The Pleasure of Your Kiss Read online

  He held open a loose board on the back wall and urged her through the narrow gap, ripping the hem of her skirt free when it caught on a nail. The next thing she knew, they were racing through the warm, windy night hand in hand, their giddy laughter floating behind them.

  That memory of perfect freedom only made the tower feel more like a cage. Clarinda could just make out the indigo shadow of the sea over the tops of the swaying palms, its serene swells brushed with silvery fronds of moonlight. How could Fate have been so cruel as to have carried her all the way across that sea only to deliver her right back into the arms of Ashton Burke?

  She rested her brow against the latticework. She’d do well to remember it was only in her dreams that she was likely to find herself in those arms. It wasn’t the first time she had visited that sunlit meadow in the dark and lonely watches of the night, and she feared it wouldn’t be the last.

  Her willful imagination always seemed to forget the cold, the damp, the clammy fingers of mist that had enveloped them as Ash had borne her back into the folds of her cloak that long-ago morning. Perhaps it was simply too painful to remember the way his hands had trembled with raw emotion everywhere they touched her. How she had bitten his shoulder to keep from crying out when he had breached her maidenhead and filled her with his thickness. His inexpressible tenderness as he had used his monogrammed handkerchief to mop up the mess they’d made.

  She had known even then that she was supposed to feel shame at what they’d done, but any shame she might have felt had been eclipsed by the wonder of what they had shared. The shame had come later, after he was gone and she was left all alone to face the consequences of that all-too-brief idyll.

  As the weeks had passed without so much as a letter from him, it had almost given her aching heart comfort to imagine him dead or imprisoned in some foreign cell where he spent his days dreaming of sunlight and his nights dreaming of her. She had still been young and naïve enough to believe that surely only chains or death could have kept him from her arms.

  But as the weeks had turned into months and word of his daring exploits with the East India Company had begun to pop up in both the reputable newspapers and the scandal sheets, she had realized he had no intention of returning to her.

  And perhaps he never had.

  For all she knew, she had never been anything more to him than some foolish girl he had once seduced—the first in a long line of conquests to come. And now she was simply a job—a business transaction conducted between two men that would end with her being exchanged for a large sum of money, like some sort of thoroughbred filly.

  She supposed she ought to be grateful to Maximillian for finally disabusing her of any lingering notion that Ash was going to come charging up on a white horse someday and declare his undying love for her. Max might be more likely to have a coachman drive him around in a sensible barouche than to ride a white horse, but he had proved himself to be her hero in every way that mattered. He deserved better than to have his bride-to-be pining over another man.

  She was turning away from the window to return to the dubious comfort of her sleeping couch when a flash of movement in the gardens below caught her eye. At first she thought it was just the shadow of a cloud flitting across the moon. But as she squinted into the darkness, her eyes picked out the shape of a man restlessly prowling the winding garden paths below. As she watched, the tip of his thin cigar flared, illuminating the lean planes of his face.

  She had to admit it gave her a perverse pleasure to see Ash stalking through the garden, deprived of sleep just as she was. Perhaps he had been driven from his own couch by some equally vexing dream, his body aching for a fulfillment that would never come.

  Her smile abruptly vanished when he stopped at the mouth of the path directly below her and lifted his gaze to the tower, homing in on the window as if he knew exactly where to find her.

  She took a hasty step backward, seeking shelter in the shadows. Although it should have been impossible, she could not shake the sensation that he could still see her. That he was aware of the hungry look in her eye, the ragged rise and fall of her breasts, even the way her nipples tightened to rosy little buds beneath the smoldering heat of his gaze.

  It wasn’t until he leaned one shoulder against the scaly trunk of a palm tree and took a long drag on the cigar that she realized he wasn’t going anywhere.

  She slowly backed away from the window, a treacherous flush of triumph coursing through her. Ash’s mouth might lie, but his eyes never could.

  He might not love her, but he still wanted her.

  Oddly enough, Clarinda slept deeply and dreamlessly for the rest of the night. Somehow knowing Ash was watching over her made her feel more protected than being guarded by an entire army of scimitar-wielding eunuchs.

  As she emerged from her sleeping alcove and descended the stairs the next morning, her step was lighter than it had been in a long time. She even caught herself humming a lively tune under her breath.

  She had exchanged her multilayered skirts for a pair of the exotic trousers worn by so many of the women in the palace. They hugged the ripe curve of her derriere, then ballooned out to flow over her long legs, only to be gathered once more at the ankle. The gauzy silk had been dyed in sumptuous hues of coral and sapphire. It was a bit like strutting about in one’s pantaloons, but there was no denying how comfortable they were.

  The trousers were complemented by a fitted bodice cut low enough on the top to reveal a healthy portion of cleavage and high enough at the bottom to expose a narrow strip of her abdomen. Clarinda smiled to imagine the hackney wrecks she would cause if she paraded down any street in London wearing such outrageous garb.

  It was early enough that most of the women of the harem were still sprawled on their sleeping couches in the main hall. Clarinda picked her way through them, stealing a few fresh dates and a handful of nuts from a tray as she passed. She was relieved not to find Poppy among their ranks. Given her friend’s propensity for blurting out the first thing that came into her head, Clarinda didn’t dare mention Ash’s sneaking into the harem yesterday or reveal so much as a word of their exchange. When the time came for them to make their escape, she would have no choice but to take Poppy into her confidence. Until that day, Clarinda wasn’t going to give her any secrets to keep.

  What she was going to do was seek out Farouk so she could charm an invitation to supper out of him. She didn’t think she would survive another restless night of pacing her alcove while she trusted her fate to the fickle hands of men.

  She was relieved to discover Solomon was one of the eunuchs guarding the main door of the harem. When she explained that she wished to have a word with the sultan, he simply nodded and swung the door open for her.

  She was strolling down a long, arched corridor that was open to the spectacular vista of the gardens on one side when Yasmin came barreling toward her from the opposite direction, her arms piled high with towels. Clarinda wanted to groan, but she lifted her chin a notch instead, determined not to let a contemptuous glance or a spiteful remark daunt her high spirits.

  Yasmin did not disappoint. “Out of my way, you clumsy cow,” she snapped when they were almost upon each other.

  Clarinda was opening her mouth to form a retort when she noticed that beneath Yasmin’s sheer purple veil, the woman’s usual sneer had been replaced by a smug smile. The hair on the back of Clarinda’s neck prickled with unease. “What are you doing up and out of the harem at this hour? The eunuchs usually have to drag you out of the bed by your hair.”

  Yasmin neatly sidestepped her without even slowing. “Solomon has ordered me to tend the Englishman in his bath.”

  Clarinda froze in her tracks, paralyzed by an unwelcome image of Yasmin all but swallowing the cucumber whole. She spun around and set off after the woman, doubling the pace of her steps so she could intercept Yasmin before Yasmin reached the door that led to the baths.

  “I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans,” she said, forci
ng Yasmin to stop by darting in front of her and blocking her path. “I’ll be the one attending Captain Burke in his bath this morning.”

  Beneath the veil, Yasmin’s smile vanished. “I do not believe you. If this were so, Solomon would have told me.”

  “Solomon was not made aware of the change.” Well, that much at least was true. “It was the sultan who decided the captain might take comfort in being tended by someone from his homeland.”

  Yasmin’s eyes narrowed to glittering slits. “I do not believe you. His Majesty would never send a virgin to tend a man in his bath.” She spat the word virgin the way some women might say whore. “I am going to request an audience with him right now, and then I will prove you are nothing but a miserable, lying little—”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Although it made her wince inwardly, Clarinda knew she had no choice but to channel every ruthless skill required to survive seven years living among adolescent girls in an English boarding school. “You are a concubine. I am the one who will be Farouk’s wife very soon. And once I am, I will also be the one who decides which concubines will continue to enjoy his favor.” Praying Yasmin wouldn’t call her bluff, Clarinda leaned closer to the woman. “And which ones are to be banished from his presence forever.”

  Yasmin continued to glare daggers at her, but when her tongue darted out to moisten her rouged lips, Clarinda knew she had won. Biting off a guttural Arabic curse, Yasmin shoved the towels at her and spun around to stalk off into the gardens, where she would no doubt spend the rest of the morning looking for a poisonous asp to put in Clarinda’s bed.

  Clarinda gazed stupidly down at the towels in her arms, wondering what she was supposed to do now. But then she remembered just how smug Ash had looked when she had sprang up off the couch after he had allowed her to believe he was Solomon.

  A wicked smile slowly curved her lips. Captain Burke had been kind enough to attend her in her massage, so why shouldn’t she return the favor? Perhaps revenge wasn’t a dish best served cold after all but one that should be savored while it was still steaming.

  Clarinda eased open the heavy bronze door and slipped inside the hammam, the sultan’s lavish private version of the public baths one might find in any great city in Morocco. The harem had its own separate hammam, but it was always full of giggling women. Every time Clarinda disrobed in front of them, they would point and gawk at her as if she were some sort of albino monkey. She had finally taken to bathing in her alcove or only visiting the women’s hammam early in the morning when most of the women were still sprawled out on their sleeping couches.

  Praying that Ash was currently the only occupant of the spacious domed chamber, Clarinda padded soundlessly across the damp mosaic tiles.

  At least she thought she was being soundless until Ash’s smoky baritone came drifting out of the clouds of fragrant steam hanging over the room. “I’m a grown man. I don’t need a nanny to bathe me. I appreciate your master’s hospitality but you’re free to go.”

  Clarinda felt her lips tighten in exasperation. Even as a child, she had never been able to sneak up him. The trait had probably served him well in battle but was quite infuriating to an eight-year-old girl trying to drop a live cricket down the collar of his shirt.

  She called upon the acting skills she had perfected while staging theatricals, both for her doting parents and at Miss Throckmorton’s, to duplicate Yasmin’s heavily accented English. Allowing a husky note to creep into her voice, she said, “Oh, please, kind sir, will you not at least allow me to bring you some towels? If you send me away, I’m afraid my master will be displeased with me and will punish me most severely.”

  There was the briefest hesitation, followed by, “I don’t suppose that would do any harm. I certainly wouldn’t want to be responsible for you being … punished.”

  “You are far too generous to this humble maidservant,” Clarinda replied, her voice dripping with just the right amount of obsequious charm.

  Before seeking him out in the hammam, she had returned to the harem just long enough to retrieve a pair of diaphanous veils. She had fastened one over her nose and mouth, then had twisted her hair into a tight knot at the top of her head and covered it with the second veil. She was counting on the balsam-scented steam to provide the rest of her disguise.

  She slowly approached the crowning jewel of the hammam—an octagonal pool recessed into the floor directly below the dome. Diamond-shaped panes of cut glass had been set in the dome, inviting in pale shafts of misty morning light. Since Farouk’s ancestors had possessed the foresight to build their palace on top of a natural hot spring, there was no need for the traditional Roman wood furnace and hypocaust system to heat the water and the air. The spring provided a constant flow of fresh, hot water to soothe the weary bather.

  The pool was large enough to seat two dozen men, but fortunately for Clarinda, its sole occupant this morning was one exasperating Englishman.

  Her steps faltered as Ash came into view. He was seated in the pool with the water lapping at the well-defined planes of his abdomen. His arms were stretched out on either side of him, relaxing against the tiled wall supporting his back, a posture that only emphasized the corded muscles in his forearms and the impressive breadth of his shoulders. Clarinda was reminded all over again that he was no longer the boy she remembered, but some other sort of creature altogether, wildly masculine and possibly dangerous.

  There were those who believed the devil himself lived in the hammam, and in that moment Clarinda was tempted to believe them.

  With the fingers of steam swirling around him, Ash looked like some overlord of the underworld, idly biding his time while he waited for a hapless female soul to devour.

  That was all it took to convince Clarinda she had made a serious miscalculation. She had hoped to repay him for the trick he’d played on her the day before, but with so much at stake, this was no time for games. Especially one she had little chance of winning. Fortunately, no harm had yet been done.

  “You may leave the towels on the bench,” he said, following her every move through narrowed eyes.

  “As you wish, my lord.” She kept her own eyes demurely downcast as she crossed to one of the marble benches flanking the pool. If he caught a clear glimpse of her eyes, she would lose all hope of escaping with her disguise—and her pride—intact.

  Practically tossing the towels on the bench, she spun around to flee.

  “Wait.” Ash’s deep, commanding tone sent a tingle down her spine. “I’ve decided I could use some assistance with my bath after all.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Clarinda froze. Swallowing the knot of trepidation in her throat, she said, “If it is your desire to enjoy your bath in solitude, sir, I do not wish to intrude.”

  “There are very few men who wouldn’t welcome such an intrusion. Perhaps you could begin by washing my back.”

  Clarinda scowled as an image of a wet, naked Yasmin twined around him like a pit viper flashed through her mind.

  “Very well, my lord,” she replied stiffly, returning to the pool.

  Even with her eyes downcast, she could still feel Ash’s gaze stalking her as she reluctantly circled the pool until she arrived at the spot where he was sitting. She hovered awkwardly behind him, absurdly grateful that the lazy bubbling of the water shielded her eyes from what lay beneath it. She was embarrassed to discover that she might not be a virgin but she was still perfectly capable of blushing like one.

  She retrieved a cake of the brown olive-oil soap from the shallow lip of the pool. “Is there no sponge?”

  “There is no need for one. You may use your hands on me.” Bracing his hands on his powerful thighs, Ash leaned forward, leaving her with no choice but to accept his unspoken invitation and go down on her knees behind him.

  As she got her first clear look at his naked back, she barely managed to suppress a gasp of shock.

  The back she remembered had been as smooth as marble beneath the curious caress of h
er hands. Now it was a rugged map of the life he had lived for the past nine years. Judging by the number of scars it boasted, he had been stabbed and perhaps even shot more than once.

  “You seem to be a man who has earned more enemies than friends in this world,” she said softly, unable to resist using her fingertip to trace the puckered edges of the jagged bayonet scar that ran from the top of his spine to his right shoulder blade.

  “Does that surprise you? Not every man can command his own army to protect him as your master does. Some have to fight their own battles.”

  Reminded by his words that he wasn’t talking to her but to Yasmin or some other anonymous concubine, Clarinda dragged her hand away from the scar. She dipped the bar of soap into the heated water, then smoothed it over his back, lathering up his skin until it was as sleek as silk beneath her hands.

  The steam swirling around them was already beginning to have its way with her. As Clarinda worked the lather into the taut muscles of Ash’s upper back, droplets of sweat began to trickle between the fullness of her breasts. A limp strand of her hair slipped out from beneath the veil and plastered itself to her damp cheek. She could feel her own muscles relaxing, growing looser and more languid with every stroke of the soap.

  “Mmmmm … ” Ash’s rumbling groan of pleasure seemed to reverberate through her entire being. She could feel the leonine ripple of his muscles beneath her hands as he shrugged his shoulders to stretch them. “Moroccan women are so attuned to the needs of a man. They’re completely unlike those English harpies we’re accustomed to.”

  Clarinda’s hand tensed, sending the soap shooting straight up into the air.

  Ash’s hand shot out to catch it before it could hit the water. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  “No, my lord,” she replied, finding it much harder to maintain her fake accent while speaking through clenched teeth. “I simply need to rinse your back.”

  As she retrieved the clay pitcher designed for that task and dipped it into the pool to fill it, he cheerfully continued, “Take that Miss Cardew, for instance. I can’t imagine why the sultan would even consider marrying a shrew like her when he has a stable of beautiful, biddable women such as yourself at his beck and call.”