Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

“Were they—”

“Nothing is known of their fate, Emma,” he gently assured her. “It is quite possible they were disoriented by the storm and remain in the desert. I have sent word among the Bedouin tribes to search for them.”

She bent forward, covering her face with her hands as her stomach clenched with a dread that was becoming all too common. Last night she had dreamed that Anya was still a baby and that she had gone to her cradle only to find it empty. She had raced about the dark cottage, screaming for help that had never come.

Had it been a premonition?

Was it possible that Anya was dead?

Without warning, the obstinate belief that she would rescue her sister and return them both to their home in Yabinsk wavered.

“It is almost as if fate is determined to keep me from Anya,” she choked, tears filling her eyes.

She felt Rajih’s strong arm circle her shoulders, pulling her against the hard muscles of his chest.

“They will be discovered,” he murmured.

Her hands lowered as she tilted back her head to meet his concerned gaze.

“So I have been assured over and over, and yet I am no closer to Anya than when I left Russia.”

He frowned, his thumb brushing away her tears. “Come, Emma, it is not in your nature to lose hope.”

She shook her head, potently aware of the heat filling the carriage and distant chanting from the mosque. Never had Russia, and the life she had fought to build, seemed so far away.

“It is not so much a matter of losing hope as it is accepting I do not have the skills necessary to be useful to my sister.”

The carriage came to a halt, and with care, Rajih led her through the gardens to the seraglio, the whisper of his robes melding with the tinkle of the fountains in an oddly soothing sound.

“You are tired and hungry,” he assured her. “By morning you will have regained your spirits and no doubt will have some new means to terrify me.”

Emma nodded, realizing he was right. She could not recall the last time she had slept through the night.

“Yes, I am tired.”

Halting at the arched entry into the harem’s private gardens, he motioned toward a slender woman covered in veils who hurried forward.

“Put yourself in Samira’s hands.” He brushed his lips over her forehead. “She has a magical touch.”

With an uncharacteristic sense of weariness, Emma allowed herself to be led into the cool shadows of the harem. Perhaps it was the heat, or the weeks of gnawing anxiety, or the long journey, but suddenly Emma felt in dire need of a few hours of peace.

Reaching the inner apartments, Emma allowed Samira to help remove her gown and undergarments. She sighed in pleasure as the heavy fabric slid away and she understood the logic of the loose robes and silken trousers preferred by the local women. It was far too warm for European clothing.

Once naked she allowed the servant to lead her into the sunken baths, stretching out her body and leaning her head against the tiled edge to study the glass dome that loomed above her.

Slowly the tension drained from her muscles and she cleared her mind of Anya and Dimitri and Caliph Rajih. For a few hours she desired only to forget her troubles.

A delectable hour later she left the baths and wrapped herself in a thin towel. Samira gestured for her to follow her into a shadowed alcove where velvet pillows had been piled in the center of the tiled floor. Arranged beside the pillows was a silver tray with various bottles of oils and burning pots of incense.

There was another flurry of gestures and Emma awkwardly lowered herself facedown onto the pillows, hiding her face in the velvet softness as she felt the towel being tugged aside. She was not a noblewoman accustomed to having servants seeing her naked, and certainly not touching her with such intimacy.

She heard a shuffle of feet and the clink of bottles before she sensed someone kneeling at her side. Warm oil was poured over her bare back, the intoxicating scent teasing at her nose and sliding sensually over her skin.

Still adjusting to the strange sensations, her breath caught in pleasurable surprise as warm male fingers stroked down the curve of her back. It felt…sinful. Decadent. And utterly wonderful.

“Rajih,” she breathed, not needing to turn her head to recognize his scent.

“Does my touch please you?” he murmured softly.