Chapter Eight

The Tormented Heart

Alone in his study, thoughts invaded Wolferton. Camille’s comment unsettled him because Jaclyn did bring life to their home. His associations with females in his younger years were complex, and not the best. They expected romance and attention—perhaps not in that order, but of a certain, his ward became a puzzle to ponder and explore the depths of those emotions she tried to keep under control. And then her thoughts would spill forth like a cascade to a parched river ready to accept every drop. He was that body of water.

Wolferton placed the damn suitor’s list back into the folder. He had no head for such falderal at the moment. His only thought was of the vulnerable child who suffered the loss of her father, the abandonment of her mother, and the advances of a scoundrel dancing instructor who betrayed his fiduciary trust. He fought the dormant demon that resurrected. No, Jaclyn was his to protect at all costs.

There were so many sides to her personality this side of grandeur—and just the other side of angelic innocence. He rose from his chair, went to the Palladian window, and watched the rain pelt the sidewalk, street, and carriages. Restless as hell, he clenched his hands. The young woman, not quite mature, but sophisticated enough to tempt the devil, affected him. His uncomfortable arousal testified she succeeded.

He addressed the Guardian window with a tightened fist. “Happy now? What have you wrought?”

No reaction. It then occurred to him he hadn’t lain with a woman for almost five years. No one who knew him would believe such a truth. Yes, this was his problem. He needed a diversion—and he required it sooner than later. After the house retired for the night, he would visit his club, and if still motivated, he’d attend a brothel. Anything to satiate his desire, for he could not—would not—and dared not, violate Jaclyn. Such would be a mortal sin because he’d pledged to protect her—always—from all things—and that included him. His eternal struggle with honor never lessened.

After a few swift drinks, with the warm glow of the fire in front of him as he sat, he allowed his mind to wander to those days in exotic treacherous Turkey, a country that lured him with its soul. Sunrise to sunset fueled the monotonous cadence of a life dedicated to the rigid discipline of the military.

After the war, his commandant had given him a final mission to deliver a confidential parchment to the English ambassador in Istanbul. Not anxious to return home, he accepted the assignment. Weeks passed, and upon arrival, he made his way to the British Embassy. What should have been a few weeks stay turned into a ten-year position training Turkish officers in logistics and strategic warfare. Also, he performed covert intelligence as needed for England. He wore the uniform of an English colonel. When necessary he traveled to strategic cities in Turkey to observe military protocols. Suspicions of all things British were an everyday circumstance, however, it became a case of the devil you knew versus the devil you didn’t know. The Turks realized their troops need for superior training and there were none better than British officers for such a purpose. Both countries believed there would be some sort of military altercation by the Russians.

During this time, he had an elegant suite in a hotel in Pera with good food and respectful recognition. Months crept into years, and his strategic services reached prominence and the ears of the politicians. One night he answered a knock at his door. A beautiful woman stood in front of him. “Good evening, Effendi—sir. My name is Yasmin. I am here for your pleasure.”

When he attempted to send the slave girl away, she broke into tears and ran into the room. “They will beat me if they think you are displeased. Please do not tell me to leave.” She fell to her knees and kissed the hem of his garment in the Turkish sign of respect from a woman to a man.

He raised her from the floor. Yasmin had the darkest hair with the coal-colored gaze of a temptress with a delightful accent. She was not Turkish, perhaps a Romany gypsy? Her simple silk wrapper flowed over her naked body, and the scent of her musk perfume permeated the humid air. He closed the door behind her for privacy.

“It is good you speak English. Then you will understand I cannot accept such a gift. My English commander would not allow it.”

“I have many skills you could enjoy.”