by Laura Landon
“Here, let me.” She grasped the other side of the blanket, and together they were able to get it down.
“Ah! There we are.” Lawrence helped Zehra down beside him. Once seated, he opened the wicker basket he’d had his kitchen prepare. She took the opportunity to watch him as he pulled the food out of the basket and placed it on the blanket. He was kneeling next to her, and she admired his strong thighs, outlined by the tightness of his trousers in his current position.
Zehra was fascinated by the way his dark hair caught the sunlight on the hill. Golden amber glinted and sparkled in the strands. She’d never seen a man with such hair color. Now that the shock of what she’d been through had finally begun to fade, she was starting to pay more attention to the unusual aspects of his appearance.
“What?” Lawrence asked. His hazel eyes searched her face when he realized she was studying him. They sat mere inches apart, and an invisible energy seemed to pull between them.
“Your hair.” She reached up without thinking and brushed her fingers through it.
A smile hovered about Lawrence’s lips. “What about my hair?”
When she realized that she was still touching it, she dropped her hands in her lap, blushing. “I’ve never really seen that shade before. The color, it’s striking.”
“No gingers where you’re from?” His rich laugh warmed her to her very core.
“Ginger?” She giggled. “You mean like the root? What does that have to do with your hair?”
“I’m a ginger. That’s what we call redheads.” He combed his fingers through the strands, smiling. It was the kind of soft smile that reminded her of her father and of her home. A smile that was gentle, playful, open, but only to a person lucky enough to witness it.
She began to understand her sweet, seductive rescuer more and more simply by talking with him and watching him. He was like her father in some ways, quiet, intense, but at the right moments, when they opened up, it was as though the sun would never stop shining down on them. She shook her head to banish the sudden flare of pain at the memory. Instead she focused on Lawrence and the way he made her want to smile.
“You Englishmen and your silly words.”
“We have plenty of silly words, but I promise to waste none on you unless you wish me to.” He winked as he handed her a plate with a mix of cold meats and fruit before he poured her a glass of lemonade.
They dined in silence, but she found she liked it. The quiet sounds of distant birds whispered in the trees.
“What bird is that?” she asked.
Lawrence cocked an ear toward the trees. “That’s a lark.”
Zehra listened to it again. “It is different from the larks I know.”
“I suppose it would be. Your home is over two thousand miles away.”
She had known how far she’d traveled, and yet hearing it now made this land seem even more wondrous and exotic. It was peaceful here and freeing. They’d walked here without horses or a carriage, and they’d chosen a spot on the hill away from other couples who were likely to picnic today. It was as if the two of them were alone in this strange world. Her eyes met his before sliding away.
He chuckled. “So shy, Miss Darzi?”
“So bold, Mr. Russell?” she replied just as quickly, earning a deep laugh from him.
“Are you still imagining all the wicked things I said I wished to do to you?” He slid an inch closer to her, her skirts brushing his knee. She leaned in, her pulse racing. She felt all too aware that if they lost themselves in passion here, it would likely go unseen.
“I might be,” she whispered, her face heating.
“Good.” He trailed a fingertip along the patterned silk of the gown by her ankle, toying with the hem, lifting the fabric a few inches. Her breath quickened, and he removed his fingers, letting the cloth fall back into place, much to her disappointment. Lawrence seemed to know just how to toy with her, the way a cat would a mouse. She wanted him, yet he refused to take things any farther than scandalous teasing.
“Do you miss Persia?” Lawrence asked when they had finished eating.
“I miss…” She hesitated, trying to express exactly what feelings dwelt in her heart. She hadn’t had time to realize she missed Shiraz, because everything for the last few weeks had been a terrifying whirlwind. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts enough to answer.
“I miss feeling at home, feeling like I belong. I do not belong in England.”
“Home is an important thing. My oldest brother, Lucien, has our family estate in Kent, and it is home to me in many ways, but…” His gaze grew distant.
“But what?”
Lawrence plucked a bluebell from the grass nearby and brushed his fingers over the petals. “My father’s memory is everywhere in that house.”
“You did not love your father?”
He looked away. “Quite the opposite. I loved him very much. He died when I was a lad. It broke my mother’s heart and devastated our family. He made Rochester Hall our home, and every room still carries the lingering presence of him. Sometimes it is too painful to go back.”
Zehra reached out and touched his hand. “Places collect memories much the way people do. Evil or good. You should never be afraid of a home that carries love in its stones. You should embrace it.”
She thought of her own home, oceans away, and how evil clung to it now. She would never go back there, no matter what. Her mother had taught her to put love in her heart above all else. It was a hard thing to do when she thought of her parents being betrayed and murdered. For a moment, she was sucked back into that darkness, where smoke and blood threatened to suffocate her.
Lawrence cleared his throat. “Picnics are supposed to be pleasant things, and here I am bungling it up, aren’t I?” His rueful smile tugged at her heart as he made a grand show of delivering to her the bluebell he’d plucked.
Zehra took the flower and rolled the stem between her fingers, making it dance. She smiled and then lay back on the blankets, watching the clouds form shapes overhead. She heard a rustle of cloth and felt Lawrence settle down next to her. She looked at him as he propped his chin on one hand and stared back at her. His eyes were enigmatic, but the sensual curve of his lips made her hopeful he would finally give her a taste of the pleasures he’d teased her with.
She knew so little of him, yet she also felt close to him in a way she’d never felt with anyone. There was a quiet, intense intimacy between them that was unshakable.
“Would you be angry if I stole a kiss?” he asked.
She knew why he had asked the way he did. This was the man who had rescued her. She owed him a debt of honor, yet he did not want her affections if they were born from obligation. But what was growing between them was not part of that debt she owed, not to her. She wanted him to kiss her, wanted him to do so much more.
Zehra bit her lip before replying. “I’d be angry if you didn’t.”
He leaned over, placing one hand on her hip, and lowered his face to hers. They were but inches apart, and a hint of a smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. She closed her eyes a second before he kissed her.
His mouth moved over hers languidly, as though he was tasting her. There was a hint of sweetness left on his tongue from the strawberries they’d eaten. Zehra curled one arm around his neck, feathering her fingers in his hair at the nape of his neck. Lawrence deepened the kiss, making her head light and her body tremble.
When his lips wandered to her throat, she was glad the modiste had prepared her low-necked dresses, because she wanted Lawrence to kiss her everywhere. Her breath hitched as he slid his hand up from her waist to gently knead one of her breasts over her gown. Although her clothes acted as a barrier to his touch, her breasts grew heavy and her nipple pebbled under his thumb.
What would it be like to feel his mouth on her skin? On her breasts? She moaned as he nibbled her collarbone before his mouth sought hers again. Zehra wasn’t sure how long they lay there kissing, until a cold wind teased her an
d she suddenly shivered. She and Lawrence broke apart, and they both glanced around the hilltop meadow. The sun had sunk beneath a heavy bank of dark clouds, and rain was coming on the horizon. She could see the misty wall as it swept across the distant hills and the city of Richmond below.
“Bloody hell,” Lawrence muttered and sat up, hastily grabbing the picnic basket. “We’ve got to go. You’ll catch your death if you get wet.”
She got to her feet and folded the blanket while he packed the picnic basket. They rushed down the hill as fast as they could, but try as they might, they could not beat the rain. The icy water soon soaked her clothes. The tall grass clung to her legs, making it difficult for her to walk when her dress caught on the grass. Lawrence held the handles of their basket with one hand and reached out to hold her free hand with his. They stumbled down to the base of the hill and onto the small muddy road.
“Zehra, I’m sorry, I should have had the curricle wait here for us instead of having us walk here,” Lawrence said as they dodged the growing puddles. Her feet were starting to ache, not used to the black walking boots she wore.
“I’m fine,” she assured him, laughing. There was something delightfully ridiculous about all of this.
They had been on the road for ten minutes before they heard the rattling of wheels on the ground. They turned back to see a farmer on the seat of an open wagon with two horses pulling it.
“Ho there!” Lawrence let go of Zehra’s hand to wave the farmer down. The scruffy man pulled back on the reins, and the horses stopped.
Rain dripped off the farmer’s wide-brimmed hat as he peered down from his perch. “Lost?”
“Lost? No, but in desperate need of a ride to the village.” Lawrence pointed to a distant set of buildings, where a little inn sat on the edge of Richmond.
“I think I can help. Climb onto the back.” The farmer nodded over his shoulder at the wagon.
Lawrence led Zehra over, and she helped him secure the basket and the blanket farther back in the wagon before he grasped her around the waist and lifted her up. When Lawrence climbed up beside her, she curled her arm around him. As the wagon rolled into motion, she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“We’ll get you inside and get you warm, I promise.”
“I know you will.” She tilted her head so she could place a soft kiss against his throat. In that moment, she didn’t care about the rain, didn’t care if she caught a chill.
I could stay here with him forever.
By the time they reached the small village, she was half frozen. Lawrence called out a thank-you to the farmer and tossed him a few shillings before he and Zehra walked toward the White Hart Inn. Zehra followed Lawrence inside, shivering as they came up to the innkeeper.
“Is there a room available for me and my wife?” Lawrence asked.
Zehra blinked in shock at being called Lawrence’s wife, but she knew he had to do it to avoid scandal and for that she was grateful.
The portly gentleman chuckled. “Picnic ruined? You’re not the first. All sorts of lads and lasses came in here soaked to the bone. Lucky for you I’ve got one room left.” The man, clearly Irish by his accent, retrieved a single brass key hanging on the last peg on the wall and handed it over.
“Thank you. Could we have two hot meals and a bath prepared?”
“Of course.” The innkeeper whistled at a pair of young boys behind the bar. “Follow this gent and lady to room four and heat them up some water.”
The boys scrambled like pups to get up the stairs ahead of Zehra and Lawrence. When Lawrence opened the door, the boys rushed inside and grabbed several large buckets from a cabinet in the wardrobe, then rushed back downstairs. Zehra settled into the chair by the cold fireplace, wishing for the heat of the flames. A look of chagrin fell on Lawrence’s face.
“I’d put a few blankets on you, but it will only drench the blankets, and we need our bed to stay warm—if you want to stay the night, that is.” He watched her, as if waiting for her to deny what he’d just offered.
She nodded, trying to ignore the flutter in her stomach as he said “our bed.” They would share a bed and spend the night here, that much was clear. It was getting too late in the day, and the rain would make travel less appealing. He walked over to her chair and held out his hands. She took them, and he lifted her up to her feet, then sat down in her chair and pulled her onto his lap, curling his arms around her and pulling her close to him. He was as wet as she was, but she burrowed into him, stealing what warmth she could.
Zehra played with the ends of his hair with her fingertips while she tucked her face against his neck. “I would like to stay here.” She wanted Lawrence all to herself and didn’t want to share him with what awaited her back in London—fears of being sent home, fears of Al-Zahrani still roaming free, fears of being alone forever. Lawrence cupped her face and leaned into her so their noses brushed. She was spellbound by his hazel eyes, watching the green glints mix with light brown.
“There are those shadows in your eyes again. I wish I knew how to make them go away.” His breath was warm as he spoke, and she ached for him to kiss her. Their lips were but an inch away.
Please kiss me. Chase the darkness away.
Zehra licked her lips and Lawrence drew closer, but the door opened again as the young boys returned with hot water. She and Lawrence watched them in amusement as it took several rapid back-and-forth trips to fill the large tub. When they were done, Lawrence slipped them both a few coins, making their eyes go as round as saucers.
Zehra smiled, and Lawrence became aware of her studying him.
“What?” he asked.
“You are generous,” she said.
Lawrence shrugged. “My father taught me that when you’re blessed to have much, it is both a duty and a privilege to give to those who don’t. When a farmer gives us a ride in a storm or lads work hard to carry heavy buckets, I feel honor bound to give something more back than just gratitude.”
“I wish I could have met your father,” she said, her heart softening as she imagined Lawrence as a young boy learning kindness from him.
His sad smile tore at her heart. “I wish you could have too. He would’ve liked you.” He gave her waist a gentle squeeze, then lifted her up and set her on her feet. Without asking, he began to unbutton her gown at the back.
“What was your father like?” he asked.
“He was kind and amusing. He made my mother laugh all the time.” She closed her eyes, remembering the sound of her parents’ laughter. But the sounds were dim, not as clear as they had once been. Her memories of them—the way they smiled, their voices, everything about them—had begun to fade. Yet the memory that was blazed clear into the haunting stillness of her mind was that of their lifeless bodies and the distant screams cutting through smoke.
Zehra forced herself to focus on her father’s life, not his death, as she tried to speak.
“He was very intelligent…and very open to the ways of the West. It’s why my mother settled in so well with him.”
“Your mother wasn’t Persian?”
Zehra inwardly cursed. She hadn’t meant to reveal her parentage, not yet. “No, she was English.”
Lawrence’s hands paused on the last button of her gown, his fingers hovering at her lower back.
“You are half English?” Surprise colored his tone.
She turned around, shimmying out of the dress to let it drop to her feet. “Yes.” She faced him wearing nothing but her chemise and stays. “Does that…change how you feel?”
“About you?” Lawrence asked, brows raised, his hands hovering an inch above her bare shoulders. “Not at all. I am merely glad to have one mystery solved. Now I know why you are able to speak English so well.”
“Well, I had a good tutor,” she said, then wondered if that suggested too much.
He grinned. “It seems you have plenty of other mysteries I need to delve into.” His eyes wandered down her body before returning to her face. The
open honesty of his hunger filled her with a similar desire. He brushed away a damp strand of hair that clung to her cheek.
“Hop in the bath and warm up. I’ll have a fire lit and track down our dinner.” Lawrence turned and walked away, leaving her cold and alone.
Zehra sniffed, her eyes tearing up. The man was too good, too kind. And I want to show him how much it means to me. How much he means to me. Zehra unfastened her stays behind the changing screen while listening to Lawrence call for a boy to start a fire. It would be too easy to fall in love with this man. But she couldn’t seem to stop, and it was only going to break her heart.
Chapter Ten
Lawrence looked up in surprise as he heard Zehra climb out of the bath behind the screen. She hadn’t been in there very long and he worried the water had cooled too fast.
“Was it hot enough?” he asked.
“Oh yes. I didn’t need to stay in very long.” Zehra came around the changing screen into view, a blanket wrapped tight around her body. She came toward him on dainty bare feet, clutching the edges of the blanket around her shoulders. He caught a glimpse of her bare skin as she moved, and his body turned taut with arousal.
She deserves a gentleman, not a rogue. He forced himself to stay where he was. The old Lawrence would have been on his feet in an instant, sliding that blanket off her, determined to get her on her back on the nearest comfortable surface. But he wanted to be a better man for this woman. When he took Zehra to bed, he wished for it to mean something for both of them. It would be about more than simple pleasure, even if it was doomed not to last. He swallowed hard, his body fighting his mind every second as she drew close.
“I…was drying your clothes.” He stood and pointed to where her chemise, gown, and stockings hung over a brass grate close to the fire. It wouldn’t be too long before they would be wearable again.
She glanced at the spot and then continued toward him, her head tilted just enough to show the graceful slope of her neck. The distance between them closed, and time seemed to lengthen like a fine gossamer strand. He took in the sight of her and how damned lovely she truly was. From her raven-black hair to her slight upturned nose, even the hint of a scar just above her collarbone, she was perfect. Too perfect. He should have backed up, should have put the chair between them, but he couldn’t move. Her hypnotic eyes rooted him to the floor.
