The Scoundrel Who Loved Me

by Laura Landon

  “The impertinence. The arrogance. It will not go unpunished. I will find her. That man who bought her will have signed his name to the madam’s book. We will come tomorrow, and I will discover his name, and when I find him…” The voice sank to a low growl. “I will cut his throat and take back what is mine.”

  “Aye, sir,” another man responded, carrying a rough English accent. “But wouldna that be dangerous? Cuttin’ a man’s throat? You could be caught and hanged.”

  Al-Zahrani’s voice rippled through the bushes, and Zehra closed her eyes, fighting the urge to run and give herself away.

  “I’ll kill any who stand in my way, do you understand? She has family here. No doubt she will go to them eventually. Have men watch their home, night and day. Report anything unusual. The moment I find her, I will take her by any means necessary.”

  No… Zehra’s eyes began to well. He would kill innocent men and women to get to her, her own family. A family who might not even know she existed. Zehra pressed herself deeper into the tall bushes, willing herself to not exist in that moment.

  Don’t let him find me, please. She begged the heavens to grant her this one favor if nothing else.

  Al-Zahrani and his man moved farther away, but she dared not move. She prayed Lawrence would come and find her soon.

  . . .

  Lawrence skidded to a halt as he reached the pavement. A number of Bow Street Runners were still on the steps of the White House.

  “Bloody hell.” He waited, watching the men for what felt like an eternity before they joined the others inside the brothel.

  “About time.” He walked briskly down the street, trying to look inconspicuous, which was difficult at midnight. He found a coach ready to take on passengers and waved for the man to come down the alley to him. Then he slipped back into the alley to find Zehra. She was waiting right where he’d left her. When he got close enough to reach for her hand, he noticed she was trembling.

  “You must be freezing.” He removed his coat and slid it over her shoulders before she could protest. “This way. I found a coach. We must move quickly if we are to get inside without being seen.” He slipped her arm in his and led her to the coach. Before they climbed inside, he caught her chin and tilted it up to his. “Understand, you don’t have to come with me. You are free to leave. Do you have friends here? Anyone who could take you in? I’d be happy to take you anywhere you wish to go.”

  Zehra reached for his hand, and the gesture made his blood pound. “My lord, I want to come with you. You must believe me—it is far safer this way.”

  He shouldn’t be feeling so attached to her. Not like this. Yet her words moved him all the same. “Very well. Quickly, get inside.” He helped her into the coach and gave the driver his address, and it began to rattle down the street. Lawrence breathed a sigh of relief as Zehra sat beside him. Without thinking, he curled an arm around her shoulders and tucked her against his side. She stiffened a moment but then relaxed, and he enjoyed the feel of her feminine form so close to him. Her lips parted and her hands clenched in her skirts as she leaned toward the window, peering through the curtains. Her eyes were fixed on the streets.

  “It is so different here,” she murmured.

  “Different?” he asked, curious.

  “Yes.” She pointed at the moonlit streets, and despite her blush, there was a fire and steadiness in her voice and gaze as she spoke.

  “Please, tell me what you meant to say.” He wanted her to speak. That soft voice of hers was heaven-sent, and he could’ve listened to her talk for hours. He usually liked to hear women sigh or moan his name, but from Zehra he wanted conversation. He sensed that anything she said would have meaning.

  “It’s so cold and harsh here. My home was warm and colorful.”

  “Where is your home?” he asked, half afraid she wouldn’t tell him.

  “Persia,” she replied softly.

  He blinked. “Wait, the auctioneer wasn’t lying? You really are from Persia?” She nodded, and he smiled. “Does that mean you are a princess too?”

  “Perhaps,” she replied, a soft twinkle in her eyes.

  She seemed so afraid, so hesitant around him, but he understood. She was a brave woman facing a life as a slave if she couldn’t trust him. He was about to ask her why she wanted to stay here with him, but the coach rolled to a stop and the driver announced his address. He moved to get out first and relished lifting her down from the coach. Nothing seemed more wonderful than holding her close in his arms, and he hated having to set her down on the ground and let go.

  With a furtive glance about, he saw the street was empty, so they rushed up the steps to his door. His butler, Mr. MacTavish, was waiting for him. The old stout Scotsman’s eyes widened at the sight of Zehra, but he did not question her presence. Lawrence had kept a fair number of mistresses in recent years, which meant a lady after midnight was not completely unexpected. They didn’t usually stay for more than a night, so MacTavish would likely be surprised by Zehra staying longer.

  “MacTavish, this is Miss Zehra Darzi, and she is my esteemed guest. Please have a chamber prepared for her.”

  The old Scotsman blinked in momentary confusion. “Not your room?” he queried, his tone polite and careful.

  “No. Miss Darzi will have her own chambers. She will advise you what her needs are with regard to meals and anything else.”

  Lawrence paused at the base of the stairs, Zehra at his side as he looked at her. “You do not have a maid… I’ve only just realized you must have nothing. How foolish of me.”

  Zehra shook her head. “I had a maid back home, of course, but she was…” Her words trailed off. She seemed to consider her next words carefully. “She is no longer with me.”

  MacTavish interjected. “Er… Shall I make inquiries first thing in the morning to procure a maid for the lady?”

  Lawrence replied, “Yes,” at the same time Zehra said, “No.”

  “You will have need of a maid while you remain here,” Lawrence explained. “I can’t ask my upstairs maids to spend time away from their duties to assist you. I would much prefer you have a maid ready to see to your every need, not to mention your changes of clothes.”

  Her cheeks pinkened, and she glanced away. “I have only this gown. A maid shall not be needed.”

  Lawrence gaped at her. “Zehra, you wound me.” He was teasing, but the flash of panic in her eyes made him move on hastily. “You have met me under the least reputable circumstances, I know, but rest assured you will be treated properly under my roof.” He stroked her cheek, loving the way her eyes dilated. “That means, I’m afraid, that you must endure a new wardrobe.”

  Zehra stared at him in disbelief as he led her upstairs. Below them, MacTavish called for servants to attend to them.

  “You may rest in my chambers for now until they have your room prepared.” He escorted her to his own room and ushered her inside. A fire was lit, and Lawrence knew a tray of food would soon be sent up, but for now at least, he could get Zehra settled. She lingered by the door, her elegant fingers twining in the silk of her gown. Lawrence longed to reach out and touch those hands again, to reassure her that all was well, but he feared she still did not trust him.

  “Please, sit. I can offer you wine or a bit of brandy?” He started toward the decanters on his side table, then his face turned a ruddy red. “I suppose you don’t drink spirits do you? I apologize if I caused any offense.

  “No, it’s fine. I do drink occasionally. My mother wasn’t Persian and I was raised in two different cultures. I would like a glass of wine please,” Zehra replied as she seated herself in the first chair by the fire. He poured her a glass and handed it to her, then sat in the chair watching her. She gulped heavily. Her father would have disapproved but her mother had often let her have a glass of wine in secret when it was just the two of them, and Zehra was quite partial to it.

  “Did they provide you with enough sustenance at the White House?”

  “The White House
?” she asked, confused.

  “Yes, the brothel where you…”

  “Oh.” Her cheeks turned dark red. “A little. I had a glass of water and a piece of bread around midday—”

  “God’s teeth!” Lawrence cursed. The poor woman had been starved. She jumped at his outburst. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just that the more I learn of this place the more furious it makes me.” That wasn’t nearly a strong enough word, but he wasn’t about to tell this poor frightened woman he wanted to go back and raze the place to the ground.

  Zehra sipped her wine more slowly, her eyes locked on his as though seeking to ascertain if he was still a threat. She ought to have a minute alone, even from him. It might give her time to adjust and feel safer.

  “I think I’ll go down and have some extra food brought up. Please stay here and warm yourself by the fire.”

  He left her alone, feeling she could do with a bit of quiet after the horrors she’d suffered. It was clear from her speech that she was a highborn lady and not used to the treatment she’d endured. Not that any woman should be used to it. MacTavish was in the hallway waiting for him, his dark brows drawn together in concern.

  “My lord, is she… Does she need anything?”

  “Yes. Food. Have everything Cook can make sent up at once.”

  His butler nodded, and by MacTavish’s hesitation it was clear that he sensed Zehra was not a typical guest.

  “I shall explain everything to you once it’s safe. It is for her sake, not mine, that we must have secrecy.”

  MacTavish nodded. He’d served Lawrence since Lawrence had turned twenty and was no stranger to taking orders of a peculiar nature. “The maids will see to her room, and I will let everyone know that this guest is special and her presence a secret.”

  “Thank you. Apologize to everyone for the late hour.” Lawrence walked downstairs to his study, where he pulled out a bit of parchment and prepared a quill and fresh ink pot. He hesitated, however, when he put his quill tip down.

  What would he say to his brother? Apologize for buying a woman when he’d vowed he would not interfere? Yet what should he have done? Sit idly by as a woman had her freedom stripped from her? If anything, it was his brother’s fault for not properly warning him.

  He had taken one look at Zehra and knew he couldn’t let her be taken by another man. There was something about her eyes and how she moved. It brought back memories so far in the recesses of his mind, and they seemed to whisper to him, but he couldn’t pull them into the light, couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing—or half remembering.

  Yes, there was something about Zehra that he could not get out of his mind. She reminded him too much of the young woman from the brothel years before, though not directly in looks, of course. It was the situation as a whole. It felt as though he’d been given a second chance to right a past wrong.

  He stared hard at the parchment. With a curse, he crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the fire. As he watched the embers eat away at it, he sighed and looked up at the ceiling to where Zehra sat now, one floor above.

  She was a lovely woman who’d been through a horrifying ordeal, and he was moved by her in ways that were far too dangerous. He’d never considered himself a true gentleman—he took after his older brother, Lucien, far too much. As his mother had said more than once, “Rogues run in the family.” If he kept Zehra under his roof for very long, he would have trouble remaining a gentleman.

  Yet he was not a man who ever forced seduction on any woman, either. He did have some scruples he still clung to, by God. But if she gave him any indication she wished to share his bed, he most certainly would not turn her down. The problem would be in determining if such a request was genuine or out of some sense of obligation. He wouldn’t abide the latter.

  Lawrence leaned back in his chair, frowning. This week his entire family was to be present for various summer parties in London, and he would no doubt be forced to attend these events as well, but what of Zehra?

  He would have to keep his Persian princess safely tucked away for now. He could still see the look of fear in her eyes as she begged him to keep her, even though he’d promised her freedom. Something had frightened her about being returned home. It was a mystery—one he had every intention of getting to the bottom of once she had a chance to rest.

  Lord, he was thankful no other man had bid against him. Seven thousand was an unbelievable sum, one he would have trouble explaining should anyone question his accounts—that was assuming the White House was able to use it, which was unlikely given that the Bow Street Runners were tearing the brothel apart. But he had won, and he was relieved she’d come home with him. She was safe now and would remain so under his watch.

  Chapter Three

  Zehra sipped her wine, even though her belly quivered with an ache born of days with little to no food. She fought to ignore the beating headache rising in her head by examining the bedchamber of her rescuer. His tall four-poster bed with a dark-green coverlet looked inviting, perhaps too much so. He had a shaving stand, complete with a washbasin, and a chest of drawers. A tall bookcase stood against one wall, and it was filled with books, some old, others quite new. She carried her wine glass with her as she approached the shelf.

  “Who are you, Lawrence Russell?” she whispered, reading the gilded spines on the shelves. Gothic novels, poetry, sciences, art, philosophy. He was well-read, it seemed. Surely a man who was well-read was less likely to be a cruel man. At least, she hoped so.

  He claimed he had bought her to protect her from other men. But she had learned the hard truth of late that she could trust no one—not strangers, not even friends. Her parents lay dead because they’d trusted a man they thought was their friend.

  Zehra closed her eyes. Tears trickled down her face, and the cool spring air drifting through the open window dried the wet streaks. She mastered herself, bearing the pain of her loss. There would be a time to mourn, but not yet, not until she found her mother’s family and learned if they would offer her a home or cast her out.

  She could almost hear her father’s voice. “You must be strong a little while longer, my desert rose, just a little longer.” Desert rose. How often he’d called her that. Her mother had laughed with delight at the name whenever Zehra would dance in a puddle of colorful rose petals, breathing in the heady perfume of nature’s finest flower.

  For a moment, she was borne back into the past, and sunny memories swept her far from this dark, cold island. Her father sat before a fire in a pit, the night sky glittering with stars, as he played the setar, an instrument similar to an Indian sitar. He sang in a haunting voice. Zehra would sit wrapped in her mother’s arms, as her mother whispered to her the words of her father’s music.

  I am a candle burning for you,

  My heart is aflame with ardor for you,

  Yet you shall never come home,

  My gleaming pearl, my dearest heart,

  I wait…I wait in the darkness, burning bright into the night,

  Hoping against hope you will find your way home.

  She had been too young to understand the look between her parents then, the softening gazes, the intimate secrets that lingered in the air unspoken between them.

  But that life was over. She would never find her way home because it was her home no longer. All that was left was a burned palace, blood coating the smooth floor tiles. The stain of evil in that place would never fade, not for her. Even if she could go back, she would never return to the palace.

  Her eyes flew open when the bedchamber door creaked. She turned, expecting to see Lawrence, but instead saw a dark-haired maid carrying a tray of food. “Excuse me, miss, the master asked for food to be sent to you.” The woman smiled, her countenance warm, and Zehra wiped her tears from her cheeks. She took a moment to collect herself, trying to paint a cheery smile upon her lips as she faced the servant.

  The maid placed the tray on the table by the fireplace and lifted up a warm blanket.
She gestured for Zehra to sit in one of the nearby chairs.

  “You look dead on your feet, miss. Why don’t you sit here? The master has a fine chair by the fire, and it’ll do you some good to rest.”

  The tall wingback chair did look rather cozy, she had to admit. After she sat, the maid tucked the blanket around her lap.

  “For the chill, miss,” she explained. “It can get a bit drafty at night.”

  “Thank you,” Zehra said, moved by the servant’s thoughtfulness. Her mother had rarely talked of England, but she said that the servants in England were far different from those Zehra had grown up with. She’d been raised to be held in reverence by those around her, and they would not dream of speaking to her, but this woman had treated her in such a friendly way. Zehra liked it. It made her feel less alone, and right now that mattered more than anything.

  “There’s leek soup, some cold meats, and fruit. If you need anything else, just pull the bell cord by the bed and someone will be up to see to whatever you need.” The maid offered another smile and left Zehra to eat.

  She looked at the metal dome over the plate and pulled it off. The delicious scents that teased her nose came as such a relief. She felt like weeping all over again. She went straight for the meat, wanting to soothe her hunger pangs.

  A few minutes later, she’d cleaned the plate and was mopping up the last bit of soup with a slice of bread. For the first time in a week, she felt full. She leaned back in the chair, warmed by the fire and blankets, a sense of peace overcoming her…

  She wasn’t sure how long she slept before she was jerked awake at the sensation of being moved. She struggled as panic overrode her rationality as memories of being bound and imprisoned on the slave ship came flooding back.

  “Easy, love, it’s only me. Your room has been prepared. I was simply going to take you there.” The masculine voice was familiar, and she realized in her sleepy haze that it was Lawrence who was carrying her. “You will be left alone then, I promise.”

  “My lord, please, I cannot sleep alone. Not tonight.” She clutched his shirt, curling her fingers into the fine fabric. She didn’t know why she’d suddenly begged him to stay with her, but for some reason as he carried her, she’d felt sure he would not harm her.