When a Rogue Falls

by Caroline Linden

  “Wonderful, truly wonderful. And you?” She held her breath, afraid to hope he might feel the same way.

  “Simply wonderful.” He lifted his head to smile at her.

  They lay cocooned together, their bodies entwined. Lawrence traced a fingertip along the faint scar that ran just above her collarbone. The scar that Al-Zahrani had left her, a reminder of who she belonged to. She shivered.

  I am not his. I will die before I suffer him ever again.

  “How did you get this?” he asked.

  Her lashes lowered. “When my parents were killed, I fled, as you know, but…” She paused, drawing in a deep breath. “The man who betrayed my father, who cut him down, was an Arabian named Samir Al-Zahrani. He took me captive as I fled. I thought he was helping me, but I soon learned the truth. Another shah wanted to take over our lands, and I was Al-Zahrani’s payment in exchange for betraying my father. I was to become part of his harem.”

  “He hurt you?” Lawrence’s voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it that would have scared her had he been directing his tone at her.

  “Yes, more than once, but he never took me. He thought he had the rest of my life to torture me with the promise of sharing his bed. Instead, he spent a week punishing me for what he called my ‘insolence.’ Striking me with his hand at first, then later the sting of a whip, and finally he cut me with a small blade. All I did was argue for my freedom.”

  Lawrence’s arms tightened around her, and he closed his eyes, his lips pressed in a firm line. “If I ever have the fortune of meeting this man, I will kill him.”

  She gasped, cupping his chin and forcing him to look at her. “No! You must never say that. He’s a brutal man without honor. He would kill you for simply being in the same room as me.” She wanted to warn him that Al-Zahrani was still looking for her, but if she told Lawrence this, she feared he would move heaven and earth to find the man and try to kill him. She couldn’t have him put his life at risk.

  “I never want you to fear that man again. But he’s not here. You’re far away from him. You’re safe,” Lawrence promised.

  If only it were true… But she feared the demon-hearted man was walking the streets of London right now and Lawrence didn’t know, couldn’t know. She tucked her hand against his chest and closed her eyes, focusing on the beating of his heart.

  “My mother once said that when you lie with a man, you grow close in body and mind, close enough to share each other’s dreams.” She drew a fingertip between his pectoral muscles, imagining her mind and body connecting to his. “Do you think that is possible?”

  Lawrence moved one of his hands up and down her lower back in a gentle motion, one that would lull her into a deep sleep if she let it.

  “Possible, I suppose. I’ve never really spent much time sleeping with other women. I suppose I shouldn’t admit that, the part about other women…” His voice trailed off, and she chuckled.

  “You are allowed to have a past, Lawrence, as am I. I do not judge you for the women you have loved before me.”

  “I cannot say I loved them,” he said, his voice distant. “It was always for a bit of fun, you know, scratching the old proverbial itch.”

  She giggled. “More silly words.” She lifted her head to rest her chin on his chest and watched him, grinning at his obvious discomfort at their discussion.

  His eyes narrowed as if he didn’t believe her. “You really don’t mind, about the other women?”

  “No. Those other women made you the wonderful lover you are today. I benefit from their guidance.”

  With a soft laugh, he gave her bottom a little pat. “Indeed. They taught me many things…” Then he slid his fingers between the cleft of her bottom and down to her folds, pushing his fingers into her lightly. She moaned at his touch, feeling the sensitive nerves spring back to life. He played with her for a long moment, making sure she was wet and hungry for him, then lifted one of her legs over his hip and brought her closer. He pushed into her slower this time, gently, their bodies rocking as they lay on their sides, facing one another. It was somehow more intimate than before, more tender and sweet, even as he possessed her in every possible way.

  I belong to him. I will always belong to this sweet, seductive man…

  The thought made her throat tighten, and she leaned into him, kissing him desperately as they climaxed together.

  Lawrence held her close, his breath uneven in her ear as he struggled to recover. Neither of them spoke for many long minutes. They simply existed together in the same space, bodies, hearts, and minds connected in a way Zehra didn’t fully understand but had longed for ever since she had learned such a thing was possible.

  After several long minutes, Lawrence heaved a sigh. “I should hate to leave this bed, but I’m famished. You must be as well. I’ll fetch us our food. The lads should have it ready by now.”

  Zehra didn’t like the thought of him leaving her or the thought of them separating, but she reluctantly let go of him, and he withdrew from the bed. When he stood, his dark red hair was tousled from where her hands had run through the strands. It was a simple marking, but a marking nonetheless. She bit back a proud smile.

  “You look like a cat who’s fed on the cream,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Even more silly words, though these I understand.” She wrinkled her nose. “Is that supposed to be a bad thing?”

  He tapped her under the chin, still grinning. “Not at all. I like to see you smile. It makes your eyes shine like sapphires.”

  His praise should not affect her as strongly as it did. Yet she could not stop smiling even if she tried.

  “Your chemise should be dry by now.” He walked over to the fire, completely naked. She had a chance to admire his firm buttocks and the lean lines of his muscled legs. Her body was exhausted, but she still burned with arousal. He removed the delicate chemise from the fire grating and walked back to her.

  Lawrence held it out to her and she accepted it, loving the way the fire’s heat clung to the fabric. She pressed it to her bare chest for a moment, sighing in pleasure before she slipped it over her head and sat back on the bed while he dressed.

  “Stay right where you are,” he ordered with a wink before he stepped outside.

  Zehra chuckled and lay back in bed. She was a little tender, but it felt good in a strange sort of way. She’d passed into a new state of womanhood. The mysteries she’d heard about in whispers had answers now, and none of the texts she’d read had compared to the reality of being with a man.

  Zehra snuggled deeper into the bed and closed her eyes. She saw Lawrence’s face, felt his kiss, and sensed his hands on her body, and his weight atop hers. Even though she was more than two thousand miles away from her parents’ palace, she felt like she was home. And it was all because she was falling in love with the man who would soon be forced to send her away. Tears pooled in her closed eyes.

  Don’t think about leaving. I have a few days yet before I have to say goodbye.

  Lawrence leaned back against the closed door, pausing to reflect over what had just happened. He had made love to Zehra, and it had been… Lord, it had been unlike anything he’d ever felt with any woman. He had been focused solely on her pleasure, showing her how intimacy between a man and woman should be.

  And yet she’d been the one to teach him things. Like how staring into her eyes as she came apart was like watching a sunset over a lake: brilliant blue water bathed in gold light. It consumed him, drowned him in its ecstasy.

  She’d been so open with herself that he hadn’t been able to maintain his emotional distance as he did with past lovers. Being with her, even just holding her in his arms, made him want to tell her a thousand things and to ask her just as many questions. For the first time in his life, he was fascinated by someone in a way he couldn’t get enough of. That was why he dragged himself away from the bed—not for food, but to clear his head.

  I cannot let myself get attached. She will leave me in less than a week, and I
’ll never see her again.

  A weary sigh escaped him. He pushed away from the door and walked down to the taproom, where he found a barmaid and asked for the trays of food he’d requested earlier. While she fetched him dinner, he waited in the corner by the stairs. Suddenly he had that odd notion of being watched again. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he glanced about. Men and women occupied the common room, and many were gathered around the fire in the hearth. A few men glanced his way, but they were laughing and completely preoccupied.

  Am I being foolish? Is it merely the shadow of my brother’s threat to take Zehra away that’s making me feel eyes everywhere? It was possible, but he’d never been prey to such concerns before that left him in such a state.

  The maid returned at last and handed him a tray of food. The aromas that came off the plates were enticing, and he rushed back up to their room. He chanced a glance back over his shoulder at the base of the stairs, and a hint of movement made him hesitate. Had someone followed him to the foot of the stairs? He continued to stare, but no one appeared. Only then did Lawrence feel safe enough to go back into their room. He set the tray down, then locked the door behind him, just in case.

  “Are you all right?” Zehra’s voice made him glance toward the bed.

  “Er… Yes. Sorry, come and get some food.” He uncovered the plates. They had provided hot soup, mutton, fresh bread, and cheese. The simple fare would taste like a king’s feast after lovemaking.

  Zehra slipped out of bed, her shapely legs a tempting vision as she joined him in the chair by the small table, using a blanket as a shawl.

  “I am famished,” she admitted shyly.

  Lawrence handed her a plate. As they began to eat, he gave in to his curiosity.

  “Tell me, what was your home like? I must admit I have never seen any place outside of England.”

  “We lived in a village outside of Shiraz. My mother was visiting the country with her parents when she met my father. He was a prince, a shah in the Fars province. They were negotiating trade deals with a number of countries, including England. My mother was taken with the beauty of the land and its people.”

  Zehra’s eyes met his as she continued. “There is a mystery that shines in the eyes of Persians, an ancient calling to come close, to learn of the past. My mother said that called to her. She came to love Persia almost as much she loved my father.”

  “Is it truly a desert, where you lived?” Lawrence couldn’t picture this beautiful woman living in a hard, hot land of sand.

  “Some of it is, but not my home. Shiraz is a green land at the foot of the Zagros Mountains, an oasis from the harsh but beautiful desert.”

  Lawrence leaned closer, bewitched by her. She spoke of home. “Green? You had gardens?”

  Zehra nodded. “We have some of the most beautiful gardens in the world. And the roses… I miss the roses.”

  “Roses? England is quite famous for its roses. Did you know that we have a breed called tea roses because they smell like tea?” he pointed out with a grin.

  She chuckled. “Yes, but you’ve never seen Persian roses. We have pink roses with crimson edges and ones as yellow as midday sunlight, even orange roses that have coral at the tips of their petals.” As she spoke, her eyes were distant, and she gave a wistful smile.

  “My mother would cut them from the gardens and fill vases with hundreds of them. Over the next two weeks they would slowly unfurl their petals, the colors deepening, before they finally faded. The petals would fall onto the tables, and I would collect them for my mother to make rosewater. My people believe rosewater can cure anything.”

  “Ah, rosewater, yes. We love that perfume here. Some ladies even bathe in it.” Many of his past mistresses had insisted on rosewater for their baths.

  Zehra took a sip of her wine and looked to him with bright eyes. “I wish you could have seen the festivals we had for rosewater.”

  “Festivals?”

  She nodded. “The women would dress in their brightest clothes and go out to the gardens before sunrise to pluck the petals from the roses. The men would have copper tubs with hot water prepared. My mother took me every year to watch. I can still remember seeing the petals fall like colored raindrops into the vast tubs and the singing of the women as they welcomed the dawn.”

  Lawrence took in the image her words created. He could picture Zehra as a beautiful dark-haired child, wearing a colorful gown, holding her mother’s hand and watching the petals fall around her. The morning light would have come over the horizon, illuminating her bright-blue eyes. Yes, he would have given anything to see that. Anything.

  “Persians and roses have a long history. We are besotted with them.” She smiled impishly. “My mother said my father seduced her with roses.”

  “Oh?” Lawrence listened eagerly. As she spoke of her home, her face transformed, becoming even more beautiful, to the point where the sight filled his heart to bursting. She licked the tips of her fingers as she finished her dinner.

  “Roses are considered to be beautiful and perfect. They are the object of longing and adoration of the nightingale, who represents a lover and sings his devotion to the rose in much of our poetry. The poet Omar Khayyám was a favorite of my father’s. I remember a bit of his work.” She paused as though thinking before she began again:

  * * *

  I sometimes think that never blows so red

  The roses as where some buried Caesar bled;

  That every hyacinth the garden wears

  Dropt in its lap from some once lovely head.

  * * *

  For a second neither of them moved, the weight of the words caught between them in an invisible web, and then Zehra continued to speak.

  “My father crept into my mother’s chamber one night and had his servants fill her bath with rose petals, and there he spoke to her of love and roses.”

  “Your father sounds like an intelligent and romantic man,” Lawrence said.

  “He was,” she agreed. Fresh sorrow now painted her face with a haunting loveliness. He hadn’t wanted to remind her of her loss, so he scrambled to ask her something else.

  “Did you have a beau, back in Persia?”

  She looked puzzled. “Bow?” She gestured as if tying her hair with one.

  “No, beau. You know, a man who comes to court you? Someone who wanted to marry you?”

  “Oh, I see. There were many men who wished to court me, but I was not interested. My mother had shown me the freedoms of a Western woman, and I had no desire to marry a traditional suitor. It was my mother’s hope that I would travel to England in a year for studies.” She sipped her wine, and with a coy grin she continued. “I was looking forward to coming here and possibly finding my own wild English lord.”

  Lawrence laughed. “And here I am, ready to fill your every desire.”

  She raised one elegant dark brow. “Every desire?”

  “Yes, every one.”

  She set her wine glass down on the table and stood, holding her hand out to him.

  “Then take me to bed. I wish to see the stars again.”

  He would not deny her. They would not think of what the future held. For tonight there was only the beauty that blossomed between them as they came together in each other’s arms once more.

  Chapter 11

  Zehra slept for much of the coach ride back the following morning. Lawrence was to blame. He had spent all night making love to her. She had collapsed near dawn from sheer exhaustion. It was true, one could have too much of a good thing. She nuzzled his shoulder as the coach rolled to a stop.

  “Are you awake?” His tender voice made her want to sigh and burrow deeper into his arms.

  “If I say no, can you have the coachman take us back to Richmond?” she asked drowsily.

  Lawrence’s laugh warmed her to her toes. “Don’t tempt me, darling. I’d like that more than you, I’d wager. Why don’t I take you straight to bed and let you rest?” He brushed the backs of his fingers over her che
ek, and she smiled.

  “That sounds nice, as long as you join me. No more separate rooms.”

  “No more separate rooms,” he agreed. For a moment they simply stared into one another’s eyes, their faces close enough for a kiss. In that moment Zehra felt that she could have wanted nothing else in life, except to be with him.

  But their driver was waiting for them to leave, so Lawrence helped Zehra out. It was midmorning as they climbed up the steps to his residence on Jermyn Street. As the door opened, Mr. MacTavish stared at them, eyes wide.

  “My lord, I’m sorry, you have guests. I told them you weren’t here, but—”

  Lawrence went rigid. “Who is it, MacTavish? Is it Avery?” The panic in his tone sent a wave of dread through Zehra. Avery was the brother who would come to collect her, the one who planned to send her home.

  “Er, not that one—it’s His Lordship.”

  Lawrence frowned. “Lucien?”

  “Yes, but Lord Essex, Lord Lonsdale, Lord Lennox, and Mr. St. Laurent are also here… As are their wives.” The butler shuddered at the word, and Lawrence suddenly laughed as he turned to Zehra.

  “My brother’s wife and her friends are…spirited. They are known to get into a bit of trouble.”

  MacTavish nodded. “Aye, spirited isn’t a strong enough word for the ladies. When they get together, they’re like the witches of Macbeth, they are,” the butler grumbled.

  “Trouble?” Zehra had read Macbeth and highly doubted the ladies were witches of any kind, not by the way Lawrence was fighting off a smile.

  “Yes, when the ladies were last here, they spent two hours practicing lock picking on all of the cabinets in the silver room.”

  MacTavish puffed his chest out. “Those cabinets are impenetrable, no matter what Her Grace says.”

  Zehra wasn’t quite following all of this, but as they stepped inside the entryway, Lawrence leaned in to whisper in her ear.