"I think the man I baptized today is the man you are," she said firmly.
He felt as if a fist slammed into his chest.
"I don't think the gods will be appeased by a condom, Megan."
"Perhaps not, but it will certainly give rise to speculation, come May," she calmly rejoined.
He did not want to think about May. He did not want to think about the decision he would have to make, come the morrow.
"Hold me," he said starkly. And for the first time in forty years, he said one simple English word. "Please. Come to bed and hold me."
Chapter Seven
Pink dawn divided the darkness inside the bedroom. Faint stirrings penetrated the quiet, the sound of other clients rising. Leaving.
Sounds she had not noticed yesterday, the comings and goings of others.
Megan cradled his sleeping head against her breasts and listened to the easy rhythm of his breathing.
Muhamed. Connor.
Which man did she hold?
How would his family react when they saw him?
Would they stare at him, as the stableboy had stared at him?
Would they welcome him?
Would they rebuff him?
Would they hurt him?
His arm tightened about her waist. She knew that he, too, was awake.
"Muh-" She bit her lip.
What did she call him?
"I have to go," she said.
He did not answer.
Her heart felt as though it were being rent in two.
How ridiculous of her, to hope that he would want her to stay.
He did not stop her when she slipped out from underneath his head and his arm.
He did not stop her when she hurriedly dressed, shivering from the cold and the tears that silently dripped down her cheeks.
He did not stop her when she quietly opened the door and slipped out of his life.
Never to know if he found peace.
With his family.
With another woman.
Once in her room, Megan scrubbed her face, her teeth, dressed her hair and packed her clothes.
It was time to get on with her life.
The innkeeper, a squat man with thinning hair greased back from his forehead, leered at her, obviously aware of the time she had spent with the man he knew as Mr. Muhamed.
Meg would have cringed in humiliation; Megan turned her nose up. "I require transportation to the Branwell place."
"Ain't nothin' there, lady."
"Nevertheless, I would like to hire a carriage and a driver."
"It'll cost you six shillings."
It was an exorbitant price, but her only alternative was to walk. Ten miles.
"Very well."
The driver was a taciturn man who slumped underneath a worn bowler hat. He did not assist her with her luggage. Megan climbed into the seat beside him.
It was a rare Cornish day; two days of sunshine in a row.
Megan thought of the French letter, flapping in the breeze. She thought of her hair, hanging loose down her back as if she were a young girl instead of a middle-aged widow. She thought of the man who had allowed her to be free of the restrictions incurred by age and respectability.
She thought of the warm fluid that had spurted against the back of her throat.
A man's pleasure was far more precious than his seed.
Megan jumped out of the carriage and tossed out her luggage.
He laid across the rumpled bed a tailored black English jacket, folded, starched shirt, and black wool trousers. Beside them, he laid out a white thobs, baggy white trousers, and a length of white material to create a turban.
Connor's clothes. Muhamed's clothes.
Muhamed's clothes. Connor's clothes.
He was a eunuch, nothing would ever change his condition.
How could he put aside the last forty years as if they did not exist?
How could he ever have any peace if he did not?
How could Megan have slipped out of his arms and his bed and his room and his life as if they had not shared an intimacy that neither had ever before experienced?
He glanced down. And tried to choose.
To live as an Englishman, or to continue as an Arab.
Megan ignored the leering innkeeper. Heart outpacing her feet, she climbed the narrow stairs.
The hallway was a mile long; the worn wool carpet had turned to molasses, sucking at her feet.
He had given her no indication he wanted her to stay. Why was she embarrassing both him and herself by putting him in this position?
Her husband had rejected her.
What if this man did, too?
Thirty-six hours ago she had thought the hardest thing she had ever done was lift her veil and show her age to an Arab who had procured a whore. This was far, far harder.
Megan lifted her black-gloved hand and knocked.
A lifetime passed, waiting for him to answer.
She was overcome with a sense of déjá vu.
Thirty-six hours ago she had knocked in just such a manner. And waited…
Suddenly the door swung open.
Her eyes widened.
The man who answered the door was not the man who had allowed her entrance the night before.
"You… you're wearing trousers," she said.
His answer was not encouraging. "Yes."
Her gaze lingered on the white turban covering his head, drifted down to his black eyes, his chiseled features.
His face was tense, as if he, too, waited…
For her acceptance?
Or for her to leave?
In his black wool trousers, vest and frock coat he looked English, but…
"You've covered up your hair," she blurted out.
"There is only one woman whom I wish to look upon it," he said shortly, black gaze stoic.
"I do not require marriage," she said in a burst of emotion.
"My family would be shocked if I visited them with a concubine," he replied tersely, very much the man who had opened the door thirty-six hours earlier.
Her stomach somersaulted. "Are you asking me to marry you?"
"I am not an easy man."
"So you have said."
"I cannot erase the years I have lived in Arabia."
"I would not have you do so."
"I am a eunuch."
"If you are a eunuch, then I daresay many women wish their husbands were such."
His dark features tightened.
"I do not know if there is a place for me in Cornwall."
"I would enjoy seeing other parts of England"-could she live in Arabia, where women mutilated women and men castrated men?-"or other countries."
"I do not know if trousers will suit me."
"I prefer you in your robe."
"Thobs."
"I beg your pardon?"
"It is called a thobs, not a robe."
"I'm sorry."
"Yes," he said.
Megan blinked. "Yes, what?"
"Yes, I am asking if you will marry me."
How could happiness be as painful as heartbreak?
"Shall I call you Muhamed, or Connor?"
"You may call me whatever you wish."
He might be Connor in public, but in private he would always be Muhamed.
"I want to learn how to speak Arabic," Megan said firmly.
"I will teach you."
"I want to shave off my private hair."
His black eyes suddenly gleamed. "I will shave you."
"In that case, sir, I will marry you."
BERTRICE SMALL
BERTRICE SMALL is the author of over twenty-four novels of historical romance. She is a New York Times bestseller, and the recipient of numerous awards. In keeping with her profession, Bertrice Small lives in the oldest English-speaking town in the state of New York, which was founded in 1640. And because she believes in happy endings, she's been married to the same man, her hero, George, for thirty-six years.
SUSAN JOHNSON, award-winning author of nationally bestselling novels, lives in the country near North Branch, Minnesota. A former art historian, she considers the life of a writer the best of all possible worlds. Researching her novels takes her to past and distant places, and bringing characters to life allows her imagination full rein. But perhaps most important…writing stories is fun.
THEA DEVINE
She's the hottest writer in the industry. Romantic Times calls her "The Queen of Erotic Romance," and Affaire de Coeur hails her as "the divine mistress of sensual writing." She's THEA DEVINE, and she's the author of 16 steamy historical romances (all published by Zebra Books), four novellas, including Dark Desires in Kensington Books' USA Today best-selling erotic historical romance anthology, CAPTIVATED. She also writes contemporary romance and is a longtime freelance manuscript reader. She lives in New York with her husband of 33 years. You can contact her at: [email protected].
ROBIN SCHONE
ROBIN SCHONE is the author of Awaken, My Love; The Lady's Tutor (a Doubleday Book Club selection), and the novella, "A Lady's Pleasure," in CAPTIVATED, both a Doubleday Book Club selection and a USA Today bestseller from Kensington Books. The Lover, also from Kensington Books, is her third full-length novel. A staunch defender of human rights and women's sexuality, Robin lives in a Chicago suburb with her husband. You can write to her at P.O. Box 72725, Roselle IL, 60172 (please include a SASE for reply). Or visit her web site for chapter excerpts and updates regarding future projects at: http://www.robinschone.com
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