gazed down at her, measuring her words.

  “Please.”

  He considered her a moment more, then relaxed, watching her smile deepen as he curved his hand over her shoulder and brushed his thumb over her collarbone. He bent his head to nuzzle her neck, nipped lightly, hands smoothing her curves, gliding over the silk. It was the work of moments to unfasten her chemise.