A Touch of Sin (27 page)

"I'll find someone," Jerome growled.

"Like the last thug you found, who took your money and ran."

Jerome's glare fell on his brother. "Eat your damned mousse or pudding or whatever it is you're stuffing down your face and I'll think for both of us. As I always have."

"You're up against the Duras family this time," Phillipe warned, lifting a spoon of crème brûlée to his mouth, "not some milquetoast business colleague who's intimidated by your threats. General Duras defeated entire armies. Rumor has it the boy has killed any number of men in duels, not to mention his leisure sport of fighting the Turks. Are you mad to take on a family like that? They'll kill you and you'll never enjoy the money."

"I'll do as I please."

"You'll lose on this one."

"I never lose," Jerome Clouard growled.

The seas were calm, the winter storms long gone, even the spring rains delicate as summer neared. The eleven-day run to Nauplia was a time of peace and solitude for Trixi, the days and nights without care, the rhythm of the sea tranquil, its enduring pulse a measure of the harmony of life. As they entered Greek waters the sea became a luminous turquoise, sometimes the deepest cobalt blue, and it was so clean and clear the bottom was visible at forty feet. The Mediterranean scent came off the land, the hills covered with spiky aromatic bushes, olive groves, stands of lemon and orange trees. An excitement strummed through her senses at the sight of the stark white houses, the sound of the goat bells on the air, and when they sailed into the crowded harbor at Nauplia, she felt as though she were on a great adventure.

She was also a lifetime away from Kent, she thought, surveying the feluccas and caiques, the schooners and cruisers, French frigates, English brigs, Austrian corvettes, German merchantmen.

The whole world was in port.

Jules had a guide take them through the bustling docks to the Duras warehouse where Nikos greeted them effusively. "But Pasha Bey is away fighting," he explained. "I'll see that a message is sent to him immediately."

"We'll go to the house," Jules declared, "and wait there."

But the message never reached Pasha in the disarray of the war-torn country, nor had the earlier one Jules sent, and when he and Makriyannis returned two nights later from a successful sortie near Argos they were in high spirits. Hussein Djeritl, Ibrahim's brother-in-law, had been defeated and his train captured by Makriyannis's troops. By klepht tradition, half the spoils of war were divided among the men, and much rich booty had been collected from the battlefield: silver-mounted pistols; gilded yataghans; richly ornamented long guns; gold embroidered jackets; and large sums of money—English sovereigns, Venetian sequins, Austrian groschen. But the most splendid booty was Hussein Djeritl's harem, fifty beautiful women excessively grateful to be free. Makriyannis had promised them all passage back to their homes, additional reason for gratitude, and the ladies of Hussein's harem had insisted on showing their appreciation personally. They rode into Nauplia with Makriyannis's
troops, a number of them accompanying Pasha's party back to his house.

The sky glittered with stars, the bay below Pasha's house was gilded by moonlight, and the air was fragrant with heliotrope from the gardens round the house when the troop clattered noisily into the courtyard. Men's voices, raucous, joking, rose in a jovial cacophony, the jingle of harness delicately counterpointed the harsh masculine tones, and the silvery laughter of women was a sweet sounding trill above the bass rumble and guffaws.

The hubbub drifted up through the main floor windows, opened to the dulcet evening and the twinkling lights of the port. Pasha's voice was heard occasionally above the dissonance below, giving orders in a crisp, clear voice.

The clatter of footsteps rolled up the stairway to the reception rooms, to the dining room where Trixi, after putting Chris to bed, was having a late supper in the company of Jules. Informality was allowed, she'd declared, in the holiday circumstances, and the majordomo had succumbed to her arguments rather than offend her.

Jules recognized the distinctive sounds of revel first, familiar with his master's entertainments, and coming to his feet, began moving toward the din—to warn Pasha or deter him.

The enfilade of rooms opened one upon another, the first reception room at the head of the stairs, followed in turn by several more, the dining room midway.

Pasha's voice was recognizable to those in the dining room, familiar in the roar of voices, even though the language he spoke was unfamiliar. He laughed suddenly, a roguish sound, followed immediately by several female giggles and titters. Another man interjected a comment, his tone lighthearted, too, and several male voices suddenly broke into song, the merrymaking jubilant and noisy.

Trixi froze in her chair. How naive of her to forget that Pasha was never without company—more pertinently, without women in his life. How embarrassing. Now he'd discover she followed him all the way to Greece, and he'd wonder why.

"Please Lord," she prayed, "let the floor open up and swallow me."

But the sharp rap of boot heels and the jingle of spurs echoed from the adjacent room, advancing toward them, and a moment later Pasha stood in the archway, his gaze sweeping the room. He looked as much a
kapetan
as any of the klephts in the streets of Nauplia, his dark hair loose on his shoulders, his skin more deeply bronzed from the summer sun, his hybrid uniform part Greek, part western, the sheer physicality of a warrior returned filling the doorway. His white shirt was opened at his neck. A vest decorated with double rows of silver buttons gave him the look of an Oriental potentate, as did his richly embroidered jacket. Two silver-mounted pistols and a dagger were thrust into a red braided cord wound several times around his waist, the grips well worn. No evidence remained of the Parisian gentleman.

"I'm so sorry to bother you," she whispered, thinking how wrong she'd been to come. He looked a stranger.

Pasha had had a moment to suppress his shock after his few words with Jules. "How nice to see you again," he pleasantly replied. "I trust Jules saw to your comfort on your journey. You'll have to tell me what brought you to Greece." With the merest
flicker of query in his gaze, he glanced at his majordomo, who'd followed him.

"You have company now," she said, flushing pink at being de trop. "I'll tell you in the morning."

"We're leaving early." That thought apparently reminded him of his companions. "If you'll excuse me for a minute," he said, "I'll be right back. Set me a place, Jules."

The voices in the adjacent rooms flared high for a short span of time, in interrogation and query. After a few brief sentences from Pasha the clamor subsided. Shortly after, footsteps and conversation echoed in diminishing volume as the throng moved back down the staircase to the lower level. By the time Pasha returned, nothing remained of their presence save a distant hum drifting up through the windows.

"Forgive my grime," he said, unstrapping his curved yataghan. "We've been out on campaign for a fortnight and the opportunities to bathe are rare. Tell me now to what I owe this pleasure," he went on, slipping the pistols and dagger from his waist and placing them on the table. "I must say, after the first shock, it's wonderful to see you again." Pulling out a chair, he sat across the small table from her, his smile delicious as she remembered.

"I'm afraid I came out of necessity, and I apologize."

"Whatever the reason, there's no need for apologies. Tell me what necessity drove you and we'll do what we can to alleviate it." He leaned back in his chair and his weariness suddenly showed, his eyes heavy-lidded, the shadows beneath them conspicuous as he settled into a sprawl. A servant brought him a small cup of coffee as if knowing he needed sustenance. Glancing up, Pasha smiled. "I hope a spoon can stand up in it."

"It's half sugar, Pasha Bey, as you prefer."

"It's good to be back," Pasha casually returned. "The service isn't as fine out country."

The young man grinned. "But the booty is much better."

"They're only here temporarily, Christos. They're going home," Pasha noted, his tone deliberately neutral. "Have the cook send me up something to eat, and then if you and Jules will see to my guests downstairs?"

"Yes, sir, of course, my pleasure, sir," the youth cheerfully declared.

"And another coffee. I haven't slept for days." When Christos left, his attention returned to Trixi. "Now then. I want to hear everything."

She told him, briefly and succinctly, all that had transpired before she'd fled Paris, and he forgot to drink his coffee as she recited her harrowing tale.

"Good Lord," he murmured when she finished. "The man's deranged."

"I don't even want the money. I was quite clear about that to the Grosvenors."

"Maybe I should have them shot." He spoke casually, his voice without inflection. After surviving weeks of human slaughter, he found the existence of a Clouard or two incidental. Taking note of Trixi's shock, he immediately said, "Forgive me. One forgets, when the Turks send sacks of ears back to Constantinople every week. Humanity is at a premium here."
¹⁵

"I was hoping to simply distance myself from them, put Chris out of danger if I could. Greece seemed far enough away… and you'd offered," she selfconsciously added.

"I meant it." The reply was gracious even though in the past he'd developed the art of avoidance to a virtuoso degree. "We'll have to find someplace safe for you, though." He sighed faintly. "Although safety's at a premium here, too. Ibrahim has twenty-eight thousand troops marching back and forth across the Peloponnisos, burning everything in sight, taking women and children for slaves, killing every man they capture."

"Isn't Nauplia safe?"

"For the moment. But Reshid Pasha is currently besieging Athens and should the city fall, he'll march south and converge with Ibrahim's army. Also, I'm not sure Jerome Clouard won't appear in one guise or another. The man is clearly depraved, without conscience if he'll try to murder a small boy. Would you be averse to going up into the mountains?"

"I'll rely entirely on your judgment. I'm just so pleased to be away from Paris, from England."

"Good. We'll settle the logistics later. Ah, food," he gratefully murmured, at the approach of two servants bearing platters. "Had you finished eating? Would you like to join me? Tula is the most splendid cook. I stole her from Ali Pasha years ago, before the sultan sent an army to bring his head back to the Porte." He laughed at her sudden dismay. "You haven't been here long enough to know the Turks have refined depravity to a fine art. I'm numbed to it—a necessity in this war, I'm afraid. But talk to me of something else instead. Something to do with joy and good cheer, like those days in Kent." His gaze held hers for a long, intense time. "God, it's good to see you."

He'd just returned from killing people, she thought, and she was experiencing this wonderful frisson of pleasure that he was pleased to see her. Was she so perverse as to casually forget the brutality and savagery of his deeds? Or was the cause of Greek freedom excuse enough?

"Do you know how many times I've thought of that small bedroom at Burleigh House?" he whispered, leaning forward, his elbows on the table so he was closer to her, intent perhaps on forgetting the slaughter as well.

She nodded, that room etched on her memory.

"I don't have to leave until daybreak," he said, reaching to take her hands in his.

"You should
eat
," she murmured, clinging to his hands.

He smiled and shook his head. "Later."

"We could bring some food with us."

She wasn't coy. She'd never been coy. He liked that. "I'll take the
melomakarona
—honey cookies," he said, standing, moving around the table to pull her upright, lifting the platter of food. "I'll feed them to you." He leaned over in exquisite slow motion to brush her lips with his. "And then you can feed them to me."

She'd forgotten how he could make her flame hot with the merest word or touch, how just standing beside him could make her tremble, how she longed for him inside her, deep, deep inside her. She'd forgotten perhaps because she didn't want to remember how much she craved him.

"This way." He nudged her arm with his elbow, tipping his head toward the darkened room behind them. "I haven't been with a woman since you."

Her eyes flared wide.

He grinned. "What do you think of that?"

She thought there was a fairy godmother somewhere that answered wishes. "Really?" she asked, because she was a skeptic at heart about fairy godmothers.

"Really."

"You please me greatly," she whispered.

"I haven't even started yet—
pleasing
you," he whispered back.

She could feel the heat race up inside her, feel the pulsing begin, the streak of pleasure coursing though her so intense she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. "I may just come right here," she murmured, clasping her hands together to still her shivering.

"Wait for me instead." He bent low to gently bite the lobe of her ear. "You'll like it better."

"I'm not sure I can wait." Her voice was breathless. It had been too long, she thought, or she wanted him too much.

He recognized the taut edge to her voice, and quickly placing the platter down, he lifted her into his arms and strode into the darkened room, through it with long strides, his boot heels a staccato rhythm like her peaking desire.

He kicked open his bedroom door, left it open in the interest of speed, and placed her on his moonlit bed. He swiftly unbuttoned his riding pants and, brushing her skirts aside, climbed on top of her, boots and all. When he entered her she gasped, her breath rising into a sigh as he plunged deep inside her.

It was a ravishment, fierce and wild, mutual, the intensity sensational, a mating of wills and spirits and bodies.

And swiftly over.

Their breathing ragged, panting, they existed in a shimmering limbo, their bodies still strumming with feeling, their minds bereft of all but the trailing vestiges of ecstasy.