The Scoundrel Who Loved Me

by Laura Landon

  His fine features were shadowed by flame, and she realized the room around them was dark. The lamps had been extinguished, and only the fire remained lit.

  “You’re welcome to my bed. I can have a cot brought up if you wish for a servant to stay with you for the night. Or myself, if you prefer.” His eyes channeled the moonlight from the nearby window, making her breath catch with their bright intensity. In her own land the men she’d met had possessed dark eyes of a hundred different hues, yet this light color, like wheat mixed with emerald, was unlike anything she’d ever seen. Her own bright-blue eyes were rare, she knew, but she found the endless tumbling facets of green and brown in Lawrence’s far more enchanting.

  Lawrence cradled her to his chest as he walked to his bed and laid her down. Despite his kind offer, trying to reassure her that he desired nothing from her in return, his quick and uneven breaths betrayed him. It seemed he was struggling to remain the gentleman he claimed to be. Still, it said much of his character that he could fight these demons so well, and she did not wish to offend him.

  “You would have my thanks if you would stay in this room for the night.”

  Lawrence nodded. “There are plenty of blankets, but if you get cold, I have more. I’ll just stay here in the chair. Call if you need anything.” He turned away, and Zehra had a moment to study his fine figure silhouetted against the firelight. Then she lay back in the bed for a brief moment before she realized her gown was too tight, her breathing shallow. The gown she’d worn on the slave ship had been more comfortable than this, likely because the slavers had wanted easy access to the women they took and didn’t care for corsets or stays. She sat back up and tried to reach behind her to unbutton the gown, but she couldn’t. With a shiver, she looked toward Lawrence, who was still facing the fire.

  “My lord, I have no way to unbutton this gown. The ladies at the White House left me rather helpless.” She eased off the bed and walked toward Lawrence. He swallowed hard, and she swore she heard him mutter a curse before he sighed.

  “Yes, of course, how thoughtless of me. You mustn’t sleep in that gown. Shall I call up a maid to help?”

  Zehra thought of the late hour and winced. She didn’t want to drag a maid from her bed. “No, we should let them sleep. I trust you, my lord.”

  “Trust me?” He chuckled ruefully. “Very well, then.”

  He twirled a finger, indicating for her to turn her back to him. She did, holding her breath as his fingers began to pull at the laces. She relaxed as the gown became loose against her bent arms and then fell to the floor. His sudden intake of breath made her blush and smile. There was a part of her that was boldly sensual, unafraid of such things in many ways. She was a virgin, but she was not uneducated in the ways of men and women.

  “Please, Lord, don’t tell me you need help with the stays.” Lawrence’s voice was low and rough. She sensed she’d pushed him too far.

  “No, I can manage. Thank you, my lord.” She stepped out of the puddle of her gown and stripped out of her remaining clothes, leaving a pile of stays, slippers, and stockings on the floor. Clad only in her chemise, she climbed back into Lawrence’s bed and settled in for the night. She was so exhausted that she only heard him wrestling with the chair and a small pillow for a few minutes before she surrendered to sleep.

  . . .

  Avery Russell stepped into the chaos of the White House, his eyes taking in the Bow Street Runners and the local magistrate, a man named John Dearborn, as they took statements from several brothel patrons. Three men were restrained by iron shackles and seated at a card table in the main gaming room.

  “Russell.” One of the Runners, a man called Sam Cady, nodded and spoke to Avery as he came over. “We’ve put a stop to the auction. Unfortunately, the madam threw her account books into the fire, destroying the names of the men who paid to attend. All of the ladies have been placed in an adjoining room, but…”

  “But what?”

  Cady shrugged his large shoulders and nodded toward the restrained group of men. “One of the gentlemen here swears another man bought a slave, the first one to be sold. He and the girl aren’t here.”

  “Someone got away?” Avery’s hands curled into fists as he thought of some poor woman being carried away to a place where no one would find her, where she would be abused and defiled, where she would most likely never leave.

  “Did this talkative fellow give us a name?”

  Cady shook his head.

  “Which man was it?” Avery demanded. He headed toward the prisoners. Cady shadowed behind him.

  “Bloke on the left, the young one.”

  Avery grabbed the man, who seemed close to Avery’s age, and snarled into his face.

  “Who took the first woman? Give me a name!”

  The young man gasped as his chair was pushed back to balance on two legs. “I—I don’t know, but I got a good look at him! I swear!” With his hands bound behind him, he would have a nasty fall if the chair toppled over, which was exactly what Avery wanted him to fear. A threat of violence could be more effective than actually using it. A man’s imagination was his own worst enemy.

  “What did he look like?” Avery growled.

  “He looked like you!” The man screeched as his chair teetered on its back legs.

  Avery froze. “What?”

  “He looked like you,” the man repeated. “Not exactly, mind. His hair was a darker red, but the face…very similar.” The man stared at him, but Avery was no longer paying attention. He let the chair fall back on all four legs.

  Lawrence. What the bloody hell had his older brother done? He had been sent to gather information about the auction, not participate!

  “What is it?” Cady asked, flexing his hands into fists. “Do you know who he’s on about?” Cady was a good man, but his brutish build and height made him a damned scary sight when angered.

  Avery shook his head. If his brother had bought a slave, there had to be a damned good reason. Had Lawrence thought he could play the hero, imagining himself rescuing the poor woman?

  The problem was, a magistrate would not see it that way. Buying a woman like this was enough to condemn any man. Thankfully, Avery had spent years as a spy for king and country. He was used to controlling his reactions and finding ways out of impossible situations. He turned to Cady.

  “Leave this to me. I’ll find out who the man is, and when I do, there will be justice,” he vowed. Cady nodded and returned to the other Runners, leaving Avery alone. Avery headed for the madam’s office, wanting to see what was left of the ledgers. He saw a small fireplace against the back wall opposite the desk. Three fat ledgers with marbleboard bindings were still smoldering on the hearth. Ashes littered the ground beneath the grate where the ledgers had been tossed.

  Avery knelt down and carefully peeled back the pages. Most of it was illegible, and some pages crumbled even as he turned them, but he could just make out a few names and numbers.

  “No…” He whispered a curse as he pushed apart the last pages to see the names more clearly.

  “Lawrence Russell – One item – £7,000.”

  Lawrence, what have you done? You damned fool.

  Pulling out a match from his inner pocket, he re-lit the fire and tore out the final page, casting it into the flames. There could be no evidence, no trace of his brother’s actions.

  I will fix it. I will find the woman and protect my family’s name. No one need ever know about this.

  He turned and left the madam’s office. The magistrate was in charge of the scene now, and Avery could easily disappear into the darkness. He had reports to make. His superior, Sir Hugo Waverly, would need to be informed of the success of the breakup of the slave ring. With several influential Arab and Persian ambassadors in London for secret peace talks to stem the war between the Ottoman and the Qajar empires, it was crucial that this event never be discovered.

  Avery slipped out of the White House and called for his horse. He needed to get home and rest, but c
ome morning, he would go to Lawrence’s home and demand answers. He would also have to take the poor woman to the port at once with the rest of the women and ship her home.

  He only hoped he could keep Lawrence from facing the law if his brother had done something so foolish as to truly buy a slave. He would be hard pressed to save his brother if that was the case.

  . . .

  Zehra couldn’t wash the blood off her hands. The palace halls were filled with screams, and the night sky was illuminated with fire. Smoke crept along the corridors, prowling for victims. Bodies littered the bedroom and antechamber.

  Zehra stared in shock at the two bodies closest to the bed. Her mother lay still, her golden hair spread across the silk sheets, her throat slashed. Blood pooled beneath her neck, and her sightless blue eyes looked through Zehra into oblivion.

  A tall dark-haired man lay at her feet, his body still, a scimitar grasped in one hand. He had killed four men before being cut down.

  Papa…the word didn’t escape her lips, but it was followed inside her head by a piercing scream of anguish.

  Later she could move again, and then she was sprinting down the corridor, coughing as the home she’d cherished burned around her.

  “The princess!” someone shouted in Farsi. Terror seized her heart, but she didn’t stop. She had to escape.

  As she reached a large open window that led to the gardens, a dark figure stepped into her path. She ran into him, and he gripped her body with one arm and clamped a hand over her mouth.

  “It’s Al-Zahrani, my princess. I’ve come to rescue you. Come with me, quickly.”

  She followed him out of the window into the night.

  Zehra shouted as she jolted upright. The night still held on to the world outside. Had she only been asleep an hour before the nightmare woke her?

  Lawrence leapt from his chair by the fireplace, snatching a fire poker and wielding it like a saber. “What is it? What’s the matter?” He seemed braced for a fight, legs spread in a crouched stance.

  Zehra’s blood roared in her ears as she struggled to calm. No, she was not in Persia. She was safe. Wasn’t she?

  “I…” She swallowed thickly, her throat raw from the scream. “I had a bad dream.”

  Lawrence relaxed and walked over to the washstand by the bed. He poured her a glass of water from a pitcher next to the porcelain basin.

  She accepted the glass, drinking deep until it was empty. Her body was covered in a sheen of sweat, and she lifted her hands, examining them for blood. She knew it wouldn’t be there, but she felt it all the same.

  “What are you looking for?” Lawrence filled her glass again.

  “It’s nothing. I’m so sorry I woke you,” she whispered.

  Lawrence leaned over the bed. She was surprised that she did not instinctively shy away from him.

  “Sweetheart, something terrible has happened to you. I see it shadowing your eyes—there’s a ghostly glimmer of pain behind them. But if you won’t talk to me, I cannot help you.” He cupped her face with one palm, and his warm hand felt so good against her skin. There was something about the way he touched her, spoke to her, as though he was too close, yet not close enough. She felt suddenly cold beneath the thin fabric of the chemise and longed for him to wrap his arms around her and warm her. It was madness, craving a stranger in this way, yet she did.

  “Perhaps one day I can tell you,” she said. “But not today.”

  His lips curved down into a frown, but he nodded. “I understand. Tell me what can I do. There must be something.”

  Zehra looked away from him, her eyes studying the plasterwork of the ceiling. Golden light, with painted roundels depicting scenes she recognized from classical mythology. She was more used to geometric patterns than depictions of people and was arrested by the sight of the art she saw above her now. Such beauty in the home of such a roguish bachelor. It was unexpected.

  “Zehra?” He spoke her name with tenderness, and she finally met his gaze.

  “Would you…hold me?” She knew it was improper, whether in England or in Persia, but being held was what she needed most. Whenever he touched her, the pain and fear of the past seemed to fade to a distant, hazy memory. She knew it was only a temporary solution, but she clutched at any chance, however small, to ease her memories and forget.

  Lawrence’s eyebrows rose. “Hold you? Are you quite sure?”

  “Quite sure,” she echoed.

  “Er…right.” He removed his boots, then eased down onto the bed beside her and opened his arms. Zehra was flooded with a rush of emotions as she slid into his embrace. She was asking so much of this man, a total stranger, and she could give him nothing in return. Her eyes filled with tears, and she buried her face against his chest. His scent enveloped her, and she relaxed almost immediately.

  “Better?” he whispered. His warm breath fanned the crown of her hair.

  “Yes.” Zehra was silent a long moment. “I am not a weak woman.” She wasn’t sure why she needed him to hear her say that, but she did.

  “I know, sweetheart. I think you may be the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”

  The tension in her body eased a little, and she let out a breath slowly. Could she share part of it with him? Perhaps a little…

  “My parents were killed. I found them, their bodies, before I escaped from my home. It was…” There were no words, not ones strong enough to express her grief and pain.

  His arms tightened around her. “My God. What happened? Why were they killed?”

  Zehra curled her fingers into his shirt, desperate to hold onto him.

  “My father stood in the way of a power-hungry man, someone he trusted. That man betrayed us to help another shah take our land. That is why I cannot go back.” It was all she could say. If she breathed Al-Zahrani’s name, made that threat in the gardens a reality, it could never be unsaid. It was better if Lawrence never knew of the danger. He might seek Al-Zahrani out, and that would get him killed because Lawrence was a man of honor and Al-Zahrani was not.

  Lawrence stroked her hair with a soothing caress. “You’re safe with me. I swear to you.” Lawrence’s lips touched her forehead in a chaste kiss that seemed to string together parts of her broken heart. “Sleep. I’ll hold you as long as you want.”

  “You’re a wonderful man,” she murmured, settling deeper into his arms as they both shifted to lie back on the bed.

  He chuckled, the sound making her feel warm and relaxed.

  “If you ever perchance meet my mother, you’ll have to tell her that. But I doubt she would believe you.”

  She smiled a little. “Meet your mother? Heavens, let’s pray that never happens.”

  “Why not?” He asked, half teasing, half serious.

  Zehra nuzzled his chest. “Because she will undoubtedly wish to know how we met, and you will have to say, ‘Mother, she is my slave, I bought her at the most dreadful brothel for seven thousand pounds.’ I fear she would drop dead on the spot from such news.” She chuckled a little despite herself.

  “Yes, well, I suspect learning I’d spent seven thousand pounds on anything might do that.”

  “And not the part about owning a slave?” she teased.

  Lawrence growled a little. “You are not my slave, Zehra. You’re free to come and go as you please. I only ask that you be safe. I can set you up in your own house, supply you with clothes, food, whatever you wish until we figure out what to do next.” He cleared his throat. “I ask for nothing in return.”

  She found the slit in his shirt and rubbed her fingertips along his bare chest, enjoying how warm his skin was. She knew she was tempting him, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. He was strong, warm, and utterly masculine. He made her feel feminine and safe in a way she hadn’t in many weeks.

  “You’re killing me,” he whispered.

  “Am I?” she asked, smiling.

  “Touch me anywhere else and I might not be able to stop from touching you back,” he warned, but there was a tendern
ess in the threat that made her burn with new hungers, ones she’d never felt for a man before. “Think of my poor honor.”

  She continued to brush her fingers over his chest and buried her face in his shoulder. The feel of his arms around her and being tucked against his side was hypnotic. It was lulling her into sleep very, very slowly.

  “Feeling better?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Good. Just remember, no nightmares can grow where sunlight blossoms.”

  “What?” she asked, waking a little. It sounded like something her father might have said.

  “It was something my father always said to me as a boy.” Lawrence chuckled. “He taught me to picture everything that frightened me as dark shadows and then to imagine that I carried a beam of sunlight in my hands, and I could shine that beam across the shadows, burning them away with the light.”

  Zehra took a moment to imagine her past horrors, which were already cloaked in shadows, and then cast sunlight upon them in her mind. She couldn’t be sure if it worked, but she didn’t feel quite as helpless as she had before. The darkness had given these visions power, and imagining the light had given her strength. She only hoped it was enough.

  “You are a wonderful man.”

  Her rescuer brushed his knuckles across her cheek and let out a slow, deep breath, but he didn’t speak. She smiled a little but couldn’t ignore the lethargy creeping along her limbs as she fell into a blissful, dreamless sleep where she hoped nightmares could not follow.

  Chapter Four

  Lawrence woke to the chiming of the grandfather clock in the corridor outside his bedroom.

  Half past seven. It was still early, and they had gone to bed in the wee hours of the morning.

  He shifted, feeling the welcome weight of Zehra in his arms. Her head rested on his chest, and their legs were entwined. Her chemise had ridden up, and he had one hand on her left thigh. She had one hand in his hair, as though she’d fallen asleep stroking her fingers through the strands. A smile twisted his lips. She liked his hair—just as he liked hers.