The Pleasure of Your Kiss (20 page)

A wicked smile slowly curved her lips. Captain Burke had been kind enough to attend her in her massage, so why shouldn’t she return the favor? Perhaps revenge wasn’t a dish best served cold after all but one that should be savored while it was still steaming.

Clarinda eased open the heavy bronze door and slipped inside the hammam, the sultan’s lavish private version of the public baths one might find in any great city in Morocco. The harem had its own separate hammam, but it was always full of giggling women. Every time Clarinda disrobed in front of them, they would point and gawk at her as if she were some sort of albino monkey. She had finally taken to bathing in her alcove or only visiting the women’s hammam early in the morning when most of the women were still sprawled out on their sleeping couches.

Praying that Ash was currently the only occupant of the spacious domed chamber, Clarinda padded soundlessly across the damp mosaic tiles.

At least she thought she was being soundless until Ash’s smoky baritone came drifting out of the clouds of fragrant steam hanging over the room. “I’m a grown man. I don’t need a nanny to bathe me. I appreciate your master’s hospitality but you’re free to go.”

Clarinda felt her lips tighten in exasperation. Even as a child, she had never been able to sneak up him. The trait had probably served him well in battle but was quite infuriating to an eight-year-old girl trying to drop a live cricket down the collar of his shirt.

She called upon the acting skills she had perfected while staging theatricals, both for her doting parents and at Miss Throckmorton’s, to duplicate Yasmin’s heavily accented English. Allowing a husky note to creep into her voice, she said, “Oh, please, kind sir, will you not at least allow me to bring you some towels? If you send me away, I’m afraid my master will be displeased with me and will punish me most severely.”

There was the briefest hesitation, followed by, “I don’t suppose that would do any harm. I certainly wouldn’t want to be responsible for you being … punished.”

“You are far too generous to this humble maidservant,” Clarinda replied, her voice dripping with just the right amount of obsequious charm.

Before seeking him out in the hammam, she had returned to the harem just long enough to retrieve a pair of diaphanous veils. She had fastened one over her nose and mouth, then had twisted her hair into a tight knot at the top of her head and covered it with the second veil. She was counting on the balsam-scented steam to provide the rest of her disguise.

She slowly approached the crowning jewel of the hammam—an octagonal pool recessed into the floor directly below the dome. Diamond-shaped panes of cut glass had been set in the dome, inviting in pale shafts of misty morning light. Since Farouk’s ancestors had possessed the foresight to build their palace on top of a natural hot spring, there was no need for the traditional Roman wood furnace and hypocaust system to heat the water and the air. The spring provided a constant flow of fresh, hot water to soothe the weary bather.

The pool was large enough to seat two dozen men, but fortunately for Clarinda, its sole occupant this morning was one exasperating Englishman.

Her steps faltered as Ash came into view. He was seated in the pool with the water lapping at the well-defined planes of his abdomen. His arms were stretched out on either side of him, relaxing against the tiled wall supporting his back, a posture that only emphasized the corded muscles in his forearms and the impressive breadth of his shoulders. Clarinda was reminded all over again that he was no longer the boy she remembered, but some other sort of creature altogether, wildly masculine and possibly dangerous.

There were those who believed the devil himself lived in the hammam, and in that moment Clarinda was tempted to believe them.

With the fingers of steam swirling around him, Ash looked like some overlord of the underworld, idly biding his time while he waited for a hapless female soul to devour.

That was all it took to convince Clarinda she had made a serious miscalculation. She had hoped to repay him for the trick he’d played on her the day before, but with so much at stake, this was no time for games. Especially one she had little chance of winning. Fortunately, no harm had yet been done.

“You may leave the towels on the bench,” he said, following her every move through narrowed eyes.

“As you wish, my lord.” She kept her own eyes demurely downcast as she crossed to one of the marble benches flanking the pool. If he caught a clear glimpse of her eyes, she would lose all hope of escaping with her disguise—and her pride—intact.

Practically tossing the towels on the bench, she spun around to flee.

“Wait.” Ash’s deep, commanding tone sent a tingle down her spine. “I’ve decided I could use some assistance with my bath after all.”

C
larinda froze. Swallowing the knot of trepidation in her throat, she said, “If it is your desire to enjoy your bath in solitude, sir, I do not wish to intrude.”

“There are very few men who wouldn’t welcome such an
intrusion
. Perhaps you could begin by washing my back.”

Clarinda scowled as an image of a wet, naked Yasmin twined around him like a pit viper flashed through her mind.

“Very well, my lord,” she replied stiffly, returning to the pool.

Even with her eyes downcast, she could still feel Ash’s gaze stalking her as she reluctantly circled the pool until she arrived at the spot where he was sitting. She hovered awkwardly behind him, absurdly grateful that the lazy bubbling of the water shielded her eyes from what lay beneath it. She was embarrassed to discover that she might not be a virgin but she was still perfectly capable of blushing like one.

She retrieved a cake of the brown olive-oil soap from the shallow lip of the pool. “Is there no sponge?”

“There is no need for one. You may use your hands on me.” Bracing his hands on his powerful thighs, Ash leaned forward, leaving her with no choice but to accept his unspoken invitation and go down on her knees behind him.

As she got her first clear look at his naked back, she barely managed to suppress a gasp of shock.

The back she remembered had been as smooth as marble beneath the curious caress of her hands. Now it was a rugged map of the life he had lived for the past nine years. Judging by the number of scars it boasted, he had been stabbed and perhaps even shot more than once.

“You seem to be a man who has earned more enemies than friends in this world,” she said softly, unable to resist using her fingertip to trace the puckered edges of the jagged bayonet scar that ran from the top of his spine to his right shoulder blade.

“Does that surprise you? Not every man can command his own army to protect him as your master does. Some have to fight their own battles.”

Reminded by his words that he wasn’t talking to her but to Yasmin or some other anonymous concubine, Clarinda dragged her hand away from the scar. She dipped the bar of soap into the heated water, then smoothed it over his back, lathering up his skin until it was as sleek as silk beneath her hands.

The steam swirling around them was already beginning to have its way with her. As Clarinda worked the lather into the taut muscles of Ash’s upper back, droplets of sweat began to trickle between the fullness of her breasts. A limp strand of her hair slipped out from beneath the veil and plastered itself to her damp cheek. She could feel her own muscles relaxing, growing looser and more languid with every stroke of the soap.

“Mmmmm … ” Ash’s rumbling groan of pleasure seemed to reverberate through her entire being. She could feel the leonine ripple of his muscles beneath her hands as he shrugged his shoulders to stretch them. “Moroccan women are so attuned to the needs of a man. They’re completely unlike those English harpies we’re accustomed to.”

Clarinda’s hand tensed, sending the soap shooting straight up into the air.

Ash’s hand shot out to catch it before it could hit the water. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“No, my lord,” she replied, finding it much harder to maintain her fake accent while speaking through clenched teeth. “I simply need to rinse your back.”

As she retrieved the clay pitcher designed for that task and dipped it into the pool to fill it, he cheerfully continued, “Take that Miss Cardew, for instance. I can’t imagine why the sultan would even consider marrying a shrew like her when he has a stable of beautiful, biddable women such as yourself at his beck and call.”

Clarinda slowly lifted the pitcher in a white-knuckled grip, using every ounce of her self-control to pour a stream of water over the sleek planes of his back instead of breaking the pitcher over his arrogant head.

“Perhaps you are being too harsh on this Miss Cardew. I have heard it said a strong woman can be the very backbone of a man.”

“Ha! Not this woman. She’s much more likely to be a pain in his backside. If Farouk goes through with his harebrained plan to marry her, I can promise you he’ll have nothing to look forward to but a lifetime of misery. And nagging. Why, that woman could flay the skin off a man’s back with her tongue!” Ash shook his head. “I shudder when I think of how close I came to being leg-shackled to just such a—
What the hell?!
” he exclaimed as the empty pitcher went bouncing off his skull and into the water.

Rubbing his head, he shot her a wounded look over his shoulder.

“Forgive me, my lord.” Clarinda lowered her eyes, hoping he would attribute the trembling of her hands to shame, not rage. “The soap must have made my hands more slippery than I realized. Your back is clean now. May I go?”

“I should say not.” He settled back against the edge of the pool with a sulky sniff. “I’m afraid my front is feeling quite neglected.”

All of her plans for revenge forgotten, Clarinda jerked her head up to give him a shocked stare, but his eyes had already drifted shut.

According to the older women who had been instructing Clarinda in the arts of love, women were interchangeable in the eyes of a man. All men desired was a warm, slick place to spill their seed, and as far as they were concerned, one womb would do as well as another. That was why a woman must strive to make herself more attractive, more charming, more irresistible, than all of the other women around her if she hoped to catch the sultan’s attention and be summoned to his bed for more than just one night.

Despite the warning words of her teachers, Clarinda supposed some part of her had still wanted to believe Ash was different from other men. That he wouldn’t be as quick to slake his lust with some nameless—and even faceless—harem girl.

She lowered her head again, despising the tightness in her throat almost as much as she despised him in that moment. “Perhaps it would be best if you minded your own front.”

She was halfway to her feet when his hand shot out to capture her wrist, imprisoning her. Although she kept her face turned away from him, she could still feel the steady weight of his gaze. “Your master assured me that any woman he sent to tend me in my bath was mine to command.” His voice was no longer congenial but rumbling with sensual menace. “Is it your intention to make a liar of him?”

Clarinda hung there in his grip, poised between escape and surrender. Her every instinct was urging her to flee, but she had never backed down from a challenge, especially if it came from him. Perhaps it was not too late for her to exact her revenge against him after all.

“Of course not,” she said softly. “It is my sole desire to please my master … and you.”

With that promise still on her lips, she returned to her knees and accepted the soap from his hand. As Ash settled back against the edge of the pool, breathing out a lusty sigh of anticipation, she reached around him with both arms, wrapping him in her embrace.

For a long moment, he didn’t breathe at all. Then she felt his chest heave beneath her hands as he dragged in a shuddering breath. She slid her fingernails through the damp whorls of his chest hair, then began to rub the soap in lazy circles over his torso, lingering over the rigid nubs of his nipples.

Bringing her mouth close to his ear, she whispered, “Does this please you, my lord?”

“More than you could ever know,” he replied, his voice little more than a growl.

The soap slid from her hand, disappearing beneath the water. She used the flat of her palms to work the slick film of soap into a creamy lather, her hands straying deeper into the far more dangerous territory of his abdomen with each languid stroke.

To keep her balance, she was forced to lean forward until the very tips of her breasts brushed his back. Given how hot his skin was, she wouldn’t have been surprised to hear a sizzle or see fresh tendrils of steam rise from those points of contact. The water sleeking his skin melted through the silk of her bodice as if it were butter, making it impossible to hide the fact that her own nipples had tightened into turgid little buds.

As one of her hands drifted even lower, slipping beneath the surface of the water, she felt the rock-hard muscles of his upper abdomen twitch in reaction.

His hand dove beneath the water to close around her wrist, snaring her in a trap of her own making. The motion threw her off-balance and she tumbled forward, plastering the softness of both of her breasts against his back.

He is going to send me away,
she thought, torn between exultation and disappointment, both emotions that were best left unexamined. She had been right about him after all. He was not a man to be satisfied with the seductive charms of a woman who would go down on her knees for any man just to please her master.

But instead of pushing her away, he covered her hand with his much larger one, flattening her palm against his abdomen. Turning his head so that the warmth of
his
lips was pressed to
her
ear, he whispered, “You have extremely nimble little hands, my dear. If we set both of our minds to the task, we should be able to devise an even more clever use for them.”

She gasped aloud as he captured her earlobe between his teeth and gave it a gentle tug even as his hand began to exert a subtle pressure, urging her hand down … down … down …