Murad issued instructions in Turkish, but his warriors made no move toward the stairs.
Alex’s fingers flicked in eager agitation over the knife’s hilt, but his voice remained calm. “I only want the girl. She’s not worth dying over. There are plenty of other girls for you to plunder.”
Murad barked out a harsh order. To his relief the two warriors moved to the bottom of the stairs, but his respite was short-lived.
“Your move I believe, Alexander.” Murad laughed. “Your sleeping beauty can’t walk out by herself so you’ll have to let me go if you wish to save her. If you kill me, I’ve instructed my men to kill her; you’ll never get to her in time.”
Before he could answer, Jacob, his ship’s captain, appeared in the doorway. With a cocked eyebrow and primed pistol, he took in the scene before him. “Need a bit of a hand do ya, my lord?”
He jerked his head at the girl. “Jacob, get her out of here.”
Everything happened at once. In Alex’s moment of distraction, the back of Murad’s head crashed into his nose, splitting it instantly. Blood poured down his face, and his eyes filled with water as pain seared through him.
Murad screamed orders at his men, but rather than staying to fight, he turned and fled, sprinting toward the exit before escaping past his men and out into the night.
One of Murad’s warriors came for him then. With lightning reflexes, he leapt toward the table and scooped up his sword, hidden beneath the bench. He slashed at the first warrior, managing to inflict a deep wound to the Turk’s shoulder.
Jacob was busy fending off the other attacker while Paval had the good sense to run, escaping after the fleeing sultan.
Murad would be organizing reinforcements. They would need to move fast, since he knew the rest of Murad’s men must be nearby.
He pressed on with the attack, advancing on the warrior with a fury at having let his enemy escape. Swords clashed and the loud clang of steel filled the heated night air. From the first blows Alex could feel his enemy was not a skilled swordsman, so he could easily deflect his obvious moves. He hoped Jacob was faring just as well.
The two men circled each other. The Turk charged yet again, his sword high in the air; blood was pouring from his shoulder and Alex seized the advantage as his blade ran the warrior through with one feint and lunge. The man’s death gurgle was muted by the sound of a shot ringing out across the room. He turned to help Jacob, only to see his pistol smoking as the smell of gunpowder hung in the air while the other Turkish warrior slowly collapsed to the floor.
Speed was of the essence. They needed to get to his ship and soon. The last thing he needed was a fleet of Turkish pirates on his tail. Murad would crave revenge just as much as Alex had once craved opium. The sultan would be furious at losing the girl, and more than eager for a chance to capture him again. Alex was the slave who got away.
Breathing hard, he shouted to his friend. “Jacob, rally the men, get the ship ready to sail.”
“You’ll be all right on your own?”
“Yes, I’ll get the girl; hurry, man,” he replied. He turned for the girl, who still lay naked and unconscious on the table.
He froze.
He looked at the pipe, still full of opium, lying on the floor before him, and watched drops of blood from his split nose land next to it. Sweat ran down his spine, his mouth dried up, and his cravings galloped once more into life. Pain. A few puffs and all his pain would be gone. With shaking hands, he bent and picked it up, enjoying its familiar feel, and allowed the powerful pull to consume him.
The girl stirred.
He looked at her. He was here for her, for her father.
Anger surged within him, and as he regained control, he hurled the pipe across the room.
He picked up the pieces of her torn nightdress and covered her before gently sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her out into the hot night.
Proud that this time at least, he’d been able to leave the insatiable attractions of opium behind.
Chapter 1
LONDON 1815: FOUR YEARS LATER
Even Alex would struggle to describe the euphoria of a woman’s mouth on his cock while lost in a haze of induced bliss. One tiny drop of laudanum in a glass of brandy and every sense heightened, every nerve in his body sang.
The pleasure was indescribable.
Wave after wave of overwhelming satisfaction swamped his body as he lost himself in the skillful ministrations of Lady Dianne’s lips, teeth, and hot mouth.
He’d contrived to spend a wonderful afternoon pleasuring the young widow, his current paramour, as soon as he’d arrived in London for the season. While spending the winter on his estate, Bracken Park, with his young sisters and brothers present, he’d forsworn female company, preferring to work hard and embrace his family.
He’d made up for lost time this afternoon, the laudanum helping his staying power considerably.
It was a pity that tonight he had a previous engagement or he would have suggested she stay. Still, perhaps later he could climb up the ivy hanging below Dianne’s bedchamber and continue her enthusiastic education in the arts of lovemaking.
On that thought he lay back and gave himself over to her. She sucked him so deep he hit the back of her throat, and all too soon he reached his pinnacle. No longer able to resist the sensations, he plunged over the edge into the cavern of self-gratification. The colors of his release blinded his mind and he cried out, his heart almost thundering out of his chest.
As he came down from the heavens he thanked God that she was a fast and eager learner. Dianne too appeared to be making up for the two years she’d been married to a man old enough to be her grandfather.
Still, he would not judge others. One did what one must to survive. Years ago he’d learned life was not a fairy tale. It was dark, dirty, dangerous, and hard. People were flawed. He’d always believed no one was perfect—except of course his bloody father, the Perfect Duke, as he’d been called.
Trust the memory of his father to arrive and diminish his euphoria.
He struggled to hold on to his blissful stupor as Dianne crawled up his body and laid her beautiful face against his sweat-soaked chest.
“You’re wonderful, but I’m exhausted. I need to sleep for a week to keep up with you.” She paused before quietly saying, “I missed you so.”
He would not lie and say he missed her. He missed sex, but not her in particular. He was not capable of a deeper emotion. They had begun their affair on one of his sudden trips to London a few months ago. He’d needed release from the dark memories crowding in on him at home. Usually his family and work dimmed his nightmares. He hoped this extended stay would serve him well for the next few months.
“I’m here for the season, sweeting. By the end of the season you’ll understand what it is to be exhausted.”
She giggled and snuggled closer. “I don’t suppose you’d accompany me to Lady Blighwell’s ball on Thursday night.”
He stiffened. He did not go to society engagements with his paramours. That spoke of commitment. Spoke of a relationship. No. What was Dianne thinking? He was not interested in anything other than stolen moments of mutual pleasure. He thought he’d made that clear.
His mother did mention the obligation he had to settle down. Suggesting he needed someone to help him in his duties and give him children. He was in no hurry to marry. The idea of bringing children into this world scared him to death. The world was such a cruel and unjust place.
The imperfect son of the Perfect Duke should not procreate. He had two younger brothers for that. Besides, he was no saint where women were concerned and he’d never fathered a child. He was certain he couldn’t. It did not concern him because he didn’t want to bring any child of his into this desperate and sinful world.
He turned on his side to face her and cupped her chin in his hand. “I don’t want to hurt you Dianne, but I’m not courting you. I thought I’d made the boundaries of our affair clear. Mutual sexual pleasure is all
I’m capable of sharing with you.”
He watched her swallow and blink rapidly. She nodded. “I know. It’s just I realize how much I missed you these past months and…I’m lonely.”
He pressed a light kiss to her lips. “You’re young and beautiful; any man would be lucky to have you as his wife. If you are lonely then go and find a man who is worthy of you and marry again. You no longer have to choose a husband for money, so choose wisely. But I’m not that man.”
She turned away and sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him. “You’re right. I deserve someone who wants to be with me, not just for pleasure.”
He nodded, even though she could not see him do so.
She looked at him over her shoulder, her face a wealth of sadness. “I don’t think I should be engaged in a torrid affair if I’m looking for a perfect man to wed. That would not be in good taste.”
“No it wouldn’t. I fully understand.”
“You don’t even care that I’m calling this—whatever it is—off, do you?”
He slid over the bed to wrap his arms around her. “I care that you are happy. It looks as though I’m making you unhappy and I care deeply about that. Life is too short to spend it on regrets.”
She sat studying him before finally reaching out and cupping his cheek. “You helped me experience passion, something I never had in my marriage. It means I know what I want in a husband and I’ll not settle for less.”
“You are too beautiful, kind, and”—he could barely say the word—“perfect to settle for anything less than what your heart desires.”
“I’ll never regret my time with you.”
“Nor me, sweeting.”
Her hand fell away, and a part of him he tried to keep locked behind a fortress in his chest kicked a thumping beat.
Jumping out of bed he reached for a robe and walked to the door of the bedchamber. He never took his paramours to his room. This room was a guest room, set up because of the discreet access to the servants’ back stairs, which led to the back of the house and his coaching stable. Ladies could come and go unobserved in his unmarked carriage.
“I shall send up my servant Juliette to help you dress. Feel free to stay and bathe if you wish. However, I’m due at the explorers club this evening.” It was more a gathering of like-minded friends than a club. They met to discuss their travels, especially when any one of them had been far afield.
As his hand found the door latch he hesitated. “Thank you, Dianne. In my own way I will miss you.”
“I find you, or should I say men in general, puzzling. Men will fight wars, participate in duels, pummel each other in the boxing ring, all dangerous activities, yet they seem to be petrified of true emotion. You are scared to love.”
A trigger exploded in his brain as memories came crashing in. “That may be true for most men, but not of me. Some of us have nothing left inside to love with.” He was breathing heavily from his outburst and he could not stand the look of pitiful understanding on Dianne’s face.
He merely turned and left the room refusing to ever look back.
His inner voice had warned him to stay away from Lady Dianne; she was too perfect, too unworldly. Normally he shared his amusements with women who were slightly more ravaged by life.
She reminded him of Hestia.
Another reason he should have left Dianne well alone.
* * *
—
An hour later he was bathed and changed, sitting in his library brooding over his breakup with Dianne. Now he’d have to find a new lover for the season, and for once the idea did not titillate him as it should.
He lifted his glass and was about to take a sip when he noticed a smear of soot on the runner. God damn it. Sweat broke on his brow and his hands shook. He was about to bellow for Tompkins when his butler knocked and entered.
“Tompkins, I pay you well, do I not?” At his butler’s nod he said, “Have I not stressed how my homes are to be kept spotless?” Another nod. “Get someone to clean up this mess immediately.”
“Mess, Your Grace?”
He pointed. “This soot.”
He watched Tompkins peer through his spectacles at the tiny smudge of black.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
He hated how Tompkins silently judged him. Yes, it was a little spot, but when he’d been in captivity he was kept for so many months in filth that now he could not abide any trace of dirt.
“There is an urgent missive. Shall I see to this first or shall I wait for a reply, Your Grace?”
Alex lifted the perfumed note off the silver platter and instantly knew whom it was from. He remembered her scent. It smelled of goodness and innocence.
He stared at the note in his hand, and the deep clenching in his gut told him what he should do with it.
Ignore it.
Burn it.
His fingers ran over the paper. The handwriting flourishes displayed her personality: the larger-than-normal slash for the T, the longer hanging loops of the G…bold, courageous, and vivacious. He would have known who had sent the letter before he read her name. The scent that clung to the paper was faint, but his body reacted to it just the same. A deep yearning sent pain ricocheting through his chest and he ruthlessly pushed it away.
Lady Hestia Cary, the Earl of Pembroke’s daughter. Over the years she’d grown into a lovely young woman, the scandal of his rescue of her from Turkish pirates mostly forgotten.
He had to force his hand not to crumple the note in his fist. Only then did he remember his butler, Tompkins, was waiting for a reply. How much had the old bugger seen and understood? He opened the note and read.
“You may inform the messenger that I shall call on Lady Hestia within the hour.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” The tone of Tompkins’s words indicated his approval. “Shall I inform your valet?”
Alex looked down his body as he sat in his favorite chair by the fire, the book on African sea currents sitting in his lap forgotten. He’d been about to head to Lord Foxhurst’s residence, where the explorers club was gathering, and he considered himself respectably dressed for the occasion. Lord Panton had just returned from an expedition to North Africa and he’d longed to hear the news.
“I don’t believe Hessians are appropriate for a house call at this late hour, Your Grace,” Tompkins admonished.
“It is an urgent summons, so her ladyship will have to take me as she finds me. I shall go on to the explorers club afterward.” Formal dress for this meeting would send Hestia the wrong message.
“Very good, Your Grace.”
As he waited for his carriage to be summoned, he recognized the excitement building was not about the tales of North Africa he would hear later. He’d not seen Lady Hestia for over eighteen months. He made it his mission to avoid her when she came to town.
Why Hestia could not ascertain that he did not wish to see her, talk with her, he could not understand. She reminded him of the darkest days of his life, and that’s the last thing he needed to be reminded of.
Why couldn’t she marry like a young lady of quality should? Every time he came back to London he prayed he’d hear the news of her betrothal. He blamed her father. Still gallivanting around the Mediterranean engrossed in history when he should be home ensuring the safety and future of his daughter. Surely she could find someone suitable.
It wasn’t from lack of offers. She was beautiful, had a large dowry, was the daughter of a well thought of, if slightly eccentric, earl, and she could be utterly charming when she wanted to be. Of course there was the scandal of her Turkish pirate abduction, but he had rescued her over four years ago, and her impeccable behavior since meant the incident was virtually forgotten.
Already his gut was churning with building anger, wondering on what pretext she had sent for him. He was surprised her aunt had not forbidden her to contact him. Surely she would not have set up a situation where she could meet with him without a chaperone?
His mouth firmed. If she tho
ught he could be trapped into marriage, the little minx did not know him very well. Hell, that was the problem. Hestia didn’t know him at all. She thought she did, but all she saw was her white knight. A man who rescued her from the clutches of evil.
Little did she know that he had once partnered with that very evil. Done things with Murad that would make the devil faint.
And in his drug-induced haze enjoyed it.
He knew why she had not married. Hestia was waiting for him. Silly girl. The sooner he disabused her of this notion, the better.
On a sigh he snapped the book closed and rose.
He strode out to his carriage and barely noticed the bite in the air. Spring was slow in arriving. Still it felt good to be outside. His leg began its constant jiggle as his impatience to have this meeting over grew. He was only going because he owed her father, and with the earl in the Mediterranean, he could not discount she had a legitimate reason for summoning him.
Blast the girl. Over the years it had not taken him long to conclude her trips to London coincided with his. She had not hidden her infatuation from him, and for the first few years after he’d rescued her, he put it down to the fact he’d saved her from Murad.
He tried to be discreet when it came to his paramours, but Hestia would no doubt have heard gossip. She knew he was not a monk. He had hoped it would lessen her hero worship of him. He was not worthy of such honor.
But her devotion had never faltered, worse luck. So the only safe thing for him to do was to put distance and formality between them. It worked. Lately she was polite when they accidentally bumped into each other, and the light in her eyes when she looked at him had dimmed as the years rolled on.
His gnawing unease increased when he acknowledged that this summons was indeed a change in her usual behavior.
Something was wrong.
His pulse sped up and he banged on the carriage roof. “Can we hurry if you please?”
His heart was still pounding as he mounted the steps of the Earl of Pembroke’s townhouse. The last time Alex had set foot in this house, his father was still alive and he’d only had his honorary title, Marquess of Tavistock. Even though at the time he was a duke in waiting, he’d been chewed up and spat out. He did not blame his lordship, but it was all for nothing. He was not interested in Lady Hestia, and never would be.
A Dream of Redemption Page 22
