The second failure unnerved him. His hand trembled as he moved to his left cheek, angling the razor for the first downward motion. He froze, knowing neither his hand nor his nerves were steady enough to complete the simple task. Bugger it all!
What pathetic excuse for a man had he become? Was he reduced to living the life of an invalid? Was this all he had to look forward to? A recluse coddled by his aging mother? The notion sickened him. He couldn’t compose a bloody word, couldn’t fuck a beautiful woman, and couldn’t even shave his own face! Why hadn’t he pulled the trigger on himself when he’d had the chance?
Simon stared at the razor as if it were suddenly the answer to all his troubles. Drawing a fortifying breath, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes, leveling the blade at his throat.
Salime returned to her chambers with thoughts only of Simon. She’d been warned to expect a man who’d suffered and had been prepared for that, but she hadn’t expected to be so moved by him. He was a man of supreme feeling, of deep and suppressed passions. His changeable, grey eyes—flinty with scorn, soft with yearning, then bleak with despair—cried out to her.
He’d watched her with an almost feral hunger, but even in his desperate want, he seemed terrified to take what he desired. She wondered what it would take to free his soul—to replace the frustration, fear, and fury with peace, pleasure…and passion. She was keenly aware of what Simon most needed, but would have to exercise the greatest of skill to overcome his wariness.
The man was perplexing in the extreme, and how to deal with him seemed more confounding still.
She spent several hours in the hammam contemplating her dilemma. After her bath Salime wandered the townhouse, studying the paintings and artifacts that Lord DeVere had collected in his travels. Growing bored, she ventured to his library, hoping to find something interesting to occupy her mind, only to be dismayed by the limited selection. Although the shelves teemed with expensive leather-bound volumes, many were penned in Latin or Greek, and like DeVere’s art collection, most were erotic in nature.
Salime retrieved two volumes of Ovid from the shelves, thinking to propose a quiet evening of reading. Upon her return to her chambers, she deliberated sending a note, but decided to go to him instead. Perhaps he would be less likely to refuse a personal invitation?
Venturing once more to Simon’s apartments, Salime knocked lightly at the door.
“I need nothing further. Go away!”
She ignored the snarled warning to press the door open. When she didn’t find him in the bedchamber, she advanced toward the dressing room. She crossed the threshold, to find him standing shirtless with a sheen of perspiration coating his heaving torso, and a long, gleaming razor poised at his throat.
Fear gripped her heart.
She swallowed convulsively and then stepped forward, speaking in a voice barely above a whisper. “Salime?”
His eyes snapped open, meeting hers with a bleak look. Was it despair that her arrival had stayed his hand? She wondered with a shudder what would have happened had she not interrupted him.
Cursing under his breath, Simon flung the razor down with a clatter.
“Please forgive my intrusion.” She approached slowly, eyes downcast. “I only wished to inquire if you would sup with me.”
“No thank you. I’m not hungry.”
Her gaze darted from the shaving apparatus back to his partially shaven face. His beard was more closely trimmed but in a ragged condition. Blood oozed from several places. “You are cut, Efendi.” She moved toward him with an outstretched hand.
He turned from her with a guttural sound, snatching up a towel and dabbing the blood from his face.
“Your blade must be exceedingly dull to have done such damage.” Salime retrieved the discarded razor. “Do you have no valet to shave you? Shall I call my eunuch Mustafa? He is possessed of many skills.”
“Please just leave, Salime,” he bit back through his teeth.
“But your hand is injured. There is no shame. Even gentlemen possessed of two perfectly able hands are often shaved by another. If you will not allow my eunuch, please grant me the honor of performing this small service for you.”
She should have guessed his answer. Allowing another to wield a potentially lethal blade at one’s throat required implicit trust, and Simon appeared to trust no one.
“You can do nothing for me,” he snarled. “Why can’t you just let me be?” He scowled at the blood-stained towel then flung it beside the wash basin.
“Because I am here to help you.”
“Why?” he demanded. “I am nothing to you. Does DeVere pay you to be here?”
She lifted her chin. “I have accepted no money.”
“But he brought you here.”
“He sent for me.”
“Why, Salime?”
“Perhaps he believes I can help you.”
“Damn you all!” He turned away with a curse. “There is no help for me! Don’t you see that?”
“All I see, Efendi, is a man in great need of a shave,” she replied softly. “Why do you hide yourself away? Lord DeVere spoke of an infirmity, but he did not fully explain—”
“You really wish to know? I can’t stand to be with people. Even now, just to be in the same room with you makes my heart race and my palms sweat.”
“My presence reviles you?” Her eyes widened. She stepped closer to him in disbelief.
“Don’t!” He recoiled, reminding her once again of a wounded animal. “Bloody hell!” Simon groaned. “I tried to conceal it from you, but it is pointless for me to pretend to be normal when I clearly am not. I cringe from anyone’s touch. It’s a damnable curse!”
“Do you wish to be cured, Efendi?”
He gave a bitter laugh. “Do you think I want to live like this? That I have become this way by choice?” He flung out his arms in despair. “You can’t understand.”
“It is true I cannot comprehend this affliction,” she said. “Nevertheless, I accept that it is so. What happened to make you this way?”
“I spent six bloody years of my life in a vile and stinking prison where I could barely breathe for the stench of death. The quarters were so cramped we had to take turns sleeping. You can never know what it was like being packed together in squalid conditions rats would refuse. Now you know. I don’t wish to speak of it again.”
“Forgive me, Efendi.”
“Damn it!” He shook his head, scrubbing his face with a look of agony. “It is I who should beg your forgiveness. I don’t know why you remain here with me when I am such an ill-tempered brute.”
“I told you already,” she averted her gaze. “You mean much to Lord DeVere.”
“So he is the only reason you suffer my company?”
“I owe him a great debt.”
He gave a deprecating laugh. “It must be considerable indeed to obligate you to stay with me.”
“It is not as much obligation as choice, Efendi. I may stay or go at my free will. Do you want me to go?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“As you wish.”
Salime was halfway to the door when he cried out. “Damn it all. I didn’t mean it. Please… don’t leave me.”
She turned back to him, noting the shadows haunting his grey eyes. “If you wish me to stay, you must allow me to help you. I can do nothing if you refuse.”
“Why can’t you understand? This is beyond my control.” He closed his eyes and hung his head. “I have lost the strength and the will to fight it.”
“You must try,” she insisted. “You have friends who care for you, who seek your healing. You need only allow yourself to draw fortitude from those who wish to help you. Surely it is not hopeless. Perhaps a glass of spirits or partaking of the hookah would help you?”
“Do you mean opium?”
“Opium can be beneficial—in moderation.”
He scoffed. “What if one has no will to moderate? For months I took laudanum. At first only to induce sleep, but th
en I sought it out to dull my senses. Eventually it seemed the only means by which I could exist.”
“And now?” she asked softly.
“I have quit the laudanum. Now I rarely sleep at all unless I substitute brandy.”
“But the body requires rest, Efendi. If sleep does not come easily to you, there are other means to a state of deep relaxation. Since you will not allow me to touch you, I would suggest the hookah as the best method of relaxing. Come with me to my chamber and we shall share the pipe. Let us take this first small step together.”
She waited, hoping he would accept. He’d already attempted to take his own life. She feared Lord DeVere would never forgive her should he commit an act of self-violence under her watch.
“I’m sorry, Salime.” The haunted expression had returned to his eyes. “With all my being I want to…but I just can’t.”
“It is your choice, Efendi,” she replied with sad resignation. “Should you change your mind, my door will be open to you.”
Passion makes the old medicine new:
Passion lops off the bough of weariness.
Passion is the elixir that renews:
-Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
Chapter Six
Emotionally spent, Simon sought relief in a bottle of brandy. With her invitation she’d offered the key to Paradise, but like a bloody coward, he’d turned away. Beyond anything, he wished for the strength to surrender to her, but if he went to her rooms, he would never know the peace and tranquility she promised. His mind and body would become fevered with frustration that he could never satisfy. She’d then know the full extent of his humiliation.
He couldn’t bear to see her expression once she realized he was no more man than her mute and castrated servant. Wallowing in his shame and self-disgust, he swigged from the bottle, but his mind seemed only to grow more lucid as it emptied. Even after knocking back almost half the brandy, his body felt the effects more than his brain.
“Is this how you want to live out the rest of your life, Sin, ol’ boy? Like a goddamned eunuch? Maybe it’s time to swallow your bloody pride before you choke on it.”
Bolstered by liquid courage, Simon staggered to Salime’s chamber, swaying on his feet and leaning drunkenly on her door. As he drew a breath and raised his hand to knock, the door swung inward, causing him to stumble headlong into her chamber. With his impaired reflexes he surely would have landed on his face, had a tasseled cushion not broken his fall.
When Simon looked up, Salime was standing over him, arms crossed over her breasts, and golden eyes narrowed in disapproval. She shook her head in disgust. “I will never comprehend you English. You refuse the hookah only to come to me reeking of spirits?”
“M’pologies,” he slurred. “Couldn’t sleep. Do you want me to go?” Simon closed his eyes praying she wouldn’t send him packing. It had taken all his strength to come here. He doubted he could do it again.
“No.” She sighed. “I know this was no easy thing for you, and I was not asleep either. In truth, I had hoped you would come to me. You see? All is prepared.” She gestured to an intricate smoking apparatus. The base much resembled an ornate vase conjoined with a brass tower from which a long hose emerged.
The entire room was appointed in the seraglio motif that DeVere favored, with silk hangings and low-burning brass lanterns, but the scent in the air, a hint of jasmine and exotic spices, was distinctly feminine.
“You were so certain of me?”
“No, but I had not yet despaired.” She indicated a plush Turkish divan. “Please, lie down.”
Still feeling clumsy, Simon flung himself onto the narrow couch.
Salime settled cross-legged on a cushion beside the hookah. Gone were her voluminous Turkish trousers, replaced by a thin silk wrapper in a shade of deep gold that matched her eyes. Her robe opened as she sat, displaying her shapely legs. If he were to incline his head… just so…would he get a glimpse of…
The arch of her brow said she’d read his lurid thoughts. She pulled the billowy folds of fabric together. “Are you hungry?” she asked, indicating a low table spread with various breads, fruits, and cheeses.
“No,” Simon lied. He was famished…just not for food. His ravenous gaze devoured her instead.
She turned to the pipe, packing tobacco into a small ceramic bowl. Then using a small set of tongs, she covered the tobacco with two lit coals from her brazier. After a time, she placed the stem between her lush lips, closed her eyes, and slowly inhaled. He would give almost anything to be the stem. She held the vapor in her lungs for several seconds and then exhaled the sweet-smelling smoke, then offered him the pipe.
“No thank you,” he replied, unable to accept it from her hand.
“It is not opium,” she said. “It is shisha, an aromatic tobacco enhanced with fruits and spices. It will help you relax.”
“I still can’t.” He waved the pipe away.
“As you wish. Shall I read to you then, Efendi? I find that reading often helps to induce sleep.” Salime reached for two books lying on the floor beside the divan, offering them up for his inspection. “I selected these today from the library.”
Simon cast a curious glance at the spines. “Ovid?” he remarked with a frown.
“Yes. Do you not care for his work?”
“It’s not that,” Simon said. “It’s written in Latin.”
She returned an indignant snort. “Do you think me an ignoramus?”
“Of course not!” he sputtered. “It’s just that women—”
“Are illiterate?” she finished with a look of affront.
“I meant nothing of the kind. It’s just highly unusual for a woman to study the classics.”
“You speak of English women,” she replied with disdain. “Where I come from women are encouraged to develop all of their talents and abilities.”
“Are you saying you read Latin?”
“Yes. Latin was part of my education—along with Arabic, Persian, French, and of course English.”
“You know five languages?” Every minute spent with her only magnified his growing fascination. He’d never known anyone like her.
“I speak six, Efendi. Spanish was my native tongue, though I have forgotten much from lack of use. As for the others, I read and write them too.” She gave a blithe shrug, as if it were nothing of particular significance. “I found Metamorphosis a delightful work. The tales of his gods are not unlike the stories of the Jinns. The Eastern people have a great love of such fantastic stories, as well as poetry.”
“You enjoy poetry too, Salime?”
“Only when it is good poetry, Efendi. I care little for most of your acclaimed English poets. Much of their work lacks originality. Your Shakespeare is but a poor imitator of the Greeks and Romans with whom you English are so enamored. I am confounded by this obsession. Persians are far superior poets.”
“Persians?” His astonishment knew no bounds.
“Bah!” Salime snorted. “You do not know of Rudaki or Rumi?”
“No,” Simon confessed. “Who are they?”
“They are only two of the most venerated poets in my culture. Rudaki was the court poet to the Nassr the Second in the ninth century, and Rumi’s work is one of the crowning glories of the Persian language. Your English education is sorely lacking.” She quoted, “‘Look at the cloud, how it cries like a grieving man. Thunder moans like a lover with a broken heart. Now and then the sun peeks from behind the clouds, like a prisoner hiding from the guard.’” After a moment she added, “You remind me of such a storm, Efendi.”
Simon lay back on the cushions with his head reeling, but the intoxication had nothing to do with the brandy. From the beginning, he’d been infatuated by her unusual beauty, but she was so much more. She was a perplexing paradox—fiercely proud and demure, meek yet bold, submissive yet self-assured. Beyond that, she seemed to see into all the dark places he’d rather keep hidden.
“Why do you feel so obligated to DeVere?” he suddenly ask
ed. “You said you are not his mistress, but your relationship seems unusually intimate.” His tone was almost accusing, but he couldn’t help himself. Although he couldn’t have her, the thought of her with anyone else made his gut churn.
“We have a long history,” she answered.
He was not going to let her off with such an evasive answer. “You said you are indebted to him. How much do you owe him?”
“It is not that kind of debt. He once saved my life. In my country, such a thing obligates me to become his slave.”
“But you are not.”
“No. He refused my servitude.”
“Yet you are here. Why?”
“My reasons are my own, Efendi.” She avoided his gaze. “Shall I read to you now?” She offered both books to him. “You choose.”
Simon reached out without thinking—until the brush of their fingers jolted him back to awareness. He snatched his hand away as if scorched. The book fell to the floor.
A hush filled the space between them. Simon despised himself anew. He wanted so badly to touch her without hesitation—without pain. Bloody hell, he wanted to drown in her.
She broke the silence. “Perhaps you would rather read it alone in your room?”
He muffled a curse and raked his hair. “No, Salime. I’d rather hear your voice.” He didn’t care if she read in English, Latin, or Sanskrit. He wasn’t ready to leave.
Simon glanced down at the fallen book with a sudden eruption of mirth. “Ars Amatoria? B’gad! I’d no idea DeVere had this.”
Salime’s eyes widened at his outburst. “What amuses you so, Efendi?”
He took up the leather volume, stroking the embossed cover with the tenderness of a lover and then opened it to find a crumpled piece of foolscap pressed within the pages. “What the devil?” It was the same bit of lewd verse that had forever changed his life.
Simon handed her the paper, still shaking his head in disbelief.
“‘An Ode to a Milkmaid of St. James Park’? What is this?” she asked.
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