The Surrender of a Lady (19 page)

He’d fix that come morning. But for now, sleep washed over his mind, shrouding him in the cloudy mist of dreams.

She couldn’t sleep like this. How could anyone sleep with a man thrusting into your backside while presumably asleep? He’d been
this way
for a while now, at least an hour as far as she could tell with the ticking on the mantel clock. His fingers pinching at her nipples, his cock strained against the material of his smallclothes, seeking entrance to her body.

If she took him in hand and let him frig himself off, would he just spurt out whatever dream he was having? Or would he wake up and want more from her? Because it was impossible to fall asleep when a man was blindly pawing and groping at you. She might not want his sexually deviant attentions now but come morning she’d be too tired and foggy-minded to push him away. Worse, she might even welcome him.

This was partly her fault. She didn’t have to climb into bed naked as a newborn. He would have been less tempted—well, she couldn’t really be sure of that, either. He
did
have a voracious appetite.

First, she needed to try to slide out from his grasp. Rolling over to her stomach, while his hand was pinned between the mattress and her breast, she inched toward the edge of the bed. She didn’t even know where to go if she made it from the bed. Clothes would be the first thing to procure.

She’d heard the click of the lock when he came back up to the room, clear as a bird chirping at first light. The windows were nailed shut; maybe she could find something to pull them out.

Her options were few. Perhaps there was a panel door that slid open somewhere along these walls? She couldn’t tell by looking at the ones in the bedroom; it was too dark, and the curtains had been drawn against the starlit night.

Hooking her knee over the side of the bed, she pulled herself slowly out of Rothburn’s hold.

“Naughty, naughty,” he mumbled hotly next to her ear, his hand squeezing her breast so he had a firmer embrace as he tucked her back under his body.

She stilled, wondering if he was asleep or fully aware that she was trying to make an escape. Better she just stay like this for a while, maybe even an hour or more, in case he was awake. She tilted her ear away from the pillows and listened to his breathing. It was deep and even, but he could be concentrating on keeping it that way.

She waited. When she thought it safe to move again, she waited some more.

It wasn’t to be, she realized, when Rothburn’s hand slid from her breast and found its way between her thighs. The press of his hard cock against her backside made her release a brief, surprised screech. She couldn’t feign sleep now that he’d heard that. Even if she hadn’t made the sound, Rothburn knew her body too well, and she’d been wet since he pulled her in tight to his body. His fingers would find that moisture at any moment.

Damn her body.

He groaned his appreciation when his fingers slid between the slick folds of her sex, searching out her bud. He marked her shoulder with his teeth and rolled her fully onto her stomach. His weight came down on her, his knees spreading her legs farther apart.

He drove two fingers into her convulsing sheath before she could even think of objecting. Instead of giving him the satisfaction of a groan, she bit through her veil and into the pillow.

It wasn’t fair that she still had some feelings of tenderness for him, when he’d taken her life away from her with the snap of his lordly fingers. She held her breath as his fingers drove harder into her. His free hand pushed her hair aside and his tongue laved into her ear.

What she wanted to do and what she knew she had to do were two completely opposing things. It was best to push him off. She still had no protection if he spurted his seed into her womb. And if he impregnated her, Amir might not take her back. Where would that leave her son? She didn’t want to find out, she just wanted to go home, and with that thought she pushed all her weight up and tried to get Rothburn off her back.

He stopped his attentions to give her ear a sharp nip to the lobe. “Your body wants me, Jinan.”

It was the truth, but she shook her head and tried to push her elbow back into his ribs. He caught and held her arm there.

“You want this,” he all but growled. “Admit it.”

His hand slipped between the bed and her stomach as he tilted her pelvis back and slipped his cock into her sheath in one thrust.

She grunted her surprise once, then made no other betraying sounds. Yes, she did want this. But she’d be damned if she would admit to such a thing.

“Damn it, just say it, you stubborn woman.” His voice was calmer, but his strokes were still forceful, strong. His balls slapped against her nether region on each downward stroke.

She lay there, afraid her body would respond if she found and matched his rhythm. She let him take his pleasure as she lay beneath him trying to think of her escape. When his fist tightened in her hair, she knew he was going to come to his crisis. And hated him and herself for everything that had happened. Not just everything in the last few minutes, but since her supposed
last
session in the Pleasure Gardens.

Let his seed dry up and prove infertile. Please . . . Amir cannot banish my son and me now, not after all I’ve worked for.

She voiced a sob then. It didn’t matter what she did, he came, great jets of his seed squirting into her channel. After a few small thrusts of his hips and twitches of his semihard cock inside her, he released her and rolled over to his back, his breathing hoarse.

In her haste to leave the bed she fell to the carpeted floor, banging her knee with the impact. She scrambled away from the bed, desperate to get his seed out of her. Retrieving the washing bowl she’d spied earlier, she put it on the floor and upended the pitcher in it, uncaring that it splashed on the floor around her.

The shadow of Rothburn came closer, but she paid him no mind. She had to get his seed out.

She was aware—barely—that she sobbed aloud as she squatted over the basin and submerged a small hand towel, soaking up as much water as it would take. She slipped as much of her hand inside her vaginal walls as she painfully could with the cloth. She felt his seed there, its consistency so different from hers as she wiped it out and frantically washed the cloth in the water below her so she could repeat the process.

Rothburn’s face flickered in front of hers, a lit candle illuminating the space between them. His mouth moved, but she didn’t hear his words. The roaring of her anger buzzed so loudly in her ears it drowned out her surroundings.

She looked to the basin and scooped up water to wash around the entrance of her sheath. She could still feel his seed there. Would it plant in her womb? Would she bring another child into this godforsaken world? She didn’t want that to happen—it couldn’t happen.

She’d get his seed out.

What were the herbs she was to use if she found herself with child? She knew only their Arabic and Turkish names. She couldn’t even begin to translate their names to English.

Her sheath was sore and raw from her ministrations, as if it had had one too many fuckings without the aid of feminine lubrication.

She heard the hiss of his breath and his voice pounding through her ears.

“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 himself 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.”

“At least promise me you’ll do something about her manners and her clothes.” Peters pointed at Jinan’s trousers and vest. “She can’t continue to go about in that fashion. Especially in England.”

Rothburn didn’t care if she walked around in only her knickers and chemise so long as she was with him in the end.

Peters changed the subject. “I see you’re of no mind to go over the accounts.”

He stopped himself from giving Peters the caustic remark he deserved. “I need to deal with her first.”

“She’s been eating up a lot of your time. Your pockets have a limit, Rothburn. You can’t keep going on pretending the rest of the world will stop on its axis while you sort
her
out. You have clients wondering when the hell you’re going to call on them, and you need to negotiate new contracts with your traders.”

“Just give me a month to sort her out. That’s all I’m asking. You know full well the business can continue in your stead. You helped me build the bloody thing from the ground up.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s not
my
association your clients want. I’m not good
ton
.”

“It’s arguable that I am.” He looked at Peters a long moment, thinking carefully on what he asked of him. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

Peters raised a brow. “A favor? I don’t think you’ve ever asked for a favor.” The man’s gaze slipped beyond him and toward the window facing the garden. “It has to do with her, doesn’t it?”