Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

“They are no longer innocent, but there are a great many of my countrymen who harbor a lust for such pale, perfect beauty,” he admitted, his voice low and husky.

Emma shivered, sternly refusing to allow her thoughts to stray from Anya and the beasts who held her captive.

“Do you believe the same men who have brought them to England also arrange to have them taken to Cairo?”

“Yes.”

She pressed a hand to her heaving stomach. “Is there no limit to their depravity?”

“It would seem not.” His dark features hardened, a lethal fury flaring through his eyes. “From what I have managed to discover, Count Nevskaya’s servants remain in London until they collect the Russian females that have been returned to them, as well as the English girls that are their payment, and travel to Egypt. Once there, they sell the Russians in the markets before continuing back to St. Petersburg with the English maidens to pleasure the count and his friends.”

“There is little wonder Dimitri was incapable of untangling their sordid business.”

“Tipova,” the caliph growled. “Do not speak his name in my presence.”

She blinked at his fierce response. “Why?”

“I went to great trouble to prepare my trap only to have Tipova blunder into my snare and send my prey fleeing into the night.” He straightened from the mantel and crossed to stand before her. “Along with your sister.”

“Anya.” Emma instinctively grasped his arm. “You know where she is?”

His warm hand covered her fingers, his male scent cloaking her in a musky spice.

“If she was among the females taken from the warehouse, then she is currently aboard a ship called the Katherine Marie and headed for Cairo.” The Katherine Marie? Emma would have fallen to her knees if he had not grasped her arms to keep her upright.

“Dear God, I failed her,” she breathed, barely aware of being pulled into the caliph’s arms and held against his chest. “It does not matter how I try, I always fail her.”

Still holding her close, he bent his head to whisper in her ear.

“It is not too late, Emma.”

She pulled back to meet the dark glitter of his gaze. “What do you mean?”

“My ship is being prepared as we speak. I intend to sail for Cairo within the hour.” He smiled with a blatant challenge. “Will you join me?”

A PRISTINE LAYER OF WHITE snow draped London as Dimitri wearily entered the Huntley town house.

In the distance a church bell tolled and the sound of the coal wagon rattled over the cobblestones, but a sleepy silence remained settled over the elegant neighborhood. It might be near ten in the morning, but society remained snuggled in their warm beds. It would be hours before they were primped and prepared to meet the day.

Worthless nitwits.

Allowing the waiting butler to take his outer garments, Dimitri shoved his fingers through his damp hair and climbed the steps.

His every instinct urged him to travel directly to Emma’s chambers. The sight of the wounded fury burning in her eyes as Huntley had carried her away had plagued him the entire morning.

It was infuriating. He had only been protecting the stubborn minx despite her determination to get herself killed. God almighty, what sort of female would disguise herself as a stable boy and sneak about a neighborhood that would terrify the most hardened criminal? And then to attempt to charge after the Russian brute as if she were indestructible…

Obviously, Emma Linley-Kirov was in dire need of a man willing and able to restrain her dangerous impulses.

So why did he feel an overwhelming compulsion to seek her out and banish the shadow of betrayal from her eyes?

Climbing the marble steps, he was jerked out of his thoughts as Huntley appeared on the landing above him, clearly having lain in wait for his return.

“Tipova. At last.” The duke wore a brocade gown with his dark hair tousled and his face unshaven, but his casual appearance did not lessen his imperious manner as he gestured for Dimitri to follow him into the book-lined study. He waved a slender hand toward the walnut desk as he crossed to toss another log into the fireplace. “The brandy is on the desk.”

“I prefer my vodka,” Dimitri said, pulling out his silver flask as he strolled to stand beside the bay window that offered a view of the snowy street below.

&nbs