Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

“There are an inordinate number of servants lurking about the grounds. If they were to notice the shadow of a gentleman in your private chamber they would be certain to investigate.”

Emma bit her lip, then gave a jerky nod. She understood the danger of allowing a strange man into her rooms, but she also knew that one scream and a dozen servants would rush to her rescue. The man had risked his life to seek her out in such an unconventional manner. Whatever he desired of her it had to be important.

“Of course.”

She moved to pull shut the heavy curtains, inanely aware she was still attired in the rough breeches and linen shirt of a stable boy, her hair hanging in tangles and her face smudged from her adventure in the warehouse. The stranger, on the other hand, was elegantly dressed in a black jacket and satin pantaloons with a huge ruby twinkling in the depths of his cravat. As if he had just stepped out of an elegant ballroom.

Wrapping her arms around her waist, she watched as the darkly beautiful man entered the room and closed the door behind his slender form.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Holding out his hands in a gesture of peace, he slowly approached her.

“As I suggested during our first encounter we have a mutual purpose in traveling to London.”

“Surely it is past time for allusion and innuendo?” she snapped, her temper frayed and her nerves raw with concern for her sister. “If you have something to say, then please do so.”

“Plain speech? Very well.” He halted directly before her, his exotic scent tantalizing her. “I know why you have traveled to England.”

She stilled, wary he could be hoping to trick her into confessing her secrets.

“How could you possibly know?”

He reached up to pluck the hat off his head and tossed it onto a low table, the sable darkness of his hair glinting in the flames of the fireplace.

“With the proper enticement and enough patience a man can discover any information he desires.”

She shivered, unable to believe that Dimitri’s crew would be disloya

l, no matter what the temptation. But then again, Dimitri had been forced to confide his purpose in coming to England to a number of government officials, including the prime minister. She doubted that their staffs would be above suspicion.

“And why would you be interested in my reason for traveling to England?”

His black gaze swept over her face, lingering on the lush curve of her lips.

“Beyond my fascination with your beauty?”

Her heart gave a nervous flutter.

“Please, do not,” she breathed.

“Allow me to begin at the beginning.” Pressing his hands together in a formal gesture, he offered a solemn dip of his head. “I am Caliph Rajih.”

“Caliph?” Emma frowned, attempting to recall her studies of the near Orient—lessons that had been sadly vague when it came to foreign royalty. “You are a prince?”

“I am a leader of my people,” he agreed.

The knowledge should perhaps have been shocking. After all, what sort of prince lurked in the shadows rather than take his place among the finest of London society? But Emma was more resigned than shocked. Had she not already suspected that he was accustomed to giving commands and having them obeyed? It was etched in the proud lines of his face and the arrogant carriage of his slender body.

“Where?” she demanded.

“Egypt.”

Again, she was struck by thoughts of sunlight blazing over golden dunes and tents crowded about a small oasis. Men forged in the merciless desert were rumored to be as hard and unforgiving as the land that birthed them.

“You are a very long way from your home.”

“As are you.” His hand lifted to caress a stray curl resting against her cheek. “We are similar in many ways.”