Jinan had gulped down the nasty-smelling concoction in a trice, wiped her lips, given him a disapproving once-over, then slipped between the turned-down, ruffled bedding. She hadn’t said a word. He deserved an explanation.

What was so wrong with his seed? Would she not want his children, should one come of their union? Did she hate him so much?

This wasn’t working. Nothing was working. They fought at every turn. He reacted distastefully at every turn. There was nothing he could say to persuade her that he’d made a good choice for her. The right choice.

What did the harem have to offer that was better than this?

She couldn’t seriously want to go back to that lair of vice. His contract had ended, meaning she was game for any other patron. It was unacceptable, and he’d be damned if he’d allow another man to occupy her time, her bed, her body.

She was his.

Jinan was his alone. Weren’t his feelings for her apparent?

He pulled her in tighter, needing to ground himself to the here and now.

Everything to this point seemed to have gone wrong in her eyes and he needed to correct that.

He had debated saying something to her last night about their brief engagement so long ago. It seemed as though she’d forgotten about their courtship. There were moments when she would say something to trigger those memories again, like that afternoon they’d spent in the gardens at the palace.

Releasing her, he rolled to his back and stared at the inside of the canopied bed.

He had to believe she would come around. She was just inexplicably angry—anger passed with time, or at least he hoped it would pass.

Griffin gave his eyes a frustrated rub. As if that could relieve his mind of the image of her shoving the towel inside her quim to rid herself of his seed. Acting as though it burned and she was desperate to douse the flames that had licked up inside her.

Her eyes staring bloody daggers at him for his treatment. It wasn’t as if he’d done anything he wouldn’t have done at the Pleasure Gardens.

He rolled out of bed, shoved his feet in his slippers, and pulled on his dressing robe. Cinching the tie around his waist, he made a quick decision to give Jinan something to alleviate the tension between them. Opening the armoire, he pulled out the velvet box tucked down on the bottom shelf.

Would this make her rest easier? Would this help rein in the look of loathing she shot his way, every chance she got?

Walking back to the bed, he placed the box on the pillow next to her and left the room. It would either infuriate her further, or make her see reason.

Some coffee was in order at this early hour; then maybe he’d send up Donata to see to Jinan’s needs.

*

The curtains were open; the sun was high in the sky. Jinan rolled over to her back and was surprised to see the place next to her empty. Rumpled but empty. Uncurling her hand and arm, she stretched her fingers out. It was stone-cold next to her, so Rothburn must have gotten up a while ago. Stretching her tired arms above her head, she touched something hard above her head. She sat up and looked down at the red box, smaller than her hand, set on her pillow. Filigreed gilt swirled in a pretty design on it. A gift?

Her pleasant morning had just turned sour.

So he thought to shower her with gifts? Was this in hopes of her coming around to his way of thinking? She wanted to throw the token at the door. Admittedly, that would do her no good, especially if Rothburn couldn’t see her fury.

She curled her fingers around the velvet-covered box. It did no harm to see what he thought a sufficient present for her enslavement. Pushing the golden latch through its hole, she lifted the simple satin-lined lid and frowned down at the token. She almost laughed. In fact, she might have in a different time, different place.

This gift seemed more insulting than giving her some sparkling jeweled bauble.

She should have known better. What a fool she was to think, even for a moment, that she was more than his sexual plaything. She slammed the lid shut and threw it at the looming wardrobe.

Where was Rothburn, anyhow? He hadn’t left her alone in the few days she’d been here. If she hadn’t lived in intimate quarters with her sisters for the past five years, she might have found it difficult having Rothburn ever present, even during her ablutions.

A knock sounded at the outer door, so she tiptoed across the room and stood in the doorway of the bedchamber. The maid who had helped wash her hair yesterday came in with towels and a bathing jug.

Did Rothburn think she’d find him a generous man and forgive him what he’d done by sending a woman to help her bathe? He was sadly mistaken. And she’d make him aware of that when next he made an appearance.

The maid curtsied awkwardly. Probably not sure if she should curtsy to a heathen such as Jinan.

The woman said something in Italian and then raised what was in her hands, an indication of her purpose since Jinan didn’t understand the words uttered.

This might be her last chance to send word to Amir and Mr. Chisholm, so she asked slowly in English, “Do you speak something other than Italian?” Her words were stilted. She so rarely used English that her accent had twisted into something not altogether pleasant or familiar.

The maid looked at her and shook her head. “English not good for me.”

Jinan tried again in French. The maid smiled. She understood at least some of the words.

There weren’t many commonalities but enough that they could communicate.

What Jinan needed most was someone feeling compassion toward her circumstances.

They found words they both understood through the bath. The maid had the oils the slaves used in the harem. Something else Rothburn had gone to the trouble to procure.

When they finished, Rothburn still wasn’t back, but she’d managed to relay to the maid that she needed a friend, someone to help her send a message. Perhaps the woman understood what it was to be all alone. Finally, Jinan had someone to confide in.

The maid spoke often with the man who delivered some of the more exotic things his lordship had been buying and bringing to the villa. He spoke and read some French, and Donata thought maybe if she gave him a message on paper, he could get it to the appropriate eyes and ears. Jinan wrote out her message in French for the tradesman and another message for Mr. Chisholm in the Arabic scroll she’d learned from Laila. Her new confidante took the missives, tucking them into her bosom as she left. Insurance that Amir was notified of her circumstances. While Rothburn promised to retrieve her son, she would not depend solely upon him.

Jinan breathed a sigh of relief. One great worry out of the way. Would Amir come or would he send Mr. Chisholm in his stead?

“What is it she’s doing?” Peters sneered, his lip curling slightly and his nose wrinkling in distaste.

“Praying.”

She went down on hands and knees, her plump, ripe bottom in the air tempting him.

Donata had come out of his apartment not fifteen minutes ago. He thought Jinan would attempt a quick escape since he had asked the room not be locked. She hadn’t left.

Instead, she’d gone into the garden with a towel to kneel upon.

He wondered what she thought of the present he’d left for her.

Did she wear it now? Rothburn coughed into his hand and turned away from the pert buttocks begging for his attention.

“It’s rather”—Peters gestured with his hand—“foreign.”

Rothburn quirked his eyebrow. “I imagine she’s desperate to throw up as many differences between us as she can.”

“Yes, but does she have to do that? You know the servants are talking.”

“And what of it?” he asked, turning from the window that faced the garden and the earthly delight that was all Jinan. He sat on the settee in front of the banked fireplace and picked up his tumbler. He sniffed the liquor. Not ready to succumb to the amber fluid yet. He held it as a reminder.

“You know you couldn’t keep them from discussing her. She’s very—”

“Different?”

“Yes.” Peters turned with a scowl and looked back to Jinan.

“It’s what I find most appealing.”

“Rothburn, as your friend I must advise against whatever attachment you have. Cut her loose while you’re still sane.”

Rothburn stood in sudden annoyance. “I never asked your opinion of her.”

He didn’t like to be under any scrutiny, especially by his most trusted man of affairs. It irked him that Peters was right. She’d cause even more problems when he brought her home. She’d be an overnight sensation; tongues would surely wag when he set her up in his household. They might expect peculiarity from him, but bringing Jinan home might become problematic for him in the House of Lords, and with some of the local tradesmen.

He didn’t want a run-of-the-mill mistress. He wanted Jinan. And now that he had her again, he planned to keep her wings clipped so she couldn’t fly from him. The only way to keep her at his side was to marry her.

“By all means, set her up in a cozy town house or even in this estate or in Florence.”

“You know I won’t do that.”

Peters gave an exasperated sigh. “You cannot bring someone like her back to England. Look at you, man. You’ve been swirling the same swig of brandy nigh on ten minutes. You are playing with old habits, my friend.”

Rothburn slammed the tumbler down on the marble mantel, the liquid sloshing over the side of the glass. At least he hadn’t taken a drink. “I will not be advised in the matter of Jinan.”

“You have enough problems with the gossipmongers. Consider leaving her here until you’ve wed.”

Rubbing at his eyes and forehead, he thought carefully on his next words. Not that it mattered what Peters thought in the end since he had planned everything out so carefully regarding Jinan. “I’m not worried about the gossips. They can eat a flagon of crow for all I care. Jinan won’t have trouble facing that lot. She’s an accomplished actress.”