She squeezed him to her breast and buried her nose in his hair, breathing in his scent.

Sitting in front of Jonathan, Laila dangled one of her golden bracelets. Jonathan swatted at it, gurgling and laughing at the bright object swinging before him. Maram chimed in and tickled one of her son’s feet, making him wriggle in her lap.

“This one will be spoiled with all of us to mother him.” Laila leaned in and blew raspberries on Jonathan’s cheek. He laughed and tried to grab at the golden hoops hanging from her ear. “Won’t you, little love?”

“Will Amir . ” Elena started. There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but most importantly, she needed to know how her son was received. “Will Amir be kind to my son?”

“He adores your son.”

“Oh”—she chewed on her lip nervously, unsure how to respond—“he’s met Jonathan?”

“How else would the boy be here? He brought him into the harem. Amir said it was a matter of days before you joined us.” Maram snorted her laughter. “Even going so far as to say we shouldn’t get too attached. Men do not understand women’s business.”

Laila laughed and added, “You don’t mind that we all want to help raise him, do you? We will never be mothers. It is a blessing to have Jonathan here.”

Maram leaned forward and put her hand against Elena’s cheek—a comforting, accepting gesture. “You are welcome here, too. We will get to know each other later, but for now I must go,” she announced and stood to leave. She winked and left them.

Elena turned to Laila. “I was worried about how Amir would treat him. Mr. Chisholm told me Amir had no children of his own, so I wasn’t sure whether or not he was fond of little ones.” She shook her head, at a loss for words. “Thank you for the reassurance.”

What she didn’t voice was that she had thought her son wouldn’t be here when she arrived. How many days before coming here had she spent fretful and distraught that motherhood was but a distant memory? If her little angel hadn’t been here, she didn’t think she could continue to live. How could a mother let her child go when it was a forced, unnatural separation?

She ran her fingers through the soft, fine hair on Jonathan’s head—she couldn’t stop touching him, savoring every single moment. His hair had grown so much and was a shade darker than she remembered, a rich brown so much like her own. The only thing he had of his father’s were his green eyes.

She leaned in close and gave him another kiss on top of his head, then turned her cheek, resting it there as she rubbed her hand over his back. He still smelled the same, that calming baby smell she could never get enough of.

Not an hour after all the excitement, Jonathan grew agitated and cried out his frustration, as babies are wont to do. She hitched him up on her shoulder, singing a lullaby as she patted his back and bottom waiting for him to fall asleep in her arms.

Rocking him as he quieted, she lowered him to sleep more comfortably on her bosom.

Laila still sat with her on the carpeted floor. A slave came forward as if to take Jonathan. Elena shook her head up at the woman, not ready to release her sleeping bundle. The only thing she needed was to hold him, to know without doubt he wasn’t lost.

Laila sent the woman off after a few soft words spoken in Persian. Then she got up to retrieve a few bolsters to make it more comfortable for them on the floor. She also carried a small green blanket, obviously made for her son. Fresh tears stung at her eyes.

“Thank you,” was all she could mutter to Laila.

Slaves came in with silver trays laden with dried and fresh fruit, nuts, olives, and sesame flatbread. Her stomach growled as the tantalizing aroma hit her. She hadn’t been hungry until she saw the food spread out before her. Her mouth watered as she reached for the first tray and took some almonds. After eating a few she picked up a quartered chunk of pomegranate and let the bittersweet juice wash over her parched tongue. She’d only ever had pomegranate once before and she wasn’t sure it had tasted this good. She sucked at the seeds then chewed them. Laila ate with her in companionable silence, picking the seeds of her pomegranate from the skin, and popping them into her mouth individually.

“They want to give you time with your son.” Laila motioned with her head to indicate the other women in the room. “We are all friends here. There is no place for resentments. Don’t think they are ignoring you.”

“I didn’t think they were,” Elena replied, and picked up a slice of orange.

They were her favorite, but costly. When was the last time she’d had this particular fruit? At her last soiree. Before she’d been forced into marriage with Robert.

There’d been a platter of sliced oranges at that party. She put the whole slice in her mouth and savored the first sweet bursting taste as it sluiced over her tongue.

They ate their fill in silence. Elena kept rubbing her hand soothingly over her son’s back, willing him to sleep the rest of the day. There was no better feeling than holding him again; to know they were both well and alive. When she had eaten as much as she could and drunk a strange yogurt concoction to wash it all down, she leaned back against the bolsters and closed her eyes.

She and Jonathan snuggled up together at long last. Never again would she be separated from him. They were safe here. And she prayed that it would stay that way.

Her neck was wet where Jonathan drooled, and she was uncomfortably sweaty as he slept sprawled across her chest. She yawned but couldn’t find it in her to sit up and move him. He belonged next to her like this.

On opening her eyes, the first thing she noticed was how dark it was around her.

A flickering of light danced around the walls from the oil lamps. It seemed as though everyone had gone to bed for the evening. Everything was still.

The air had cooled and a gentle breeze touched her periodically. Unwilling to wake Jonathan, she stayed on her side tucked against the pillows. It took her a while to focus her eyes. The crickets chirped their night song so loudly out of doors that the sound echoed all around the sitting room. She perched up on one elbow. Her hip was sore where it pressed against the hard floor. A more comfortable spot to sleep was in order.

There were divans against most of the walls, full of lush pillows, calling to her.

That would be as good a place as any to sleep if she could get the feeling in her side to come back to life.

The only other wall she could see in this position had a series of windows facing the garden. All the shutters were open to let the fresh air filter through the room, carrying with it a rich floral scent. Night-blooming jasmine prickled at her nose, as did other unfamiliar but pleasant scents.

Her son’s fist shot out and he let loose one muffled cry before settling back down when she sat up to reposition him. Her whole heart almost pounded right out of her chest at the sight of a man sitting a few feet from her.

He sat reposed, one leg bent with his arm casually stretched over it. The other leg was flat on the ground, a bowl resting upon his thigh. He leaned back against a divan, and his head perched against a loose fist. His feet were bare where his white linen trousers ended. The shirt he wore was unrestricting and exposed the whole of his chest where the vee of his shirt shot down through the center. She noticed a gold band flashed at his wrist whenever the material fluttered around his moving arm.

His complexion was a dark olive in this lighting. His hair looked almost black and was not tied back but fell in gentle waves to his shoulders. He had a close-cut beard.

Black eyes fringed with thick lashes stared back at her. She guessed he was around thirty or thirty-five. He was handsome.

Was it a terrible thing for her to take notice of that?

This man planned to turn her into a whore, yet he looked so kind, calm. Gentle.

Where had that thought come from? How could she know he was any of those things?

This was her tired mind playing tricks on her yet again.

He popped a fig into his mouth and chewed it slowly. His eyes didn’t leave hers once, not even when he reached into the bowl for another piece of the dried fruit. Elena looked around the room again. There was no one else here, not another harem girl, slave, eunuch, or even a wet nurse.

Elena couldn’t find it in her to say anything, so she watched him with weariness, and to her self-disgust, a tinge of curiosity. He studied her in kind. Her hair must be a mess from sleeping on it while it was damp. But her dark curls draped around her in a protective curtain, hiding what the strip of silk knotted about her failed to cover. Her feet, ankles, and shin were bare for his scrutiny. She tried to tuck the skirt over them, but Jonathan fussed at the movement and she refused to wake him, so she stopped.

“I am Amir.” It was simply said in a deep accented voice. He spoke English, his voice clear and strong in the big room, but not so loud as to wake her baby. Moving the bowl from his lap, he crawled over to her in a swift, stealthy motion, like a tiger playing with his prey. His finger came under her chin and he lifted her head closer to his.

“Harry’s description did you little justice. You are far more beautiful than I imagined.”

Her eyes widened as she waited for him to do something, although what that something was she didn’t know. Her son sleeping against her should have acted as a shield, and it was terrible of her to think of her baby that way, but she didn’t know what this man expected of her.

Would he take her with her son right here?

She licked her lips without meaning to, and closed her eyes to hide the embarrassment that would be evident in their depths.