Robin Schone

by The Lady's Tutor

  “Richard and Phillip are used to me bringing them treats. Do you mind if I have your cook prepare a basket to take with me?” she asked impulsively, needing to escape her unease. She did not want to be frightened—not of Ramiel, not of the man who had shown her the wonders of being a woman.

  His turquoise eyes were enigmatic. “My home is your home. You may have or do whatever you wish. As long as you remember that someone tried to kill you. You came to me for protection. I will not allow you to put yourself in danger. Are you going to eat?”

  She looked down at the circle of grease that surrounded the ham on the white china; then, she looked at the bright crimson strawberry juice bleeding into the cream. “No.”

  “Then let us go down to the kitchen and I will introduce you to my chef. He will enjoy cooking for your young men.”

  The chef could have been Arabian with his dark hair and skin or he could have been French. Elizabeth could not tell by either his accent or his face. He wore European clothing, but so did Ramiel, unlike Muhamed, who was not Arabic by blood. Nothing was as it should be, either in Ramiel’s house or Edward’s.

  “Étienne, you will obey Mrs. Petre’s wishes as you would mine. She has two sons at Eton and is going to visit them today. She wants to take them a basket of food.”

  “Madame.” Étienne’s dark eyes lit up with pleasure. “It will be an honor to prepare a little treat for your two sons. Just yesterday I baked a basboosa, a cake made with semolina and soaked in syrup. I also have a baskaweet, biscuits that melt in the mouth. Or if you will wait, I will bake you baklava and my atif and my kunafa. . . .”

  Elizabeth smiled. Étienne was everything that Muhamed was not. “Please do not trouble yourself. The cake and the biscuits are more than enough. Thank you. Richard and Phillip will love them.”

  Étienne bowed. “It is an honor, Madame. Lord Safyre, he does not do justice to my pastries.”

  “If I ate everything you baked, I would not be able to pass through my own doorways,” Ramiel retorted easily.

  “How else does one honor a man of my talents?” Étienne asked with feigned indignation.

  Elizabeth solemnly intervened. “I assure you, sir, that my two sons will do justice to your art. They eat like horses.”

  Étienne appraised Elizabeth’s body underneath her royal blue bodice and skirt. “Perhaps we will put a little more flesh on your bones, too, Madame.”

  Ramiel’s eyes followed the chef’s.

  Elizabeth flushed. “Let us hope not.”

  “We are not used to cooking for a lady of the house; perhaps if Madame would prepare our menus . . .”

  Elizabeth met Ramiel’s gaze.

  What had he told his servants about her? He had said he could not give her respectability. Why, then, was he going out of his way to make her feel at home?

  “I am not here to disrupt your kitchen, Étienne.”

  “But you do not disrupt, Madame. You add beauty to our humble bachelor abode.”

  A reluctant laugh was won from Elizabeth. “We will see. Right now I merely wish a basket of food for my sons.”

  “I will prepare you a masterpiece picnic. Your sons will think their young palates have died and attained paradise.”

  Ramiel held out a hand to Elizabeth. “Come, let us leave this scalawag to his kitchen.”

  Elizabeth climbed the narrow servants’ stairs ahead of Ramiel, holding the hem of her skirt high so that she would not step on it. “You have an interesting staff. Wherever did you get Étienne?”

  “I liberated him in Algeria.”

  She stared at her black-patent slippers and the intermittent flash of black silk stockings. Hers . . . and his. “It is not my intention to inconvenience you or your household.”

  Hot, implacable hands gripped her waist, pulled her back even as she stepped up. “Elizabeth, you do not inconvenience me. Nor do I object to you spending time with your sons. If I did, I would take you upstairs now and see just how sore you are.”

  Elizabeth leaned back against the solid heat of his chest. “I prefer champagne to rubber.”

  Hot breath seared the nape of her neck. “Ela’na!”

  “You say that rather often. What does it mean?”

  “It means ‘damn.’ ”

  “What are your special plans for me?”

  His hands gripping her waist tightened. “El kebachi.”

  She sucked in air. “Like the beasts in the fields,” she whispered, body clenching.

  Something hot and wet flicked her neck—his tongue.

  “ ‘After the fashion of the ram.’ I will place you on your hands and knees and mount you from behind. In that position I can freely touch your breasts and your vulva.”

  “It is one of your favorite positions, then.”

  It was not a question.

  Sharp teeth nipped her nape. “It is.”

  She would not be jealous of the women who had come before her. Or worry about those who might come after.

  “I will look forward to it.”

  “Elizabeth.” A breath of laughter tickled her ear. “Take your time with your sons. Because when you get home, I will take my time with you.”

  She voiced a fear she had not realized she possessed. “You will be waiting for me?”

  Edward had never been there for her.

  “I will be waiting for you, taalibba. And now, I, too, have things to take care of. I will arrange a carriage to take you to the station. When everything is ready, Muhamed will come get you. He is to accompany you.”

  Elizabeth stiffened. If her sons would have difficulty accepting a man who was half Arab but did not look it, how would they react to a man who was not Arab but did look it?

  “Muhamed will wait outside.” Ramiel flicked her ear with his tongue. A shower of hot sparks shot down her back. “If you do not take him with you, he will follow you.”

  “This is not necessary.”

  “I assure you, it is.”

  She did not want to think about death.

  Yesterday had surely been a once-in-a-lifetime event. Edward would not go out of his way to harm her. He did not have time. Nor did her father. Politics was a demanding mistress. Especially when one of the two divided what little free time he had with a flesh-and-blood mistress.

  She hesitantly placed her hands over the back of Ramiel’s. They were hard and rough—like his body.

  He had been hurt at the breakfast table when she had refused to take him with her to visit her sons.

  She offered him what solace she could. “Phillip would find Muhamed interesting, I think. He would enjoy your swimming bath.”

  “What about Richard?”

  “I am not sure. Richard seemed—changed when last I saw him.”

  “In what way?”

  “I cannot explain.”

  “Does he confide in you?”

  “A much as a fifteen-year-old boy will. Why are you interested in my children?”

  Ramiel’s hand slid down her waist, pressed against her lower abdomen. “They are a part of you.”

  The heat of his hand infused her womb. Elizabeth felt a rush of gratitude.

  Rebecca was wrong. Not all men were selfish. Especially a man like Ramiel.

  She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. “Thank you for the bath.”

  “You’re welcome. I thought you might like it.”

  The heat of his hands evaporated from her abdomen, her waist. A gentle nudge set her feet in motion.

  At the top of the stairs he did not kiss her. He merely looked down at her with that disconcerting way he had of veiling his eyes. “I have to go. Explore my home while you wait for Étienne to create his masterpiece. It is your home now.”

  She bit her lip to keep from asking where he was going, and then it was too late; he was gone. And he had not said one thing about the smell of orange on her skin.

  How could his home be hers? she thought irritably. She was married to another man.

  The decor throughout the ho
use was a blend of exotic East and austere West, like the owner. Elizabeth idly explored first one floor and then another. All the while she thought about the newspaper article proclaiming her near-death status, the husband who had attempted to kill her, and the father who had threatened to do so. She thought about her life as it had been twelve days earlier, what it was now, and what it would be in the future, a divorced woman living with a bastard sheikh.

  It was a woman’s duty to put her children’s needs first.

  A guest bedroom on the third floor was painted pale yellow with orange and green flowers stenciled around the ceiling and the doors. Upon closer inspection, one of the flowers looked very much like a vulva.

  “Mrs. Petre.”

  Elizabeth whirled in a swish of silk and wool. Muhamed stood in the doorway.

  “What is it?”

  His turban was startlingly white in the shadows. The triumph, however, was plainly visible on his face. “You husband is here to see you.”

  Chapter 22

  Edward. Here. In Ramiel’s home. How had he known where to find her?

  The same way he had known about her lessons with Ramiel, she abruptly realized. Someone had followed her.

  Icy fear coursed through her body.

  Legally, Edward could do anything he wanted with her. He could drag her out of this house and force her into a carriage. He could take her back to his town house. Or he could take her to an asylum. And no one could stop him.

  Muhamed’s black eyes glittered.

  How convenient that Edward called when Ramiel was not there to greet him. Had he posted spies to watch the Georgian house and report to him the moment Ramiel left? Or was one of Ramiel’s servants the spy?

  Clearly Muhamed did not approve of her liaison with El Ibn. He could be working with Edward—the servant to get her out of Ramiel’s home, her husband to get her out of his life.

  She reined in a surge of pure panic. Ramiel had said he would protect her. Muhamed would not harm her for fear of him. She was safe.

  Elizabeth straightened her shoulders. “Tell Mr. Petre that I am not at home.”

  Muhamed’s face settled into an expressionless mask; he bowed. “Very well. The carriage and the basket of food are ready. We will leave at your convenience.”

  Elizabeth stared after the sweep of his cotton robe in amazement. How simple it had been.

  So why did her legs tremble underneath the weight of her clothes?

  She retrieved her reticule from Ramiel’s bedchamber, gaze skimming over the mahogany nightstand and the tin stamped with Queen Victoria’s portrait, over the massive bed that had rocked and rolled underneath them. It settled on the stark white face reflected in the mirror above the dresser.

  She still did not like being afraid.

  At the top of the curved staircase she paused.

  What if Edward refused to leave Ramiel’s home without first seeing her? What if Muhamed had deliberately failed to relay the message that she was not there?

  But no one waited for her at the foot of the stairs. She almost laughed aloud in relief.

  A hamper sat on a table in the foyer. The left lid was open, as if awaiting her inspection.

  Curious, she peeked inside . . . and was greeted with the mouth-watering aroma of honey. Various biscuits and pastries were neatly arranged in linen napkins. Étienne truly had created a masterpiece picnic. Unable to resist, Elizabeth plucked a small slice of cake out of the basket. Basboosa, he had called it.

  Syrup clung to her fingers. Dark, finely ground-up nuts garnished the top.

  Phillip and Richard would love it.

  Smiling, she daintily bit off the end of the cake. It was overwhelmingly sweet.

  She glanced at the remaining sliver of pastry in her hand and then at the neatly arranged wedges nestling in the square of linen. Her sons would not fancy finding a half-eaten piece of cake in their basket. Wrinkling her nose, she popped the rest of the pastry into her mouth.

  Underneath the syrupy sweetness and crunchy nuts was pepper. The cake burned a trail all the way down her throat into her stomach.

  Turning, she bumped headlong into a black wool robe; it had muscles underneath it. She stepped back. “I beg your pardon. I was just—is the carriage outside?”

  Muhamed inclined his head. Her cloak was draped over his arm; he carried her hat and gloves in his right hand. “It is here, Mrs. Petre.”

  Elizabeth could sense his hostility, even though he did not reveal it by so much as a flicker of an eyelid. It was not her desire to create disharmony in Ramiel’s household. Nor did she wish to create friction between the two men.

  She swallowed her pride. “Thank you for sending my husband away, Muhamed.”

  “I am to obey your orders.”

  She swallowed harder. “I am sorry that I employed the means I did to gain entry into Lord Safyre’s home. I placed you in an untenable situation. Please accept my apologies.”

  Emotion flickered in Muhamed’s inscrutable black eyes and was instantly veiled. “It is the will of Allah.”

  Gingerly, she took the black silk bonnet from him, perched it on her head, and tied the black ribbons underneath her chin. “Nevertheless, I would have you know that I meant you no harm.” She accepted the black leather gloves and resolutely stuffed her hands inside them. “Any more than I would harm Lord Safyre.”

  Muhamed stoically held up Elizabeth’s cloak. She turned around and allowed him to place it about her shoulders.

  The pepper had irritated her mouth—even though it flooded with saliva, she felt parched with thirst. She thought about asking for a glass of water, then reconsidered. The public facilities on the train left much to be desired.

  “I am sorry that you have to accompany me, Muhamed. If you would rather not . . .”

  Muhamed silently opened the door.

  A carriage drawn by two perfectly matched grays stood in the sunshine. Hot steam rose from the horses’ bodies.

  Elizabeth stepped forward.

  She was simultaneously aware of two things. Muhamed closed the hamper and picked it up by the wicker handles. At the same time, a red hot ball of fire exploded in her womb.

  Elizabeth gasped, staggered at the force of a physical desire that had no origin.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Petre?”

  Muhamed’s voice was loud, as if he shouted in her ear. She straightened with effort, shamed and humiliated at what was happening to her body. It was filled with mindless, animal lust, gushing moist desire, muscles contracting, convulsing.

  Nymphomania.

  Ramiel had not denied it yesterday when he had been buried so deep inside of her that he could not possibly go any deeper yet she had wanted him to.

  “I am fine, thank you, Muhamed.”

  Her voice was too loud, abrasive. The traffic ambling along the street rose to a roar in her ears. The vibrations of the churning wheels and pounding hooves raced along her nerves straight to the flesh between her thighs.

  Determinedly, she descended a step. If she could only reach the coach and her two sons . . .

  Her silk-clad thighs rubbed together. The sensation was electric.

  She dropped her reticule.

  Elizabeth could feel the coachman and Muhamed staring at her. And she knew that she was losing her mind, because a man’s eyes did not generate heat, yet she was burning up underneath their stares.

  A fragmented shout pierced the air. “Mrs. . . . watch . . . steps!”

  Her legs collapsed underneath her. Strong arms wrapped around her just as she should have tumbled out into open space.

  She endured the touch with effort, every nerve inside her body alive and aware. Of a man’s hold . . . a man’s scent. She recoiled in horror at the realization that she wanted more than a servant’s arms wrapped about her waist, she wanted—

  Elizabeth wrenched out of Muhamed’s arms. “Don’t touch me,” she whispered, or perhaps she screamed it. Eyes were everywhere—Muhamed’s, the coachman’s, servants that su
ddenly crowded the small stoop.

  Edward’s spy. One of them could be Edward’s spy and he would report this incident and her husband and her parents and her children would know the truth at last, that she was a nymphomaniac.

  “Wot’s t’ matter wi’ ’er?” “She’s gone stark, staring bonkers.” “Should we ring up the doctor, Mr. Muhamed?”

  Muhamed’s eyes snapped with black fire. Throwing open the hamper, he grabbed a wedge of cake—Étienne had said basboosa was made of semolina and soaked in syrup; he had not mentioned that it had nuts and pepper, so she really did not know what she had eaten, Elizabeth suddenly, feverishly thought. The Arab that was no Arab sniffed the cake. Like a dog. El kebachi. Animals. They were all animals.

  And she was one of them.

  A gob of spittle and cake hurtled past her—Muhamed must have tasted it. He didn’t like it either.

  “Allah akbar! Get the countess!”

  Didn’t like cake. Didn’t like women who satisfied their desires with a man who was not their husband.

  Elizabeth turned, fleeing, burning, falling—

  I won’t let you fall, taalibba.

  She stared dully at the sidewalk, inches instead of feet away from her face, then she stared at the dark hands that reached for her.

  “In the name of Allah! Hurry up, you fools! Help me!”

  Elizabeth felt laughter welling up inside her body. Ramiel had shouted Allah when he had climaxed. Immediately, her laughter was swallowed by a great black wall of blazing desire.

  How hot a man’s seed was, shooting inside a woman’s body. She needed that heat. She needed Ramiel.

  She needed him so badly that she was going to die.

  Ramiel stared at the two men who sat in the corner of the darkened pub. One kept his head down, craggy features shadowed by the brim of a dusty felt hat with a low crown and wide brim. A groundsman, the bartender had said. The other man wore a tired derby, his lined, disgruntled face evident for all to see: He was a man who had cleaned up after too many boys.

  Ramiel tossed the bartender a florin. Scooping up two pints of ale, he approached the men in the corner. “I understand the two of you work at the school.”