Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

“Have I said something wrong?”

Maggie abruptly ducked her head, concentrating furiously on sewing the ripped hem.

“No.”

“I would be willing to pay for your assistance, Maggie,” Emma urged softly.

“I’m sorry, my lady, I don’t know any foreign girls.”

Emma bit her lip, studying the rigid line of the maid’s shoulders and the tremble of her finger as she tied off the thread. The poor girl was truly frightened. Did she dare press her further?

“Then perhaps one of your friends would be able to recommend someone?” she at last asked.

The maid surged upright, a hectic glitter in her brown eyes. “There you are, as good as new.”

“Maggie?”

“I must be returning to my duties.” Without warning Maggie was turning to rush out of the room.

“Wait.”

Cursing her lack of finesse, Emma belatedly followed in the servant’s wake, not entirely surprised to discover that the girl had already disappeared. She was certain Maggie must know something. But what? And how did she force the poor girl to confess?

Ten minutes later, Emma came to a halt and glanced about the warren of rooms and hallways that made up the servant’s quarters. Maggie was nowhere to be found and the servants who scurried past her were sending her the sort of curious glances that inevitably led to gossip. The one thing that Emma was determined to avoid.

Accepting that she had done enough damage for one evening, she gave a shake of her head and turned to retrace her steps back to the ballroom. It was only then that she realized that an extremely large man with a dark complexion had crept up behind her. Her eyes widened as she realized he was oddly attired with a scarf on his head and a matching loose white robe wrapped with a black rope that held it in place.

Who was he? And more important, what was he doing creeping about the London town house?

Instinctively, her lips parted to scream, but before she could make a sound the man had clamped a hand over her mouth and firmly wrapped an arm around her waist, plucking her feet far enough off the ground so he could back toward a nearby door.

Emma struggled as a surge of fear exploded through her. She might be several pounds lighter and barely tall enough to reach the man’s shoulder, but that did not keep her from scratching at the hand over her mouth or desperately swinging her legs in an attempt to connect a blow to his knee.

The brute flinched and muttered beneath his breath, but he never hesitated as he used his foot to kick open the door and hauled her down a narrow flight of stairs into the abandoned rose garden.

Emma stilled her futile struggles. The man was too powerful for her to battle. Her only hope was to conserve her strength and pray she would be offered the opportunity to escape once he released his painful grip.

She shivered as a breeze whipped around the side of the house, easily cutting through the thin fabric of her gown. English winters might not compare to the brutal ferocity of Russia, but this was no weather to be prancing about frozen gardens without so much as a cloak.

The stranger carried her down the narrow path, heading toward the small grotto in the center of the garden. Then, stepping through the opening, he roughly set her back on her feet, making no effort to assist her when she stumbled into the darkness.

A slender male hand grasped her arm, gently steadying her before she fell to her knees. Emma was aware of the potent scent of exotic spices and warm male skin before the hand was removed and the darkness was pierced by candlelight.

She blinked against the sudden change from dark to light, then as her eyes became accustomed, she studied the slender man standing directly in front of her.

Her first thought was that he was as exotically male as his scent had been.

Although attired in English clothing with a black jacket fobbed with gold and white satin pantaloons, there was no mistaking the foreign beauty of his finely carved features and the rich glow of his golden skin. His hair was as dark as the midnight sky and cut close to his head, emphasizing his wide brow and the black, deep-set eyes that smoldered with a restless intelligence.

She shivered. The stranger carried with him the lethal allure of the desert. Scorching days beneath the incandescent sun and cool nights by the oasis, wrapped in a man’s arms.

Emma’s heart slammed against her chest as the stranger studied her for a long, disturbing moment, then his dark gaze shifted over her shoulder and he spoke to a man still standing behind her in a strange language.

There was a shuffle as the robed man left the gazebo and Emma was alone with the strikingly handsome man who set aside the candle and strolled toward her.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, his smoky voice feathering down her spine. “I requested that my servant bring you to me and apparently he took my command quite literally.”

Emma licked her lips, not fooled by his polished manners. She did not doubt for a moment that the servant had been commanded to bring her to the garden by whatever means necessary.