The Lady's Tutor (42 page)

She
grabbed it, feverishly perused the story.
A gas leak. . . one of hundreds .
. . Parliament to look into ways of subsidizing electricity . ..

A plate
filled with scrambled eggs, ham, and grilled mushrooms slid in front of her. A
small bowl of strawberries drenched with cream was placed beside it.

“It
was
Edward,” she whispered. “Why did he contact the newspapers?”

“You are a
highly visible woman.” The voice above her was curiously dispassionate. “Your
absence would be noted. He needed a way to explain your disappearance.”

“And to
counter a murder charge.”

“Yes.”

Even in
this, Edward would garner public favor.

She grimly
folded the newspaper. “I want to visit my sons. They are bound to hear something.
They will be worried.”

“We will
go together.”

“I do not
think now is a good time for them to make your acquaintance.”

Ramiel sat
down beside her and plucked the newspaper from between her hands. “You are
ashamed of being seen with me.”

She
flushed guiltily. “That is ridiculous.”

“Then you
are ashamed of sleeping with the Bastard Sheikh.”

When his
flesh was locked inside her flesh ... no.

“I have to
explain to Richard and Phillip that I have left their father, Ramiel. If you
are with me, they will think that I have disgraced my family merely to be with
you.”

“And of
course we both know that is not the case.”

There was
bitterness in Ramiel’s voice; his turquoise eyes were bleak.

Elizabeth
remembered Rebecca’s statement that all men were selfish in general and that a
man like Lord Safyre in particular would not allow sons—especially sons who
were not his—to interfere with his pleasures.

“My sons
must come first.”

“I have no
desire for you to abandon your sons, Elizabeth. All I want is that the time you
spend with me not be marred with shame or regret.”

Shame.
Regret.
She would use
many words to describe what had transpired between them last night, but she
would not use those.

“Three
events will always stand out in my memory: the birth of Richard, the birth of
Phillip, and what we shared yesterday. I have no regrets, nor do I feel shame.
But now I must go to my sons and I hope you can understand that. Someday soon I
hope you
will
meet them . . . and like them. But that day is not today.”

“And when
will that day be, Elizabeth?”

How would
her sons react to a man who was neither Eastern nor
Western? How would they
feel upon learning that she had thrown their future away on a bastard who had
no claims to respectability or desire to acquire it?

“I do not
know.”

“You
wanted to bond with a bastard,
taalibba.
This is part of it. I accede,
today.
As long as you realize that I fully intend upon meeting them soon. I will
not be kept apart from your life.”

A frisson
of apprehension raced down her spine. It suddenly dawned on her that she knew
very little about this man who was suddenly making demands on her life.

“Richard
and Phillip are used to me bringing them treats. Do you mind if I have your
cook prepare a basket to take with me?” she asked impulsively, needing to
escape her unease.
She did not want to be frightened
—
not of Ramiel,
not of the man who had shown her the wonders of being a woman.

His
turquoise eyes were enigmatic. “My home is your home. You may have or do
whatever you wish. As long as you remember that someone tried to kill you. You
came to me for protection. I will not allow you to put yourself in danger. Are
you going to eat?”

She looked
down at the circle of grease that surrounded the ham on the white china; then,
she looked at the bright crimson strawberry juice bleeding into the cream. “No.”

“Then let
us go down to the kitchen and I will introduce you to my chef. He will enjoy
cooking for your young men.”

The chef
could have been Arabian with his dark hair and skin or he could have been
French. Elizabeth could not tell by either his accent or his face. He wore
European clothing, but so did Ramiel, unlike Muhamed, who was not Arabic by
blood. Nothing was as it should be, either in Ramiel’s house or Edward’s.

“Etienne,
you will obey Mrs. Petre’s wishes as you would mine. She has two sons at Eton
and is going to visit them today. She wants to take them a basket of food.”

“Madame.”
Etienne’s dark eyes lit up with pleasure. “It will be an honor to prepare a
little treat for your two sons. Just yesterday I baked a
basboosa,
a
cake made with semolina and soaked in syrup. I also have a
baskaweet,
biscuits
that melt in the mouth. Or if you will wait, I will bake you
baklava
and
my
atif and
my
kunafa. ..
.”

Elizabeth
smiled. Etienne was everything that Muhamed was not. “Please do not trouble
yourself. The cake and the biscuits are more than enough. Thank you. Richard
and Phillip will love them.”

Etienne
bowed. “It is an honor, Madame. Lord Safyre, he does not do justice to my
pastries.”

“If I ate
everything you baked, I would not be able to pass through my own doorways,”
Ramiel retorted easily.

“How else
does one honor a man of my talents?” Etienne asked with feigned indignation.

Elizabeth
solemnly intervened. “I assure you, sir, that my two sons will do justice to
your art. They eat like horses.”

Etienne
appraised Elizabeth’s body underneath her royal blue bodice and skirt. “Perhaps
we will put a little more flesh on your bones, too, Madame.”

Ramiel’s
eyes followed the chef’s.

Elizabeth
flushed. “Let us hope not.”

“We are
not used to cooking for a lady of the house; perhaps if Madame would prepare
our menus . . .”

Elizabeth
met Ramiel’s gaze.

What had
he told his servants about her? He had said he could not give her
respectability. Why, then, was he going out of his way to make her feel at
home?

“I am not
here to disrupt your kitchen, Etienne.”

“But you
do not disrupt, Madame. You add beauty to our humble bachelor abode.”

A
reluctant laugh was won from Elizabeth. “We will see. Right now I merely wish a
basket of food for my sons.”

“I will
prepare you a masterpiece picnic. Your sons will think their young palates have
died and attained paradise.”

Ramiel
held out a hand to Elizabeth. “Come, let us leave this scalawag to his kitchen.”

Elizabeth
climbed the narrow servants’ stairs ahead of Ramiel,
holding the hem of her
skirt high so that she would not step on it. “You have an interesting staff. Wherever
did you get Etienne?”

“I
liberated him in Algeria.”

She stared
at her black-patent slippers and the intermittent flash of black silk
stockings.
Hers. . . and his.
“It is not my intention to inconvenience
you or your household.”

Hot,
implacable hands gripped her waist, pulled her back even as she stepped up. “Elizabeth,
you do not inconvenience me. Nor do I object to you spending time with your
sons. If I did, I would take you upstairs now and see just how sore you are.”

Elizabeth
leaned back against the solid heat of his chest. “I prefer champagne to rubber.”

Hot breath
seared the nape of her neck.
“Ela’na!”

“You say
that rather often. What does it mean?”

“It means ‘damn.’
“

“What are
your special plans for me?”

His hands
gripping her waist tightened.
“El kebachi.”

She sucked
in air. “Like the beasts in the fields,” she whispered, body clenching.

Something
hot and wet flicked her neck—his tongue.

“ ‘After
the fashion of the ram.’ I will place you on your hands and knees and mount you
from behind. In that position I can freely touch your breasts and your vulva.”

“It is one
of your favorite positions, then.”

It was not
a question.

Sharp
teeth nipped her nape. “It is.”

She
would not be jealous of the women who had come before her.
Or worry about those who might come after.

“I will
look forward to it.”

“Elizabeth.”
A breath of laughter tickled her ear. “Take your time with your sons. Because
when you get home, I will take my time with you.”

She voiced
a fear she had not realized she possessed. “You will be waiting for me?”

Edward
had never been there for her.

“I will be
waiting for you,
taalibba.
And now, I, too, have things to take care of.
I will arrange a carriage to take you to the station. When everything is ready,
Muhamed will come get you. He is to accompany you.”

Elizabeth
stiffened. If her sons would have difficulty accepting a man who was half Arab
but did not look it, how would they react to a man who was not Arab but did
look it?

“Muhamed
will wait outside.” Ramiel flicked her ear with his tongue. A shower of hot
sparks shot down her back. “If you do not take him with you, he will follow
you.”

“This is
not necessary.”

“I assure
you, it is.”

She did
not want to think about death.

Yesterday
had surely been a once-in-a-lifetime event. Edward would not go out of his way
to harm her. He did not have time. Nor did her father. Politics was a demanding
mistress. Especially when one of the two divided what little free time he had
with a flesh-and-blood mistress.

She
hesitantly placed her hands over the back of Ramiel’s. They were hard and
rough—like his body.

He had
been hurt at the breakfast table when she had refused to take him with her to
visit her sons.

She
offered him what solace she could. “Phillip would find Muhamed interesting, I
think. He would enjoy your swimming bath.”

“What
about Richard?”

“I am not
sure. Richard seemed—changed when last I saw him.”

“In what
way?”

“I cannot
explain.”

“Does he
confide in you?”

“A much as
a fifteen-year-old boy will. Why are you interested in my children?”

Ramiel’s
hand slid down her waist, pressed against her lower abdomen. “They are a part
of you.”

The heat
of his hand infused her womb. Elizabeth felt a rush of gratitude.

Rebecca
was wrong. Not all men were selfish. Especially a man like Ramiel.

She closed
her eyes and leaned her head back. “Thank you for the bath.”

“You’re
welcome. I thought you might like it.”

The heat
of his hands evaporated from her abdomen, her waist. A gentle nudge set her
feet in motion.

At the top
of the stairs he did not kiss her. He merely looked down at her with that
disconcerting way he had of veiling his eyes. “I have to go. Explore my home
while you wait for Etienne to create his masterpiece. It is your home now.”

She bit
her lip to keep from asking where he was going, and then it was too late; he
was gone. And he had not said one thing about the smell of orange on her skin.

How
could his home be hers?
she
thought irritably. She was married to another man.

The decor
throughout the house was a blend of exotic East and austere West, like the
owner. Elizabeth idly explored first one floor and then another. All the while
she thought about the newspaper article proclaiming her near-death status, the
husband who had attempted to kill her, and the father who had threatened to do
so. She thought about her life as it had been twelve days earlier, what it was
now, and what it would be in the future, a divorced woman living with a bastard
sheikh.

It was a
woman’s duty to put her children’s needs first.

A guest
bedroom on the third floor was painted pale yellow with orange and green
flowers stenciled around the ceiling and the doors. Upon closer inspection, one
of the flowers looked very much like a vulva.

“Mrs. Petre.”

Elizabeth
whirled in a swish of silk and wool. Muhamed stood in the doorway.

“What is
it?”

His turban
was startlingly white in the shadows. The triumph, however, was plainly visible
on his face. “Your husband is here to see you.”

dward.
Here.
In Ramiel’s home. How had he known where to
find her?

The
same way he had known about her lessons with Ramiel,
she abruptly realized. Someone had
followed her.