That night, Leila left Mrs. Stockwell-Hume's card party early, claiming a headache. While the carriage maneuvered through the evening traffic, she was recalling Esmond's sarcastic comments the first night they'd met privately: a cold trail...a host of suspects to be dealt with cautiously...a case that could occupy the rest of his life. She wished now that she'd heeded the warning.
She certainly wished she had never left Norbury House that fatal day in January. She wished she'd stayed and minded her own damned business.
As Francis' killer had expected her to do.
As Fiona had cajoled and begged her to do.
"Damn," Leila muttered to the empty carriage. "And damn again."
Between callers and dressmaker appointments, it had not been very difficult to keep the nagging suspicion at the back of her mind. But now there was no distraction, only the chilling recollection of the venomous hatred glittering in Fiona's eyes when she'd spoken of Francis and poetic justice.
Fiona certainly had a motive, every bit as powerful as Sherburne's or David's. She had, moreover, the character, brains, and guts to avenge her sister's honor.
The evidence was circumstantial, but damning.
Plenty of people had known of Leila's plans to spend at least a week at Norbury House with Fiona and her family. The arrangements had been made well in advance—a few weeks after the Fatal Ball, as it happened. Any of Francis' enemies—and their name was legion—could have known and taken advantage of Leila's absence from home.
It might have been anyone.
But it was Fiona who'd arranged for Leila's absence. It was Fiona who'd been delayed at the last minute and bundled Leila off to Surrey with a cousin. It was Fiona who'd arrived, very late, on the night someone had put poison in Francis' laudanum.
Fiona, who'd never had a headache in her life, had blamed her tardiness on a headache. She'd had to take laudanum and lie down. The ailment having cleared by mid-evening, she'd left London and raced to Norbury House. That was her story. Her alibi, Leila amended.
It didn't matter, she told herself. If one meant to excuse David for murder, one had bloody well better be prepared to excuse Fiona—to excuse everybody, in fact, because Francis was a swine who should have been hanged long since. It didn't matter who killed him or why. Justice had already been done.
So much for English justice, she thought bleakly as the carriage turned into the square. So much for her morals. So much for Andrew's efforts to make a decent human being of her. All she'd learned was how to pretend to be decent. Under the skin, she was Jonas Bridgeburton's daughter. The instant morality inconvenienced her, she knocked it down and ground it under her heel.
She doubted, in fact, that she'd truly wanted to solve the murder in the first place. It wasn't her conscience that had driven her to Quentin, but Esmond. She'd confessed the smaller crime so that he'd believe she hadn't committed the greater one. Very likely her intuition had told her Quentin would send for Esmond.
At any rate, common sense surely must have told her that Esmond could solve the murder without her help. She could have refused to become involved, or at least, so deeply involved. Instead, for every inch Esmond had offered her, she'd demanded a mile. From helping to partnership...to possession.
Because it was Esmond she was obsessed with solving. It was his heart she'd been trying to unlock with her clumsy pick.
Last night she'd actually begged. What next? she wondered, turning away from the carriage window and the steady drizzle outside.
Groveling, she answered herself. Sinking lower and lower. That was all that could happen. Esmond knew what she was doing and he'd told her loud and clear last night that she was doomed to failure. She'd begged, nearly wept—and he had turned his back and walked out.
She clenched her hands.
She would never, never humiliate herself so again. She would rather be hanged, shot, burned at the stake.
He'd only broken her heart. She'd recover. She had merely to shut the door on him, then pick up the pieces, put them back together, and get on with her life. She'd done it before. She'd shut Francis out, even though she was bound to him. This would be simpler.
Quentin hadn't been enthusiastic about the inquiry in the first place. She was the one who'd browbeaten him into taking it up. She could certainly persuade him to drop it—and dismiss the chief investigator. If Providence would be merciful for once, she wouldn't even have to say a word to Esmond about it. He would simply...vanish. To wherever he'd come from. Wherever that was.
The carriage rumbled to a halt, ending her gloomy reflections. She disembarked and hurried through the drizzle to her front door. Gaspard opened it with a welcoming smile.
She would miss her temporary servants, of course. But life would go on after they left. She'd do well enough. Her house was comfortable, the studio large and well lit, and she had ample funds to live on. Furthermore—
"Monsieur is in the studio," Gaspard said, taking her cloak and bonnet.
So much for counting on Providence to be merciful.
Setting her jaw, Leila marched down the hall and up the stairs, hastily composing her farewell speech as she went. Short, simple, to the point.
You win, Esmond. You didn't want to do this in the first place. You warned me and I wouldn't listen. Very well. You were right and I was wrong. I certainly don't possess the necessary patience for sleuthing. I most certainly do not want to spend the rest of my life on this case. I do not want to spend another minute on it. I'm not cut out to be your partner, and the last thing in the world I want is to be the equal of such a man. You win. I give up. Now go away and leave me in peace.
She swept through the study door. "Very well," she said. "You win, Esmond. You didn't want—"
The rest of her speech tumbled away to some distant nothingness.
There was no speech, no thought, nothing else in all the world but the picture before her.
Esmond sat cross-legged upon the carpet before the fire. He had made a nest of cushions and pillows about him. Her sketchbook lay open on his knee. A small pan of coffee stood in a warmer at his elbow. A plate of pastries lay beside it.
He was draped in shimmering silks. He wore a loose, buttonless gold shirt, like a short robe, with a sash of sapphire blue. The trousers were the same jewel blue—the color of his eyes, she saw, as he lifted them to hers.
A golden prince.
Out of a fairy tale. Or a dream.
She wanted to rub her eyes. She was afraid he'd vanish if she did. She took a cautious step closer. He didn't vanish, didn't move, only watched her. She dared another step, to the edge of the carpet.
"You wanted to know who I am," he said. "This is who I am—as you sensed, as you drew."
Even his voice was different, the slight French accent gone. In its place were the unmistakable accents of the English privileged classes...and a trace of something else, unidentifiable.
She couldn't find her voice. He didn't seem to notice. She must be dreaming.
"You were not altogether correct," he said, glancing down at the sketchbook. "I never wore the turban. It makes too tempting a nest for vermin. Cleanliness is a problem in my country, you see. A bath requires several hours' hard work—and the time is not easily spared when one is constantly battling enemies."
If she wasn't dreaming, she must be drunk. He hadn't come. He wasn't there, speaking so casually of turbans and baths. It was wishful thinking, delirium.
She took another step nearer.
"But I was spoiled," he went on, his eyes still on the sketchbook. "I was treated to luxuries my poorer countrymen could scarcely imagine. I would not wear the turban, and I dressed in my own way. Yet no one dared mock or chide me, because I was born strange and my mother was believed to be a sorceress. My cousin, Ali Pasha, believed it. He even believed her prediction that I would become another Alexander, destined to lead my countrymen out of bondage and restore Illyria to greatness."
Mesmerized, even while disbelieving her own eyes and ears, Leila had been creeping ever closer while he spoke. Now she sank onto the carpet opposite him.
"Illyria," she repeated breathlessly.
"That was its ancient name," he said. "A part of it is known to your people as Albania. I am an Albanian by birth and blood." He paused briefly. "You wanted to know my name. My mother, who was a Christian, wished to name me Alexander—Skander, in my own tongue. My father, a Moslem, chose Ismal. I am Ismal Delvina. I take my surname from the region of his family."
Alexis Delavenne, Comte d'Esmond.
In reality, he was Ismal Delvina, whose mother had wanted to name him Alexander. His name, she thought, her heart aching. What she'd begged for—and more. He had a mother and father, and a place of birth, Albania. And even his countrymen thought him strange.
"Ismal," she whispered. "Your name is Ismal."
He watched her for a moment, as though waiting for something, but she could only wait, too, for whatever else he meant to tell her.
"It is a common Moslem name," he said expressionlessly. "My father was an unpretentious man. A warrior. From him I inherited my height and my strength. It was strength, perhaps, that assisted the growth of superstitions about me. They began, however, when I was born, at the height of the full moon. My hair was white. That was the first omen. The second omen was that, as a babe, I could not be kept swaddled. Always I worked myself free, for even in infancy I could not be confined. The third omen was observed when I was three years old. While I played in the garden, a viper crawled into my lap. I strangled it and draped it about my neck, and strutted about to show my elders."
"When you were three?" she asked weakly.
"It is significant," he said. "Three years old, the third omen. My people believe three is a number of great power and importance. They are superstitious. They believe witches and vampires live among them. They believe in magic, in the Evil Eye and curses, and in charms to ward off ills and evils. After these three mysterious events—which my mother made sure everyone knew of—it was easy for them to believe I was not altogether human." His smile was mocking.
As though he were embarrassed, Leila thought, surprised. "The Albanians sound rather like the Irish," she said. "Imaginative. Poetic. They made you special."
"With some help from my mother." He darted her a veiled glance. "It was from her I inherited my guile. If not for guile, I should not be what I am today."
After another pause, he went on. "When Ali heard of this strange little boy, his curiosity overcame him. He came to look at me, and while he looked, my mother told him the dream she'd had of my destiny. I doubt she had such a dream. She was a skilled liar and deceived him because she wanted to live in luxury. She succeeded, for Ali took my family back with him to his court. He was the greatest miser in all the Ottoman Empire, but because of her lies, he paid to send me abroad, to be educated among westerners. In Italy, France, and England. Here I attended Westminster and Oxford."
That explained the public school accent.
"It was only for a few years," he continued, "because I learned quickly, and soon outpaced my masters."
There was another silence, a very long one. Leila was afraid to break it.
The lines at the corners of his eyes tightened when he spoke again. "As I said, the future my mother predicted was a lie. But I grew up believing it. When I reached my young manhood, I determined that the first step toward achieving my destiny was to overthrow Ali."
He cast her another glance from under his lashes. "You must believe that by this time I owed him nothing. Every coin he'd spent had been paid back threefold in service. I brought him considerable wealth. It was my people I owed—or so I believed in my youthful arrogance. I set out to destroy the tyrant. I failed. He repaid my treachery by having me poisoned. By slow degrees."
The hairs on the back of her neck lifted.
He laughed softly, mockingly. "But I am very hard to kill, as others besides Ali have learned to their annoyance. Two loyal servants rescued me. In time, after a few other illfated enterprises, Fate led me to Lord Quentin. It was he who found a productive—and profitable—use for my peculiar assortment of talents. What I have done since then I am not at liberty to reveal, even to you. Suffice to say the Vingt-Huit matter was typical."
He set the sketchbook aside. "Except for you, that is. I have worked with women before. I do not become entangled with them. I do not let them cut up my peace. I am careful not to disturb theirs, either, for an agitated woman can be very troublesome. Last night you troubled me very much. I vowed I would go back to Paris."
Her enchantment with the story swiftly ebbed under a wave of mortification. "You're rather troublesome yourself," she said. "As a matter of fact, I came in here ready to tell you I was quitting the inquiry and never wanted to see you again."
"Tsk." He gave a sharp nod. "You do not truly wish to quit the case. You will never rest easy not knowing the answer. You could not even rest easy not knowing my name. I have told you all you asked and more because I knew I could not keep away, and so, you would pry the truth from me sooner or later, one way or another."
"You're telling me you just wanted to get it over with?" she asked, nettled.
"Yes."
"So I'd stop nagging and making scenes. So I wouldn't be troublesome."
"Ali Pasha had three hundred women in his harem," he said. "All three hundred at once could not make me as crazy as you do. All three hundred, using all their wiles, could not have coaxed even my name from me."
She blinked. Harems. He had told her his life story and not once had it occurred to her that he might have a wife—a dozen of them—hundreds.
"How many?" she choked out. "How many did you—do you have?"
He toyed with the ends of his sash. "Women? Wives, concubines, you mean?"
"Yes."
"I forget."
"Ismal."
He smiled down at the sash.
"It isn't amusing," she said. "One doesn't forget wives."
"How easily it falls from your lips," he said softly. "My name."
"Don't tell me, then," she said. "I suppose it’s none of my business." And it wasn't, she guiltily realized. He'd already told her more than she had any right to know. She had asked for his name only.
She had an abrupt and painfully vivid recollection of the circumstances under which she'd asked. She'd as much as offered to go to bed with him if he told her his name. Worse, she'd offered to do so whether he told her or not. Heat stung her neck and swarmed over her face.
"You were very good to tell me as much as you have," she added hastily. "Even if it was only to shut me up. Which I ought to do. Because you weren't lying this time, I'm sure. Maybe you left some things out, but a person's entitled to some privacy. I suppose you should be allowed more than most. Obviously your work is dangerous," she babbled on. "Your life has been dangerous, since the day you were born, it seems. People have tried to kill you. For all I know, some might still want to. But you needn't worry about me. You trusted me—and I'm honored, really. I shan't give you away. I promise. Word of honor. Wild horses couldn't—"
"Leila."
She stared very hard at the pillow near her knee. "It looks as though you found every pillow and cushion in the house," she said. "Including the garret."
"Leila." His voice was soft, coaxing. "There is something between us to settle, I think."
There was a rustle of silk, gold and blue, shimmering in the firelight, as he moved, graceful as a cat, to close the small distance between them. The loose shirt had fallen open slightly, revealing the hollows at his neck and the bare expanse of one marble-smooth shoulder. Even where it covered him, the silken robe hid nothing. It outlined the whipcord muscles of his arms...the hard planes and contours of his chest. He was pure, male animal...and he was closing in.
She couldn't move, could scarcely breathe. Already, wanton heat coiled through her body to throb in the pit of her belly...the heat of animal hunger.
Her eyes lifted to his, to blue guile. Seduction.
"Last night," he said.
"Yes." A breath of a word, barely audible.
"You said you wanted me."
Run, some inner voice cried, while the images rose in her mind: herself writhing in feverish need, Francis' mocking laughter...shame.
But it was too late to run. She was lost. Trapped, as she'd been countless times before. Tangled in the Devil's nets, in desire. She had wanted this man from the beginning. She wanted him now—this beautiful, exotic creature—beyond bearing.
"Yes," she said helplessly, drowning in the fathomless blue depths of his eyes. "Still. More."
"More," he repeated very softly.
He leaned in close, flooding her senses. Glistening blue and gold...silk whispering over rippling muscle...warmth...and scent. She quivered under it, like any animal, caught by the scent of its mate. But there was fear, too, trembling at the core of desire. Fear of the mad desperation that, once triggered, she couldn't control, and of the humiliation, when it was over.
He trailed his finger down her cheek, and she trembled. With desire. With fear.
"Leila," he whispered. "In Persian, it means 'night.' You are all my nights. I dream of you."
"I dream of you," she said shakily. "Wicked dreams." She wanted to tell him, warn him. "I'm not...good."
"Nor am I."
He dragged his hand through her hair and held her while he brushed his cheek against hers. "I cannot be good tonight." His breath was warm on her ear.
She shivered.
"I need you too much," he said. His mouth grazed her ear, and fluid heat washed through her to tingle in her fingertips. She clutched his sleeve, and the muscles bunched under the silk. Leashed power pulsed under her hand and through her.
She was growing feverish already, squirming inside, trying to keep still while he teased her ear with his warm breath, his sensuous mouth. She gripped his arm hard. She wanted him to hurry. She was afraid she'd beg. Her fingers dug into unyielding muscle.
"Nay, do not fight yourself, Leila," he murmured.
"You don't know..." She couldn't finish, couldn't tell him the truth.
"I gave you trust this night. Give me the same."
He had told her who he was and what he was, and she knew it had not been easy for him. She knew that he, too, had felt some deep shame. He had risked more than his pride. And he'd done it for her.
And so, she had to give trust, too. She turned and brought his mouth to hers, and kissed him as she'd wanted, deeply, desperately. Because she wanted him and loved him, whatever he was or had been or would become. She clung to him, and boldly asked with her mouth and tongue. And he gave her what she sought, a hot fierce answer, his tongue plunging inside, bold and wicked, as she wanted.
She wanted him to ravish her, body and soul. She wanted to be possessed, burned, consumed.
She slid her hands under the silken shirt to trace the hard planes and contours with her fingers. She dragged her mouth from his and kissed his neck, the hollow of his throat, the marble smooth skin of his shoulder. "I want you," she said, past shame. "So much."
"Ah, Leila." He pulled her down with him onto the pillows, and rolled onto her. She wrapped her legs about him, relishing his weight, his heat, the hard arousal pushing against her skirts, while he possessed her mouth and ravished it, in hot rhythmic strokes that pulsed in her muscles and pounded in her blood.
She slid her hands over his back, over silk that hissed under her touch, whispering sin, and down that sleek length, relishing the masculine beauty of his form...narrow waist and hips and lean buttocks.
He groaned and eased away. "I think you like me." His voice was thick.
"Oh, yes. God help me." And, God help her, she showed him what she felt, bringing her hand brazenly down over her bodice, to the buttons. He had seen her before. She had nothing to hide. She didn't want to hide. She wanted his hands, his mouth, on her. She tugged a button free.
He made a choked sound, then pushed her hands away, and swiftly unfastened the bodice. She lay still, her breath coming faster, her mind dark and thick with heat. She made herself clay in his hands and, moving at a nudge here, a tug there, let him strip her. If he'd torn the clothes from her, she wouldn't have cared. She wanted to be his. She wanted him to do what he wanted with her.
He worked quickly, with an impatience that made her heart race in anticipation. He stripped her garments away, his hands rough and gentle at once, his blue eyes fiercely intent. And at last, only she was left, naked, needy, and trembling.
He sat back on his haunches and she watched his gaze trail slowly down the length of her body. "Tell me what you want," he said unsteadily.
"Anything. Anything you want."
He skimmed his fingers down along her jawline, her throat, over her breast. "Like this?"
"Yes." His touch seemed the idlest of caresses, but the naked hunger in his eyes told her otherwise. "I love your hands," she told him. "Your mouth. Your eyes. Your voice. Your beautiful body. I want you to crawl all over me, the way you imagined. I want to be your night, your dreams, Ismal. That’s all I want: everything."
With a flick of his hand, he undid the sash. The robe fell open, and she caught her breath.
"Are you afraid?" His voice was low, throbbing.
"Yes. But I don't care." She didn't care. He was a god. Blindingly, stunningly, beautiful. Michelangelo would have wept, and taken a sledgehammer to his own David, could he but see what she did: broad, straight shoulders and a leanly muscled torso tapering to a slim, taut waist. He was hard and marble smooth...fine golden hair glinting on his chest, his forearms...an arrow of darker gold below his waist.
She struggled up, needing to touch. "You're beautiful," she whispered as she stroked down his chest.
His breath hissed out between his teeth. "You make me crazy, Leila." He pushed her hand away. "Have a care. I am not so tame."
He quickly slid out of the loose trousers and, pushing her back down, knelt between her legs.
Cupping her face, he kissed her, then began stroking down in slow possession...her shoulders, arms, her taut breasts, and down over her belly. So slowly, achingly so.
He leashed himself, she knew. She could have told him he didn't need to, that he might tear her to pieces if he wished. Yet she wanted him to take her in any way he chose. At this moment, he wanted control, and she was happy, this moment, to be controlled, to let him build the fire slowly.
He kissed her again, and it was a deep, slow, erotic eternity of a kiss. She lifted her hands to his shoulders, to stroke down over his lean frame as he'd done to her, savoring, possessing. He cupped her breasts and sensuously kneaded, his palms warm against the hard peaks. She sighed and arched up to fill his hands with herself, to let him enjoy her, because the pleasure was rich, beyond anything she'd ever known or dreamt. And for the first time, she was glad of her too-lavish harlot's body, of the pleasure he took from and gave it.
When he bent to tease her breast with his tongue, the touch rippled through her, a delicious stream of sensation. She slid her fingers into his silky hair, and let herself float on the rippling stream, until he took the sensitive bud in his mouth, and the first tender tug sent crackling currents racing over her skin. Don't stop, she begged silently. Don't ever stop. Her heart was aching, as though it were there he tugged, but the ache was sweet and fiery at once. He made it last and, moving over her to the other peak, made it begin and end again.
He lifted his head to look at her. "I cannot get enough of you," he said.
"Nor I of you."
She drew her hands down over his torso, pausing an instant as her fingers touched the thickened skin of a scar. But only for an instant, because she couldn't stop herself. Down she stroked, to the golden hair at the base of his hard belly, the curls soft against her fingertips…and on still, to his maleness. "Dear God," she breathed. "I'm so wicked." Her fingers trembling, she touched him.
She heard him suck in his breath. She snatched her hand away and looked up, her face blazing. "I want to love you," she said helplessly.
His gaze locked with hers, he brought her hand back. "Yes, touch me," he said. "I am yours, Leila." He guided her fingers over the throbbing heat. "Yours." His voice was deepening, roughening. "And you are mine."
He pulled her hand away and did to her what she'd done to him. He raked his hands down over her tingling skin then, more gently, through the soft mound of curls between her legs. His fingers stroked the tender flesh and slid to the core of her heat and the liquid evidence of her desire. Then, lightly, his thumb brushed the sensitive bud, and she uttered a choked cry. Then another, as he slid his fingers inside her.
Then she was lost. He stroked the tender folds, found secret places she didn't know were there, and triggered bolts of sensations she couldn't name. His fingers, so gentle, drove her to frenzy. She quivered and shuddered and strained against his hands. Will, reason, control vanished, and she swept into some dark torrent and tossed there, helplessly.
Low, terrible sounds tore from deep in her throat, futile cries against the hot tide surging through her. The waves rose and crashed, thundering in her ears, and rose and crashed again, hurling her higher still. And still he urged her on, beyond what she'd ever known or imagined, to a black delirium...until the light burst—startling, blinding...release.
She hung there, stunned, while pleasure cascaded over her. She heard, outside herself, his low, ragged voice. "Come to me, Leila. Come and love me."
"Yes." Her voice was a sob. "Yes."
With one sure thrust, he sheathed himself inside her, and she arched up in yearning welcome, desperate to take him deep, to fill herself with him. He took her fiercely, with hard, relentless strokes. He was pure power, demanding. She wanted it so, the passionate rage that threatened to tear her to pieces. It was fury and joy at once, and she gloried in it.
She pulled him down to her and branded him with her mouth, her greedy hands. She was surging high on the tide, more thunderous now, and sweeter, because he was with her, and because she was his, possessed, possessing.
"I love you," she gasped. "I love you, Ismal."
"Leila." A low, ragged cry, and with it, the power thrust deep, bolting through her. It blasted the darkness, fierce and white as a lightning shaft, and shattered her.
Above the gradually slowing beat of their hearts, Ismal could hear the tick of the clock, the crackle of the fire and, beyond, outside, the hiss of the rain. Cautiously, he eased his body from hers. She winced.
He brushed a kiss against her swollen lips and, moving onto his side, gently gathered her into his arms. She was warm and soft, limp with exhaustion, her silken skin damp in passion's aftermath.
She was his at last.
She loved him, she'd said. He feared it was a costly possession, her love.
He had, perhaps, a superstitious fear, barbarian that he was. He had, often enough, accepted the love others offered. He had done so without letting it touch him, because he'd understood long ago that love was a treacherous thing to give and receive. It could turn the world from heaven to hell in an instant and back again, again and again.
So had his world changed moment to moment since last night, when she had made the gash in his heart with her small, despairing plea for his name. It was not a mortal wound, perhaps, but near enough—deep and searing as the hole Lord Edenmont's bullet had torn into his side a decade ago. This time, however, even Esme's salves could not have eased the hurt.
The remedy Ismal needed was in the keeping of the woman who'd done the damage. She'd offered love, and made a terrible magic with that gift. When he'd come this night, he'd known that her love was a serpent that could turn upon him in an instant, spitting revulsion, fear, contempt.
Yet he had given her what she wanted because there was no choice, and stoically he had waited for the serpent to strike. Rejection would not kill him, he'd told himself. It would release him at last, after a year and more, and he'd be free of her. The need, in time, would fade like any other.
But Fate had not written it so.
Fate had given her into his keeping. And all his peace, he saw with a terrible clarity, was now in hers. It was too late to fear the treacherous magic of this woman's love. All he truly dreaded now was losing her.
He drew her close and nuzzled the soft tangle of her hair. She stirred sleepily. Then she tensed, drawing her head back to look at him in bewilderment.
"You fell asleep," he chided, smiling because he couldn't help it. "The tigress at last is sated—and falls asleep. Selfish cat."
Color flooded her cheeks. "I couldn't help it. I was—that was—you are—"
"Very demanding," he supplied. He kissed her eyebrow.
"Yes. But..." She bit her lip.
"Tell me."
"I don't know, exactly."
"Tell me approximately, then." He stroked down her smooth, supple back.
She let out a small sigh. "That never happened before." With her thumb, she traced small circles in the center of his chest. "I don't know whether it's you...or whether I had it completely wrong. Lovemaking," she explained, darting him an embarrassed glance. "I thought it was like—like a rash."
"A rash." His voice was expressionless.
"The more you scratch, the more you itch."
In other words, her husband had failed to satisfy her, Ismal interpreted, not altogether surprised. Opiates and drink took their toll on a man's stamina. Furthermore, being Beaumont, he must have made it out to be her fault.
"This is what happens with Englishmen," he said. "They are not properly trained regarding women. A strange delusion is bred into them that women are weak and inferior, consequently, unworthy of the trouble of understanding. Albanian men are not so ignorant. From the cradle we learn that women are powerful and dangerous."
"Are they, indeed?" An uncertain smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Is that why you keep them locked in harems?"
He grinned down at her. "Aye—and to keep other men from stealing them. Women are like cats. Independent. Unpredictable. You give a woman all she asks—you die to please her. Then, one day, another man passes her window and calls to her, 'Ah, my beautiful one. Your burning eyes make roast meat of my heart. Hajde, shpirti im. Come, to me, my soul, he beckons. And so your woman goes, forgetting you, just as the cat forgets the carcass of the poor sparrow she ate the day before."
She laughed, and the sound was delicious, tickling his skin, warming his heart. "Roast meat," she said. "Sparrow carcasses. How romantic."
"It is true. A woman cannot be controlled. Only appeased. Temporarily."
"I see. You told me your story to shut me up—"
"And to entertain," he said. "As I would amuse a cat with a ball of string."
"But you succeeded," she said. "I was utterly captivated, enthralled. And appeased."
"Ah, no," he said sadly. "For you wanted me, still, and I saw my fate. 'It must be done, Ismal,' I told myself. 'Recall your father, the mighty warrior. He would not shrink, even from certain death. Be strong like him. Take courage. The goddess demands a sacrifice. Lay yourself upon her altar, and pray she will be merciful, And so I did." He licked her ear. "Though my heart drummed with terror."
She squirmed and pulled away. "Don't. That makes me demented."
"I know." He was growing aroused again, though his body had scarcely quieted from the first tempest. Gently he released her and shifted himself up onto one elbow.
"You fire up in an instant," he said as he lightly caressed her breast. Smooth and white as alabaster. Full and firm. So beautiful she was, and passionate. Made to make a man weep. "It is frightening," he added. "Luckily, I am Albanian, the son of a strong warrior."
"And the son of a sorceress." Her tawny gaze was darkening. "I suppose there's some comfort in that. At least I haven't disgraced myself with someone ordinary."
He clicked his tongue. "It is not disgrace. We care for each other. Neither of us belongs to another."
"Neither of us?" she interrupted. "Aren't you forgetting your wives?"
With his index finger, he wrote his name over the smooth curve of her breast. "This matter of wives plagues you excessively," he said.
"I can understand a man having trouble cleaving only to one," she said. "But when he's allowed scores of them, it's very difficult to understand what the problem is. Obviously, it's too late for me to object, but I am curious. Purely for intellectual enlightenment, I wish you'd explain. Why should a man of your cultural background stray? Or was it the circumstances? Were you obliged to leave them in Albania?"
He let out a sigh. "I vowed to myself that I would not respond to any more interrogations, at least for this night." He moved over her and eased himself between her thighs. "Perhaps I should distract you," he added, skimming his fingers down over her belly.
Her eyes widened. "Oh, no. I shan't survive another—Oh-h-h," she moaned, as his fingers grazed her tender woman's flesh.
"Mediant," he murmured while he caressed the sensitive peak with feather-light strokes. "Wicked, curious cat. I give you everything you want, and it is not enough, ungrateful creature."
Her eyes were glazing over. "Dear God. Oh. Don't. Oh-h-h-h."
He bent and feathered a trail of kisses over her breast, then lightly took its trembling crest between his teeth. A low, surrendering moan answered, and she slid her fingers into his hair.
Smiling, he trailed down slowly, teasing her silken skin with his lips, his tongue, his teeth.
She gasped, and tugged at his hair as he stole lower, to the center of her heat. She was damp already with wanting. Ready, vulnerable to delicious torment. He wanted to make it long and delicious. He had claimed her like a savage. Now he would enjoy his conquest at his leisure. He flicked his tongue over the delicate bud. This time, her moan pulsed through her muscles and on through him, to vibrate in his heart like the strings of a lute.
She was the night, and the night was dark, hot honey, thick with pleasure. She was his, hot and helpless under his tongue, and her soft, tremulous cries were for him. He toyed and tantalized, savoring the desire he drew from her, the moist warmth of her feminine secrets. Again and again he coaxed her to the crest of pleasure, and grew drunk with power as each climactic shudder pulsed through him.
"Please. Istnal." She fisted her hands in his hair. "Please," she gasped. "I need you inside me."
He rose to her, smiling his triumph and happiness while his swollen rod throbbed against her heat.
"Like this, my heart?" he asked huskily as he eased into her slick core.
"Oh. Yes."
Slowly, this time. Lovingly. She was his now, sweet and hot...and needing him...inside her. Her body welcomed, opening gladly to him...surrounding him, taking him deep, and tightening, to hold him in the most intimate of embraces while she moved to the sensuous rhythm he set, and joined with him in lovers' dance.
She was the night, and the night sang in his heart, low and aching as the music of his homeland. She was the Ionian wind, singing in the pines. She was the rain streaming into his parched and lonely exile's heart to nourish his soul. She was the sea and the mountains, the soaring eagles and the rushing rivers...all that he had lost. In her he found himself. Ismal. Hers.
She reached for him, and he sank gladly into her welcoming embrace, and drank the heady brew of simmering kisses. Her passion was raki, a potent whiskey racing through his blood, inflaming him.
The music of desire grew louder, their rhythm stronger and faster, driving to appassionato.
She was desire, and desire was a mad dance, a wild valle with the night. She clung, surging with him in stormy harmony. She was lost, as he was, to feverish need, yet she was with him, holding him, even as they raced to crescendo.
Then she was eternity, and eternity was the vast night heavens where the stars blazed. His needy soul reached for her, into the void. Leila. With me. Keep me.
She was there, her mouth claiming his, her strong, beautiful hands holding him fast. She was there, a burning star, his, and rapture was a searing burst of gold fire. He blazed for an instant…then fell…into the void, consumed.