Chapter 17 #2
“No,” he muttered into her hair. “You’re the mad one. I’m completely sane.” He lifted his head and drew away a little and looked down at her. “Let’s get you out of that wet towel.”
He got her out of the wet towel and dried her off with another one, in front of the fire.
He played lady’s maid, kneeling before her, the towel in his hand. He lifted one slim foot onto his thigh and gently dried it, and she shivered.
He looked up, and there she was, all creamy skin with touches of pink in the special places, and a dusting of gold between her legs.
She was all curving womanliness, and she was looking down at him, her blue eyes filled with something he couldn’t put a name to.
How could he, when he’d never troubled to read a woman’s gaze?
In her case, perhaps, he didn’t need to. Perhaps, after all, they simply understood each other. Perhaps they always had.
He slid his hands up from her foot, up along her calf to her knee and along her thigh, and up, to the downy place she had so many names for.
“Your Golden Flower,” he murmured, lightly drawing his hand over the feathery curls, still damp after her bath. “Your Palace Of Delight.”
“My Secret Abode,” she said. She slid her fingers into his hair. “My Hidden Treasure and my Throne of Love and my Lion’s Head.”
“Your Lion’s Head?” He caressed her so lightly.
She made names for the caresses, too: the Teasing Feather and the Gentle Glove and the Fire Touch.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “This part of me is very dangerous when hungry for lovemaking.”
She combed his hair with her fingers. “My lover’s hair is like silken candlelight,” she said softly. “My lover is the candlelight in the night and the first rays of the sun on the horizon and the last rays, too. My lover is my light.”
He looked up, his gaze locking with hers. “I had better be this lover you’re talking about,” he said.
She laughed and let go of him. She stretched her arms above her head, stretched like a cat, and he watched her beautiful breasts lift. She was completely at ease in her body, in her nakedness.
How could he think of stifling a soul so free?
“My lover leaps upon me, like a tiger,” she said.
He caught hold of her buttocks and pressed his mouth to her Hidden Treasure, and he felt her tremble.
He caressed her with his mouth and his tongue and felt her fingers tighten in his hair while her body vibrated with pleasure.
Then, after he’d driven her to the peak and made her cry out, he slid his arm behind her knees and brought her down.
Her eyes were dark and unfocused, her face flushed.
She gave way to passion in that unhesitating, liquid way of hers. She caught his mood—or he caught hers—and simply yielded to feeling.
Tonight the feeling was stormy.
She sat on the rug and opened her legs, and he crawled between them.
She pushed open his dressing gown and raked her hands over his skin, and it was his turn to tremble while she explored him, running her fingers over muscles that bunched under her touch.
She explored him as though he was new to her, a lover she’d never seen before…
and yet as though, too, she knew him as well as she knew herself, and knew he belonged to her.
From the first she’d been this way, unhesitating, as easy with his body as she was with her own.
But there was more between them tonight than simple possession.
You’re all I have left.
There it was, the thing buried in the deepest recess of the hidden place in his heart, in the dark cupboard he hadn’t been able to keep shut since the day she returned. He’d uttered the words, and they still beat in his heart.
She was all he had left, and she was precious to him.
He raked his hands over her, too, in the same way she touched him.
He moved his hands over her skin, over her firm breasts and along the delicate angles of her collarbone.
He traced the circle of her waist and the swell of her hips, the fine bones of her wrists and ankles, and she stretched and moved under his touch, the restless tigress tonight.
He caught hold of her hair with one hand and grasped her chin with the other and kissed her hard.
She broke away, and made as if to pull away.
He pulled her back, and she let her head fall back, and she was laughing, in that way she did, low and beckoning.
He pushed her thighs apart, and thrust into her, and she laughed again, and wrapped her legs about his waist.
We’re both a little mad, she’d said, and perhaps they were.
They joined this night in a maddened way, in a long, ferocious coupling, as though there was no more time left, as though this was the first time and the last time.
That, at least, was what he thought of it later.
Now, though, while he was inside her, there was nothing in his mind, nothing in the world but her and this moment and the heat and pleasure of the lovers’ storm they made.
It raged and quieted and raged again. Then she cried out, again and again, words he didn’t understand and one he did: his name.
Then he let himself spill into her, and he sank down onto her.
He lay there, for a moment, feeling her heart beat against his chest. Then he rolled off her and onto his side.
He pulled her up against him and buried his face in her neck.
She lay there, listening to his breathing quiet.
She was dear to him and he was dear to her, and this was what was most important.
Karim had doted upon her and showered her with jewels, but to him she was only a pretty toy. If she had displeased him, he would have given her away—or even had her killed—without a second thought.
“There was no bond,” she murmured.
“That was English,” he said, “but I couldn’t quite make it out.” His voice was low, sleepy.
“Never mind,” she said. “Sleep.”
“How can I sleep at a time like this?” he said.
She turned her head a little, but she couldn’t see him. She felt him lift his head, though. He brushed his cheek against hers.
“I thought I understood what had happened to you,” he said. “But I understood only a part. When you told your story to John Beardsley, I thought I’d heard all there was to hear. But I think it was all I wanted to hear. I didn’t want to know any more. When you vanished—”
His voice caught, and he paused. “If I’d been there, Zoe, I’d have found you.
I wasn’t there. I couldn’t bear to think of that.
And so I made myself stop. I—I don’t know what it was, exactly.
But I stopped. Thinking. Caring. It was harder than I let on, to carry on, after Gerard died.
When you were gone, perhaps I simply lost heart. ”
She hadn’t realized. All she’d known, when she first saw him after her return, was that he wasn’t the same. She hadn’t been the only one damaged by her captivity. Her parents had suffered. Her brothers and sisters, too, though perhaps not as deeply, because they were starting families of their own.
“I caused more pain than I knew,” she said.
“I told my family I was sorry, but I didn’t understand what the trouble was.
I didn’t understand why Mama had grown so nervous and flighty or why my sisters and brothers were so angry with me.
They said I made a disruption, and I thought the disruption was my coming back.
But the disruption was my disappearing, and the years Papa spent trying to find me, and what happens to a family when they can’t know for certain what’s become of a loved one. ”
“But it wasn’t your fault,” he said. “Everyone knows that now. Everyone knows you didn’t run away.”
He knew the story itself: the stroll through the Cairo bazaar and the maid who’d sold her—the maid who’d claimed Zoe had run away, and whom everyone had believed, because Zoe was famous for running away.
“As though I were so mad as that,” she said, “to run away in a crowded place, where no one spoke my language. But everyone except Papa would believe I would do such a mad thing, because I was the wild daughter, the rebellious one. I’m daring, Lucien, but even at twelve I had some sense.”
He kissed the nape of her neck. “Not much, but some,” he said.
She smiled.
“I should have got the truth out of that maidservant,” he said, “if only I had been there.”
“Even if you had got it out of her before they killed her, would that have made a difference?” Zoe said. “Once they had me, do you think they’d give me up? Have you any idea how valuable I was?”
“Yes,” he said. “I know how valuable you are.”
“I was a rare, rare creature to them,” she said.
“I learned this later—that I was like one of the magical beings in the Thousand and One Nights. The slavers had followed us from Greece. They knew they’d get a lot of money for me: White slaves are valuable—and I wasn’t merely a Circassian but an English girl.
My coloring was different. Everything about me was different.
How many twelve-year-old, blonde, blue-eyed European girls turn up in that part of the world?
Especially during that time, when Europe was at war.
They knew the pasha would pay a fortune for me, for his sick son.
For the magic. The slavers knew Yusri Pasha would believe I would have the power to arouse his favorite son Karim’s desires at last, and he would produce sons. ”
“And none of this would have happened but for an easily corrupted servant,” Marchmont said.
“They had all the reason in the world to make it happen, one way or another,” Zoe said. “They offered her more money than she could hope to earn in twenty years. If they hadn’t got to her, they would have got to someone else in our party. They would have found a way. They were very determined.”
“I should have been there,” he said.
She turned to him then. “You were seventeen years old. What would you have done that Papa didn’t do?”
“I would have found you,” he said. “I always found you.”