by Anna Randol
“Prestwood, what is this? My footman tells me you’ve dragged in a prisoner?”
The man blanched at the arrival of the other man. His shouting and cursing stopped and he shrank back into the chair he’d been placed on.
“This is the man who’s been following Miss Sinclair.”
Daller’s eyes narrowed. “Is he the one behind the attempted shooting?”
“I doubt it. But I suspect he knows who is.”
The prisoner’s eyes darted about, looking everywhere but at the ambassador. His gaze fixed on the window. Bennett grabbed the man by the neck of his shirt as he attempted to jump to his feet. He slammed him back into the chair. “He will only speak Turkish.”
“Ah, that is where I come in.” Daller advanced on the man, his customary charm absent. He asked something in Turkish.
The turbaned man spat at his feet.
Daller growled and rattled off an angry sentence.
The prisoner flinched and tried to inch back in the chair, but he nodded.
“I threatened to turn him over to the local authorities,” Daller said. He asked a different question.
“Abdullah.” The man replied.
Daller looked up at Bennett. “His name.” He continued with a different question.
After a long pause, Abdullah answered. His head shook quickly from side to side and his nostrils flared.
“He says he doesn’t know the identity of the man who hired him.”
“Ask how he was supposed to get in touch with him.”
The ambassador spoke again. “He claims the man always contacted him. He doesn’t know how to locate his employer.”
“Can he describe the man?” Bennett asked.
Daller spoke and the prisoner shook his head so wildly his thin greasy hair fell over his face.
“He claims he cannot.”
Bennett rubbed his temples in frustration. “Do you have somewhere we could lock him up for the night?”
Daller frowned. “We don’t yet have the information we need.”
No, they did not. But Abdullah seemed more frightened than stubborn at the moment. He would need to wait for Abington after all.
Daller eyed Abdullah with distaste. “With some convincing, he might talk. These locals are a stubborn lot.”
Bennett shook his head and suppressed a shudder. While torture might be the expedient option, it wasn’t something he was willing to resort to. “Lock him up. Perhaps by morning he’ll be willing to talk.”
The ambassador summoned two large footmen who grabbed Abdullah by his arms. He broke free and lunged toward Bennett.
“Grab him, you fools!” Daller ordered.
Bennett stepped to the side, sending Abdullah crashing to the carpet. The red-faced footmen regained control of him. Abdullah resumed his yelling and cursing, although more fear than anger laced his words. Daller’s name featured prominently in his shouts.
Daller chuckled after Abdullah was removed. “I don’t think some of the things he cursed me with are even possible. So we try again in the morning?”
“In a few hours. I intend to bring Abington in on the interrogation.” Bennett glanced at the gilded clock chiming on the mantel. Mari should be returning shortly from her party. He might as well collect Abington himself rather than sending a note.
“Is Abington in the city?” Daller asked.
Bennett nodded.
Daller wiped a strand of hair from his forehead. “Very good then.”
The questioning might delay his and Mari’s departure for Vourth, but he wanted her safe when he left for England. He owed her that much.
He went to his room and finished packing the supplies for the mission. His pack was heavier than anything he’d carried on campaign, but he’d been unable to resist purchasing a few items that would make the journey more comfortable for Mari.
An urgent knock sounded. Bennett stashed the rucksack out of sight before opening the door.
A wide-eyed young maid stood outside, twisting a mobcap in her hands. “Your prisoner, sir. He’s hanged himself.”
Chapter Twenty
“Unfortunately, he’s still a eunuch!”
Mari laughed at the jest uttered by a wrinkle-faced old woman. The songs and comments were intended to help ease the bride’s fears about her wedding night, although straightforward explanations would probably have been more effective than the ribald jokes and innuendo.
Mari’s neck ached from resisting the urge to peer over her shoulder and see if any messengers had arrived. Had Bennett captured the man following her? She reminded herself for the hundredth time that this plan was of his own making. She had no part in it other than as bait. Yet her eyes wandered to the door.
Nothing.
What if Bennett had been injured? She distracted herself from the worry by scooping more henna into the paper tube. But her hands were cold as she finished the final leaf design on Ceyda’s palm and stepped to the side.
With great flourish, Fatima approached and pressed two gold coins into the henna on the bride’s hands. “You’ll wrap that for me, won’t you, Mari?” She gestured to the linen strips each guest wrapped over the coin she gave to hide the amount.
“I think everyone here already saw how much you gave. You could wrap it.”
Fatima shrugged delicately. “It’s for Ceyda’s good. If everyone sees my generosity, they’ll feel compelled to give more.”
Mari cast a concerned look at Ceyda’s mother. “Some cannot afford to give more.”
Fatima followed her gaze. “Oh, I gave her gold to place on her daughter’s hand. I cannot have my sister-in-law appearing poverty-stricken.”
Mari shook her head. Fatima might have flashes of humanity if she didn’t ruin them with her ego.
The other women placed coins of varying amounts into the henna and covered them until Ceyda’s hands were completely wrapped.
As Mari slipped the silk bags over the wrapping, Ceyda held her arms stiffly out in front of her.
“It’s fine to lower them.” Mari leaned close to the worried girl. “There’s a trick to this, you know.”
Ceyda’s traditional red veil fluttered with her nervous breaths.
“The warmer the henna is, the darker it will turn. I’ve tied the bags as loose as I dared. Just try to keep as still as possible.”
Ceyda nodded. “But I thought the color was supposed to foretell my happiness.”
Mari passed the silver henna bowl to the nearest woman. “Why not make your own?”
With the bride adorned with henna, the female musicians streamed into the room and soon the air pulsed with the drums and the high keening pipes.
Fatima leaped to her feet and began to dance. She spun around the floor with the grace and inherent sensuality Mari had always envied. “Come, Ceyda. Dance!”
Mari placed a hand on Ceyda’s arm. “Remember the hotter you become, the darker the paste will turn.”
“Doesn’t Fatima know?” the girl asked.
Mari watched as Fatima threw back her head. Normally, she would’ve assumed the worst, but for once, Fatima laughed with real enjoyment. “I really don’t know.”
Fatima called again. “Come, Ceyda!”
When the girl tensed, Mari sighed. “I’ll go.”
Fatima frowned as she approached, but then playfully dragged Mari out to the floor before pulling other guests out to join them.
In the past, Mari had enjoyed the traditional harem dances. She’d known on some level that they represented the marital act, but she hadn’t realized how closely they mimicked the movements involved. When Bennett had touched her, her back arched just like this, her hips gyrated, her chest thrust forward. Remembered pleasure swept through her. She followed Fatima’s lead, losing herself to the rhythm. What would Bennett think if she danced like this for him? How long would he let her dance before he growled that low, deep rumble and pulled her to him?
Fatima slowed, her eyes narrowing. “You’re better than before.”
Mari stumbled, then twirled between some of the other women who had joined the dancing. She exhaled, pressing her hands to her heated cheeks and hurrying to the edge of the room. She refused to give Fatima the opportunity to ask about her newfound aptitude.
The evening wound down, and the women slowly took their leave, bidding tearful farewells. Soon only Ceyda, her mother, and Fatima remained in the room with Mari.
Ceyda brushed off her red veil. Her pale, round face shimmered from all the attention lavished on her. “Let’s see if I will be lucky!”
Mari slipped off the silk bags and helped Ceyda remove the wrapping on her hands. She pulled loose the coins the guests had pressed into the henna paste to express their good wishes, and passed them to Ceyda’s mother.
Fatima peered over the older woman’s shoulder as she wiped the money clean. “Not a bad amount, although it’s less than I received. Yet it’s to be expected, I suppose. Your people cannot be expected to give as much. It’s fortunate I’m able to lend you the use of my house to help you save costs.”
Ceyda’s smile faltered and her mother flushed.
Mari glared at Fatima. She might be wealthier than the rest of her husband’s family, but she could be gracious about it. “Perhaps Ceyda’s sweet personality leaves her in little need of the extra luck the money brings.”
Ceyda eyes lit with gratitude, but her mother concentrated harder on cleaning the coins.
Mari bit the inside of her lip. She needed to keep her mouth closed. Ceyda’s family was depending on Fatima and her husband for much of the wedding. She wasn’t the one who’d bear Fatima’s retaliation if she were provoked.
Mari lifted Ceyda’s hand and gently brushed off the henna. As patterns slowly appeared, she exhaled. Orange.
Ceyda giggled in delight and hugged her. Her mother finally glanced up and kissed her daughter on the cheek.
Even Fatima unbent for a moment, the annoyed lines around her mouth smoothing. “You’ll make a good bride, Ceyda. Your husband is paying a respectable bride price, not lavish, but enough that you need not be ashamed.” Her lips curved with relish as she glanced at Mari. “At least you don’t have to offer a fortune to convince some man to consider you.”
Mari started at her words.
Fatima’s smile widened. “Kittens should think twice before toying with tigers.”
But despite her obvious glee, her statement hadn’t wounded Mari. It had shocked her.
Fatima knew about the dowry.
“Who told you about that?”
She shrugged. “Men of all positions cannot resist giving me what I want.”
Ah, she’d slept with Esad’s solicitor then. She must’ve been desperate for the information. Normally, she wouldn’t dream of wasting her talents on a mere servant.
“Esad won’t be pleased.”
Fatima knocked the henna bowl onto the floor with a clatter. “The wrath of my uncle. What will he do, cut me off? Oh, wait, you’ve already seen to that.”
“I didn’t ask for the money.”
“The fat old man just decided to give the money to you because he likes you?” Fatima snorted.
With murmured farewells and uncomfortable glances, Ceyda and her mother hurried from the room.
This wasn’t how Mari had wanted the evening to end. She bent and picked up the bowl to give her temper a chance to cool. Besides, Fatima’s slaves had enough work.
Fatima snatched it from her hands. “You have Esad’s fortune. You don’t need to take my silver.”
Fatima’s jibe had an oddly calming effect. The woman was as selfish and petty as she’d been as a girl. Although Mari didn’t want Esad’s money, she didn’t blame him for not wanting to leave it to Fatima.
“Milady?” Nathan called from the doorway to Fatima’s rooms. He tried to enter but was blocked by the large eunuch, the only male slave her husband allowed in the area.
Nathan must’ve become nervous when the bride had departed and she’d not yet appeared.
“Good night, Fatima. Thank you for inviting me.”
The sullen lines melted from Fatima’s face when she spied Nathan, now inexplicably dressed in the clothing of a servant. She tucked her arm through Mari’s and escorted her to the door. “Who’s this?” Her voice took on that breathy, seductive quality she employed around men she fancied.
“My footman.”
“If he were mine, I’d want him somewhere other than at my feet.” She brushed past the eunuch and smiled at Nathan. “If you’re interested in working for a more pleasant mistress, come to me.”
“Don’t you have enough servants?” Mari asked through clenched teeth. She needed to get Nathan alone to ask if Bennett had sent word.
Fatima drew her finger down Nathan’s chest. “No, actually. I lost one of my best a few months ago. Talat assigned him elsewhere. Silly man. Abdullah was one of my favorites. He had so many uses.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Mari rubbed her pulsing temples as she climbed from the coach. She’d managed to extricate Nathan from Fatima’s clutches but then had to endure Nathan’s jests about changing professions the entire way home.
Bennett’s large frame filled her doorway, his stance tense. She resented the way her heart skipped at the sight of him. He wasn’t even happy to see her.
Surveying her through narrowed eyes, he tossed an envelope to Nathan as they approached. “Additional orders.”
Nathan caught it with one hand. “You failed to capture him then?”
“I caught him.”
Nathan froze, the paper half into his pocket. “Why didn’t you send word?”
“It’s all in your orders. Go home, Abington.”
Nathan raked him with a suspicious glace, but didn’t try to enter. He caught Mari’s hands. “Remember my offer to get you out if you choose.”
Bennett frowned at the contact. “We have things to discuss, Mari.”
Mari nodded at Nathan, then slipped past Bennett. She wandered to her rooms without even checking to see if he followed. Of course he would. Orders, orders, orders. Once inside the harem, she slumped on one of the couches.
Bennett braced in front of her. “Dismiss your maid.”
Her headache worsened. “If you’re angry again, could it wait until morning?” Yet she complied, and Achilla left the room with a worried backward glance.
Bennett waited for the maid to be out of earshot. “There’s been a change of plans. We leave tonight.”
She sat up. “What? What about the man you captured?”
“I said we leave now.”
In her current state of confused exhaustion, his curt orders made her blood race hotly through her veins. She was the one essential to this mission. She would have her answers first. “Why? What has happened?”
“Earlier this evening I captured the man who’d been following you.”
Mari clenched the silk of her caftan robe with her fists. “So you said. Do you know who is behind it then?”
“No. The man killed himself rather than talking.”
Horrified, she stared at Bennett’s emotionless face. “What did you do to him?”
For an instant, the wall around him cracked. Hurt echoed in his gaze, but disappeared just as quickly. Mari dropped her head. That had been unfair. Even if she’d never read his poetry, she would’ve known that he wasn’t cruel. Tough and unyielding, yes, but he didn’t enjoy causing pain.
The thought crystallized in her mind.
He didn’t enjoy causing pain, so if he refused to tell her why he’d attacked her father, he must have good reason.
But she couldn’t trust him based on the hope that he had a good excuse. She’d tried that with her father and never gotten anything but disappointment. She sighed. “I’m sorry, my comment was inexcusable. How did it happen?”
Bennett focused on a point over her shoulder. “I ordered him detained until we could question him in the morning. He hung himself with the bedsheet.”
Her stomach lurched at t
he image. The Greek rebel had died by hanging as well. Mari hadn’t seen the actual hanging, but she’d seen the body when it was displayed two days later. She’d vomited right there on the street.
She stood and placed her hand on Bennett’s cheek. His skin was cool under her fingers. When he didn’t respond, she let her arm fall back to her side. “Did you find out anything before . . . before . . .”
“No, when the ambassador questioned him, he claimed he didn’t know how to get in touch with the man who hired him, although he seemed frightened. Once his employer discovers he’s missing, he may fear his identity’s compromised and attempt something rash.”
Mari shuddered.
Bennett’s hand brushed back her hair in a ghost of a caress. She held perfectly still, hoping his hand would move next to her cheek. But it didn’t.
“We leave now.”
“But I haven’t packed.”
“Good, no one will suspect our departure. Gather your art supplies. I have the rest.”
“Don’t I need clothes?”
“No.” Bennett cleared his throat. “I have some for you.” He coughed again. “But you might want to bring a change of underthings. I didn’t purchase those for you.”
Oh heavens, the last thing she needed was to imagine Bennett picking out lacy drawers and shifts for her. “I’ll send for the coach.”
“No need. I’ve hired one. It’s awaiting us around the corner.”
Mari fled to her room and traded her slippers for a sturdy pair of half boots. She also packed a change of underthings and rechecked her box of art supplies. Pausing by her door, she dashed off a quick note to Achilla, explaining that she’d gone off with Bennett and would return in a few days.
Bennett was fastening the buttons on a coarse wool shirt as she emerged. Her pack dropped to the floor, betrayed by her suddenly nerveless fingers. She stood arrested by the glimpse of his muscled chest, unable to determine if she’d arrived a moment too soon or too late. Awareness tingled between her legs. She had to touch him again. Grasping her only valid excuse, she picked up the rough brown laborer’s jacket he’d set beside him and held it open. Her hands insisted on lingering as she smoothed the jacket across his broad shoulders and down the hard lines of his back. His muscles bunched under her fingers like some large jungle cat, but by no other action did he betray that he was aware of her silliness. He stepped away from her and folded his uniform with crisp precision. He then retrieved her bag from where it had fallen on the polished tile, and removed the clothing she’d packed.