“Jinan, let me help you. What’s this about?” His hands cupped her face. So gentle, but shaking.
She stared at him a moment, not moving because she had no cloths to dry her. “Why would you do this to me?” Her ears rang so loudly she wasn’t sure what language she spoke. Her fist shot out and hit him in the chest. Then, because it felt good to assuage her anger that way, she pounded her fist against his chest again. He let her fight him, his hold staying light against her face as she took out her frustration and anger. Why did he let her treat him so? She did it a few times before he stilled her actions.
“Stop this.” His hands pressed over hers, surprisingly gentle. “What are you doing?”
“Your seed is in me. I need to get it out.”
Instead of commenting, he pursed his lips and went into the other room. She looked around for something to dry off with. It appeared that she had soaked both hand towels that were on the washstand, and she wore nothing useful to help her in this situation. Her bath towel was on the other side of the room, the scarves of her dress had been left in the bathing room.
Rothburn stepped back into the room, carrying another pitcher and a small cloth that looked like a handkerchief in the near darkness. Wordlessly, he handed it to her and gave her his back as she cleaned herself.
He mumbled something.
“What is it you are saying?” she hissed out.
“I can guess what all this worrying is about. When are your menses due?”
Oh, he knew his way around a woman of pleasure, all right. That angered her more than the seed he’d put inside her.
But she understood why he’d mumbled it the first time and seemed to have difficulty in asking her such a blunt, private question. It wasn’t normal to discuss bleeding with a man in English society. Even in the harem, she was taught her menses were a dirty time in her month. She had no reason to be shy about this, even though it was something her husband would never have asked outright, nor would have Amir—it was not their way.
“Three days past the full moon.” And since she didn’t really know what today was, after all the groggy traveling, she waited for him to tell her. She’d also not been paying attention to much besides this man while she was still in the harem. She’d been completely absorbed in the ending of their too-brief union.
“Full moon’s tomorrow. You should be fine.”
She was glad he still stood some distance away from her, or he’d have seen the blush that rose in her face. How embarrassing for him to know she’d be bleeding in four days . . . if she bled.
But he was right, it was a safe time, and she might not need to worry; she should not be ripe for impregnation. She released a long breath of air.
“Is there a wisewoman in the kitchen?”
She hoped he knew what she was getting at. She did not want to explain the necessary precautions she would take regardless of the timing of her menses.
He faced her then. “Yes. I know what it is you want.”
She looked to her feet. It was chilly in this room—her nipples puckered into rose-tipped beads and gooseflesh rose along her stomach. Ignoring the awkwardness, dread, and irritation in her mind, she focused on the cold. On nothingness.
No sense in displaying her emotions by acting skittish. She stood tall and looked him in the eye. “Will you send her to me?”
He nodded, raised his hand to her cheek to touch her reverently, then said, “I’m sorry, Jinan. You did not fight me off. I thought it was all right.”
“It did not occur to me until afterward.”
Nodding, he walked away from her, saying something about bringing her whatever tea they might have on hand. The jangle of a key told her he’d left the apartment. She listened to the sound of the lock clicking back over—sure enough, the snick was the last sound she heard for some minutes.
She needed to dress. She made her way to the armoire, threw the doors open and paused. Her eyes took in the bright silks before her. How had he done this?
Had his abduction of her been planned right from the beginning?
There were rich materials of every color, so bold you’d not see them worn in polite society. A heathen’s sanctuary of familiarity within her grasp. Her fingers touched the brocade floral design on the white trousers. All in Turkish style. There were silk scarves of every color, perhaps as many as she’d had when back in the palace.
How had he done this?
It didn’t matter, she reminded herself. He’d done a great injustice toward her. One that by all rights was unforgivable.
Her only worry right now was how to protect herself from becoming enceinte, then she needed to find a way back to Jonathan. She pulled out red scarves and an orange brocaded vest and trousers.
She slammed the doors on the armoire closed. What she really wanted to do was kick them. How could she not have understood his desperation before now? She was trained to read the desires in every man she played sex with. How had she not seen his obsession? It should have been apparent long before she had been abducted.
Jinan tugged the vest over her head and buttoned it up, and then the trousers. Then she tied the scarf around her hips, knotting it below her navel. She now wore sufficient clothing that his lordship would have to go to a great deal of trouble to remove them. That way she might have time to take precautions against pregnancy.
Though she doubted it would stop his lordship from taking what he wanted, she felt some peace of mind. Peace that had been absent since she’d arrived.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Enslavement
How in all the isles of hell had he done something so reprehensible? Worse, he knew he’d do it a hundred times more, if only to prove that they were the pieces of a long-unsolved puzzle joining in a unity long denied.
She’d denied him in so primal a fashion that it made his blood boil in a rage such as he thought had died with his autocratic uncle. His fingers tangled in his hair, pulled it tight until he felt something . . . anything.
It was a damnable act on her part. To deny his seed. It was a damnable act on his part for wanting to force it on her. Was he not good enough to have her? Even if she were his mistress, shouldn’t she want such a gift? Not once had he shown her any unkindness. Not once. He was irritated. He knew she was fuming. But his anger now affected his thoughts. He’d been useless for two days straight because of Jinan.
Because she’d turned their congress into an act of filthy debauchery.
Why did he care? Why did this bother him? He’d freed her. There was no kindness greater than the one he’d given her. Now he offered her a life by his side and she refused him?
She dared to refuse him?
He squeezed the plump breast in his hand.
Jinan was sound asleep. She had been for some hours while he’d mulled over the prelude to their evening. His hand didn’t meet soft flesh, of course. She’d dressed when he’d gone to retrieve some herbs from the cook. The cook he’d dragged out of bed and down to the kitchen.
Jinan had gulped down the nasty-smelling concoction in a trice, wiped her lips, given him a disapproving once-over, then slipped between the turned-down, ruffled bedding. She hadn’t said a word. He deserved an explanation.
What was so wrong with his seed? Would she not want his children, should one come of their union? Did she hate him so much?
This wasn’t working. Nothing was working. They fought at every turn. He reacted distastefully at every turn. There was nothing he could say to persuade her that he’d made a good choice for her. The right choice.
What did the harem have to offer that was better than this?
She couldn’t seriously want to go back to that lair of vice. His contract had ended, meaning she was game for any other patron. It was unacceptable, and he’d be damned if he’d allow another man to occupy her time, her bed, her body.
She was his.
Jinan was his alone. Weren’t his feelings for her apparent?
He pulled her in tighter, needing to ground h
imself to the here and now. Everything to this point seemed to have gone wrong in her eyes and he needed to correct that.
He had debated saying something to her last night about their brief engagement so long ago. It seemed as though she’d forgotten about their courtship. There were moments when she would say something to trigger those memories again, like that afternoon they’d spent in the gardens at the palace.
Releasing her, he rolled to his back and stared at the inside of the canopied bed.
He had to believe she would come around. She was just inexplicably angry—anger passed with time, or at least he hoped it would pass.
Griffin gave his eyes a frustrated rub. As if that could relieve his mind of the image of her shoving the towel inside her quim to rid herself of his seed. Acting as though it burned and she was desperate to douse the flames that had licked up inside her. Her eyes staring bloody daggers at him for his treatment. It wasn’t as if he’d done anything he wouldn’t have done at the Pleasure Gardens.
He rolled out of bed, shoved his feet in his slippers, and pulled on his dressing robe. Cinching the tie around his waist, he made a quick decision to give Jinan something to alleviate the tension between them. Opening the armoire, he pulled out the velvet box tucked down on the bottom shelf.
Would this make her rest easier? Would this help rein in the look of loathing she shot his way, every chance she got?
Walking back to the bed, he placed the box on the pillow next to her and left the room. It would either infuriate her further, or make her see reason.
Some coffee was in order at this early hour; then maybe he’d send up Donata to see to Jinan’s needs.
* * *
The curtains were open; the sun was high in the sky. Jinan rolled over to her back and was surprised to see the place next to her empty. Rumpled but empty. Uncurling her hand and arm, she stretched her fingers out. It was stone-cold next to her, so Rothburn must have gotten up a while ago. Stretching her tired arms above her head, she touched something hard above her head. She sat up and looked down at the red box, smaller than her hand, set on her pillow. Filigreed gilt swirled in a pretty design on it. A gift?
Her pleasant morning had just turned sour.
So he thought to shower her with gifts? Was this in hopes of her coming around to his way of thinking? She wanted to throw the token at the door. Admittedly, that would do her no good, especially if Rothburn couldn’t see her fury.
She curled her fingers around the velvet-covered box. It did no harm to see what he thought a sufficient present for her enslavement. Pushing the golden latch through its hole, she lifted the simple satin-lined lid and frowned down at the token. She almost laughed. In fact, she might have in a different time, different place.
This gift seemed more insulting than giving her some sparkling jeweled bauble.
She should have known better. What a fool she was to think, even for a moment, that she was more than his sexual plaything. She slammed the lid shut and threw it at the looming wardrobe.
Where was Rothburn, anyhow? He hadn’t left her alone in the few days she’d been here. If she hadn’t lived in intimate quarters with her sisters for the past five years, she might have found it difficult having Rothburn ever present, even during her ablutions.
A knock sounded at the outer door, so she tiptoed across the room and stood in the doorway of the bedchamber. The maid who had helped wash her hair yesterday came in with towels and a bathing jug.
Did Rothburn think she’d find him a generous man and forgive him what he’d done by sending a woman to help her bathe? He was sadly mistaken. And she’d make him aware of that when next he made an appearance.
The maid curtsied awkwardly. Probably not sure if she should curtsy to a heathen such as Jinan.
The woman said something in Italian and then raised what was in her hands, an indication of her purpose since Jinan didn’t understand the words uttered.
This might be her last chance to send word to Amir and Mr. Chisholm, so she asked slowly in English, “Do you speak something other than Italian?” Her words were stilted. She so rarely used English that her accent had twisted into something not altogether pleasant or familiar.
The maid looked at her and shook her head. “English not good for me.”
Jinan tried again in French. The maid smiled. She understood at least some of the words.
There weren’t many commonalities but enough that they could communicate. What Jinan needed most was someone feeling compassion toward her circumstances. They found words they both understood through the bath. The maid had the oils the slaves used in the harem. Something else Rothburn had gone to the trouble to procure.
When they finished, Rothburn still wasn’t back, but she’d managed to relay to the maid that she needed a friend, someone to help her send a message. Perhaps the woman understood what it was to be all alone. Finally, Jinan had someone to confide in.
The maid spoke often with the man who delivered some of the more exotic things his lordship had been buying and bringing to the villa. He spoke and read some French, and Donata thought maybe if she gave him a message on paper, he could get it to the appropriate eyes and ears. Jinan wrote out her message in French for the tradesman and another message for Mr. Chisholm in the Arabic scroll she’d learned from Laila. Her new confidante took the missives, tucking them into her bosom as she left. Insurance that Amir was notified of her circumstances. While Rothburn promised to retrieve her son, she would not depend solely upon him.
Jinan breathed a sigh of relief. One great worry out of the way. Would Amir come or would he send Mr. Chisholm in his stead?
“What is it she’s doing?” Peters sneered, his lip curling slightly and his nose wrinkling in distaste.
“Praying.”
She went down on hands and knees, her plump, ripe bottom in the air tempting him.
Donata had come out of his apartment not fifteen minutes ago. He thought Jinan would attempt a quick escape since he had asked the room not be locked. She hadn’t left. Instead, she’d gone into the garden with a towel to kneel upon.
He wondered what she thought of the present he’d left for her.
Did she wear it now? Rothburn coughed into his hand and turned away from the pert buttocks begging for his attention.
“It’s rather”—Peters gestured with his hand—“foreign.”
Rothburn quirked his eyebrow. “I imagine she’s desperate to throw up as many differences between us as she can.”
“Yes, but does she have to do that? You know the servants are talking.”
“And what of it?” he asked, turning from the window that faced the garden and the earthly delight that was all Jinan. He sat on the settee in front of the banked fireplace and picked up his tumbler. He sniffed the liquor. Not ready to succumb to the amber fluid yet. He held it as a reminder.
“You know you couldn’t keep them from discussing her. She’s very—”
“Different?”
“Yes.” Peters turned with a scowl and looked back to Jinan.
“It’s what I find most appealing.”
“Rothburn, as your friend I must advise against whatever attachment you have. Cut her loose while you’re still sane.”
Rothburn stood in sudden annoyance. “I never asked your opinion of her.”
He didn’t like to be under any scrutiny, especially by his most trusted man of affairs. It irked him that Peters was right. She’d cause even more problems when he brought her home. She’d be an overnight sensation; tongues would surely wag when he set her up in his household. They might expect peculiarity from him, but bringing Jinan home might become problematic for him in the House of Lords, and with some of the local tradesmen.
He didn’t want a run-of-the-mill mistress. He wanted Jinan. And now that he had her again, he planned to keep her wings clipped so she couldn’t fly from him. The only way to keep her at his side was to marry her.
“By all means, set her up in a cozy town house or even in this estate
or in Florence.”
“You know I won’t do that.”
Peters gave an exasperated sigh. “You cannot bring someone like her back to England. Look at you, man. You’ve been swirling the same swig of brandy nigh on ten minutes. You are playing with old habits, my friend.”
Rothburn slammed the tumbler down on the marble mantel, the liquid sloshing over the side of the glass. At least he hadn’t taken a drink. “I will not be advised in the matter of Jinan.”
“You have enough problems with the gossipmongers. Consider leaving her here until you’ve wed.”
Rubbing at his eyes and forehead, he thought carefully on his next words. Not that it mattered what Peters thought in the end since he had planned everything out so carefully regarding Jinan. “I’m not worried about the gossips. They can eat a flagon of crow for all I care. Jinan won’t have trouble facing that lot. She’s an accomplished actress.”
“You can’t mean to introduce her to society.”
“I have every right to since she will be my wife.”
Peters’s mouth flapped in shock for a moment, then he took a step back and fell to the leather chair that was beside the window. “Rothburn.”
Crossing his arms, he waited for Peters to rein in his shock. At least he’d shut the man up, but there would probably be a barrage of questions. Of course, Jinan would have to agree to marry him. That prospect seemed elusive, however.
“I’m not in the mood for this, Peters.”
“You cannot marry her! She’s a whore.”
“You are walking a thin rope.” He pointed a threatening finger at Peters. “Tread carefully.”
“Think reasonably, Rothburn. You’ll have financial backlash from this.”
“I’ve plenty of money to live more than comfortably. You know this since you handle the books.”
“But what of the business?”
“It’s only natural for some vendors to find a problem with my foreign wife. I care not.”
“Do you not care that you will be putting people out of work when business stops on some of our trade routes?”
He’d already considered this, but hadn’t wanted to look at the problem too closely. He shrugged. Jinan was more important. “These things have a way of working themselves out. I’m not worried about it yet. She hasn’t even agreed to be my wife.”
The Surrender of a Lady Page 20