eyes.
“Explain.”
“Mrs. Petre is trouble.”
She had not looked like trouble, perched on the edge of the
burgundy chair awkwardly balancing her reticule, her gloves, and her notes. Her
pale face framed by the ugly black bonnet had been the picture of propriety.
Until he had explained that a man pounds and grinds his body into that of a
woman as if he were a “pestle.” Then her clear hazel eyes had blazed with fire.
Her full breasts had swelled inside the wool of her dress, sensitive, so
sensitive.
To words.
To the soft abrasion of clothing rubbing unfettered flesh.
With each breath she had drawn, her nipples had grown harder and
harder.
It was not her body that she attempted to restrain in whalebone.
It was her desires.
What kind of a man was Edward Petre, that he would forsake honest
passion for paid pleasure?
Ramiel steepled his hands underneath his chin, his thoughts and a
sudden rampant hunger hidden behind hard implacability. “Perhaps. But she is my
trouble.”
“Have you forgotten, El Ibn?”
Every time Muhamed called him El Ibn, Ramiel remembered.
Sometimes he forgot ... when he had sex. Elizabeth Petre made him
forget by words alone.
How long had it been since Ramiel lusted for a woman ... and not
for forgetfulness?
How long had it been since he had laughed?
“I have not forgotten, eunuch,” Ramiel countered coldly,
deliberately.
Muhamed’s head snapped backward.
Ramiel instantly regretted his words. Muhamed had not asked for
his burden any more than Ramiel had asked for his.
He wondered how the servant survived, unable to escape his past,
however briefly, inside a woman’s body. Ramiel, at least, had that luxury.
Entire minutes where nothing mattered but the sound of wet, pounding flesh and
the silky heat of a woman’s flesh gripping him, milking him until she took the
pain and left only the memories.
Praise Allah and please God, let him find a woman who could accept
what he could not.
“Go,” Ramiel commanded softly, reining in the ever-prevalent anger
and self-disgust. “Hire whomever you need. I don’t care how much it costs. I
want to know everything that Edward Petre does. Every place that he visits.
Every person he talks to. Every woman he’s ever fucked. If he pisses, I want to
know about it. And I do not expect you to fail me again.”
Body as taut as the scimitar that he carried underneath the loose
folds of the cloak and his thobs, Muhamed bowed out of the library.
Ramiel glanced down at the empty cup by his elbow, then at the
full cup of black brew that Elizabeth Petre had hastily set down after sipping
the scalding Turkish coffee.
Muhamed was right. A woman like Elizabeth Petre could cause a man
like him a great deal of trouble.
Here, in England, he would be prepared.
“Muhamed.”
The Cornishman froze at the sound of Ramiel’s voice, hand reaching
to close the library door.
“I do not repeat the mistakes I have made in the past.”
Chapter 4
he jarring clang of silver hitting silver jerked Elizabeth out
from underneath the Bastard Sheikh’s naked body. A thick, cloying aroma invaded
the air.
What do you
care for, Lord Safyre?
A woman, Mrs. Petre. A warm, wet, wanton woman who is not afraid
of her sexuality or ashamed of satisfying her needs.
Elizabeth’s eyes snapped open.
Emma’s round, pleasant face was wreathed in steam; she bent over
the nightstand by the bed, stirring a silver spoon around and around in a
porcelain cup. A small silver pot sat beside the cup and saucer on a silver
tray.
The cloying aroma filling the air was not the sugary smell of
Turkish coffee, Elizabeth vaguely realized. It was the sweet smell of
chocolate.
“If you are ill, Elizabeth, you should have sent a note around to
my house.”
Elizabeth blinked.
Her mother’s face stepped into view. It was framed by a black silk
bonnet. Emerald-green eyes berated Elizabeth as they had when she was a child
and failed to meet her parents’ expectations.
Elizabeth came fully
“Explain.”
“Mrs. Petre is trouble.”
She had not looked like trouble, perched on the edge of the
burgundy chair awkwardly balancing her reticule, her gloves, and her notes. Her
pale face framed by the ugly black bonnet had been the picture of propriety.
Until he had explained that a man pounds and grinds his body into that of a
woman as if he were a “pestle.” Then her clear hazel eyes had blazed with fire.
Her full breasts had swelled inside the wool of her dress, sensitive, so
sensitive.
To words.
To the soft abrasion of clothing rubbing unfettered flesh.
With each breath she had drawn, her nipples had grown harder and
harder.
It was not her body that she attempted to restrain in whalebone.
It was her desires.
What kind of a man was Edward Petre, that he would forsake honest
passion for paid pleasure?
Ramiel steepled his hands underneath his chin, his thoughts and a
sudden rampant hunger hidden behind hard implacability. “Perhaps. But she is my
trouble.”
“Have you forgotten, El Ibn?”
Every time Muhamed called him El Ibn, Ramiel remembered.
Sometimes he forgot ... when he had sex. Elizabeth Petre made him
forget by words alone.
How long had it been since Ramiel lusted for a woman ... and not
for forgetfulness?
How long had it been since he had laughed?
“I have not forgotten, eunuch,” Ramiel countered coldly,
deliberately.
Muhamed’s head snapped backward.
Ramiel instantly regretted his words. Muhamed had not asked for
his burden any more than Ramiel had asked for his.
He wondered how the servant survived, unable to escape his past,
however briefly, inside a woman’s body. Ramiel, at least, had that luxury.
Entire minutes where nothing mattered but the sound of wet, pounding flesh and
the silky heat of a woman’s flesh gripping him, milking him until she took the
pain and left only the memories.
Praise Allah and please God, let him find a woman who could accept
what he could not.
“Go,” Ramiel commanded softly, reining in the ever-prevalent anger
and self-disgust. “Hire whomever you need. I don’t care how much it costs. I
want to know everything that Edward Petre does. Every place that he visits.
Every person he talks to. Every woman he’s ever fucked. If he pisses, I want to
know about it. And I do not expect you to fail me again.”
Body as taut as the scimitar that he carried underneath the loose
folds of the cloak and his thobs, Muhamed bowed out of the library.
Ramiel glanced down at the empty cup by his elbow, then at the
full cup of black brew that Elizabeth Petre had hastily set down after sipping
the scalding Turkish coffee.
Muhamed was right. A woman like Elizabeth Petre could cause a man
like him a great deal of trouble.
Here, in England, he would be prepared.
“Muhamed.”
The Cornishman froze at the sound of Ramiel’s voice, hand reaching
to close the library door.
“I do not repeat the mistakes I have made in the past.”
Chapter 4
he jarring clang of silver hitting silver jerked Elizabeth out
from underneath the Bastard Sheikh’s naked body. A thick, cloying aroma invaded
the air.
What do you
care for, Lord Safyre?
A woman, Mrs. Petre. A warm, wet, wanton woman who is not afraid
of her sexuality or ashamed of satisfying her needs.
Elizabeth’s eyes snapped open.
Emma’s round, pleasant face was wreathed in steam; she bent over
the nightstand by the bed, stirring a silver spoon around and around in a
porcelain cup. A small silver pot sat beside the cup and saucer on a silver
tray.
The cloying aroma filling the air was not the sugary smell of
Turkish coffee, Elizabeth vaguely realized. It was the sweet smell of
chocolate.
“If you are ill, Elizabeth, you should have sent a note around to
my house.”
Elizabeth blinked.
Her mother’s face stepped into view. It was framed by a black silk
bonnet. Emerald-green eyes berated Elizabeth as they had when she was a child
and failed to meet her parents’ expectations.
Elizabeth came fully
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