Tiffany Clare - The Surrender of a Lady

The man who’d helped him escape the harem with Jinan had, indeed, been found out.

He did not betray his anger by staring at the jewel. He focused on Amir.

Could there be a solution to this? Amir’s guards sorely outnumbered him, so he could not take back Jinan by force. He could be persistent, though. The fight for her would not end here.

He’d follow their entourage out to the docks. Perhaps if she saw him again, she’d stay. Racing to the garden entrance, he took a right to the stables. Odin, his Arabian, was housed here. His horse had a sixth sense about Griffin. A whinny and kick at the stall door could be heard before Griffin came into view. The stablehand stood at the stable entrace, face white in what Griffin could only describe as fear.

“My lord. Peters is on his way with help.”

“I can’t wait, Gian. Ready Odin and be hasty about it.” The boy went off to retrieve his saddle, and Griffin walked toward Odin. “Good day to you, old fellow. Do you feel like a race to the docks?” He rubbed the fine white stripe between the animal’s eyes, the only other color on Odin’s black coat. Odin bobbed his head in eagerness.

Once the horse was saddled and mounted, Griffin urged Odin onward. Jinan would not escape him so easily.

He traveled at a safe distance behind the entourage traveling with Jinan. The prince must have hired every horse at the lodging inns near the docks. They made a colorful sight racing in their foreign gear toward their ship. Had the road been wide enough, Griffin was sure they would have ridden in war formation. Not that they needed to present more of a threat. Lords, ladies, and people running errands about town fled at the murderous sound of clomping hooves. Griffin remained on their tail. The prince had to know he followed, but apparently he found him unthreatening for no one tried to stop his progress.

Jinan sat behind Amir, her orange silk skirts and scarves flowing behind her, and a scrap of material tied about the lower part of her face.

At the dock, Amir turned his horse, looking for all the world like a sheik stealing his virgin bride. Griffin slowed his horse to a canter, his jaw clenched as he walked his horse toward the enemy, for surely that was what the man was.

Jinan belonged here with Griffin. What did she think to accomplish by staying with Amir? Amir could not give her the freedom he could. She could be Jinan and not some whore playing a tune for the next patron to afford her favors. No, she would be free to express herself as she wished.

Her dark eyes didn’t meet his, but he wasn’t so far away that he couldn’t see that they were still flooded with tears.

Amir’s hand rose, motioning for the royal guard to fan out. Griffin wasn’t such a fool as not to understand the meaning behind this. Still he pushed Odin forward, ignoring the scowl on Amir’s face and the crowd on the dock, whose attention they had captured.

“Jinan,” he said, hoping she could hear the pleading in his tone. “Don’t leave what I have to offer you. I know you do not want to go back.”

His only response was for her to turn her gaze away. A eunuch—damn it, it was the same man he’d bribed—helped her from the back of Amir’s horse and urged her up the plank. He’d been bloody well duped. The man was not dead. It didn’t make sense.

Amir had let him escape. But why?

Half the eunuchs dismounted, while one took the reins of the horses to return them from whence they came.

He met the prince’s gaze, the question clear in his eyes. If he’d allowed Griffin to escape with Jinan, why had he come for her now and refused negotiation?

Odin, sensing his agitation in the squeeze of Griffin’s thighs, stepped forward.

Like the synced rings of the Saracens’ spellbinding bell dance, scimitars were slid from sheaths as the last fall of Odin’s hoof hit the cobblestone. Griffin reined him in.

“If you are smart, you will stop where you are, my lord.”

Such formalities from a man who, not a half hour ago, had threatened to gut him.

“Bey Amir, I implore you to do the right thing.”

“Never fear, good man”—Amir dismounted with fluid grace, a man born to the saddle—“I am.”

Turning, Amir walked away as three guards stayed mounted, scimitars still threatening Griffin if he should move toward the prince. Griffin was not so foolish as to move forward, nor foolish enough to leave. There was hope still, he thought, as he saw her standing at the stern, face masked and impossible to read. She watched him intently, though, ensnaring him with those brown eyes of hers.

The guards finally dismounted, their backs to the ship as they watched him with weariness. Did they think an unarmed man would attempt to overthrow them?

In the next moment, the plank was gone, the boat steering out of dock. How long did he stand there? Jinan pressed her fingers to her lips, then raised them in farewell. He could see the dots of henna from her palm down to her wrist and forearm. Her palms came together, and she bowed her head to him for long minutes.

When she rose, she turned, the wind catching the silk of her scarves and leaving a shimmering fiery trail in her wake.

Then she was gone.

“Peters.” Rothburn nodded at his friend’s arrival.

“You look like you’re about to stand before the executioner.”

“I thank you for your honesty. What are you here for? Good news, I hope.”

“Afraid not. Amir refuses to hear your suit once again. Here”—he placed a crinkled but sealed envelope on the desk, addressed to “The Most Honorable, the Marquess of Rothburn”—“read his demands for yourself. I’m sure he’s not written more than he relayed, most direct, to me.”

“What did he say when you went to the palace?” He fingered the gilt edge of the paper.

“I think he’s reiterated it in the letter. I’m sure he thought I’d not relay the full message to you in person.”

“I offered him a fair price. More than fair.” He tightened his hold, angry at Amir’s refusal to cooperate.

“He insisted that she was not for sale.”

His jaw clenched. “I can’t see why not.”

“Can’t you? I say, Rothburn, it’s obvious he adores her.”

“So do I!” he shouted. Clamping his mouth shut, he brushed his hand through his already disheveled hair. He pressed out the crinkled letter, and read:

Rothburn crumpled up the letter and tossed it toward the fireplace. It rolled to the poker just short of where logs would burn. “Damn that insufferable oaf of a heathen.” He picked up his tumbler, half filled with brandy, and threw it in the fireplace, too.

“Yes, well, your cursing is lost on me. Listen to me, Rothburn. It’s time to move on, and as your friend, I’m telling you, you must stop this pursuit. You’ve neglected the business and your duties to your title.”

“It’s not easily forgotten. If I wasn’t titled I wouldn’t have this problem right now. I won’t let her go again.” His hand smacked hard against the surface of his mahogany desk. And if I can’t have her, I want no other. Yet he couldn’t put voice to those words; to say it aloud seemed too final.

“Good God, man! You’ll end up dead or tossed into one of their damned cellars if you continue with this.”

Griffin pushed all the paperwork on his desk out of his way, not caring that half of it landed on the floor. “This can’t be the end of it.”

“It is—”

“I don’t want it finished. I know I cannot make it to the island and survive entering the palace. Stop your lectures, Peters. You’re only angering me more.”

“I hope you aren’t planning anything drastic or foolhardy.”

Rothburn pushed his chair back; it toppled over in his haste to get up. He scooted out from behind the desk, shoved his fists in his pockets, and started for the open study door. He’d had enough of lecturing. He’d had enough of life in general. Pausing at the threshold, he turned to Peters. “Close up the house. You leave for Florence in two days.”

He felt consumed. By her.

Every goddamned waking moment.

“What of you, Rothburn?”

“It’s not your place to question me.”

“Someone has to if you are planning something unwise.”

“It is unwise because you don’t understand why I’m going to do this.”

“Don’t go back to the palace.”

“You have no say in the matter.”

It was her in his head, in his heart, in his goddamned thoughts. It never stopped. It would never stop. There was only one solution left.

Rothburn refused to tug at his cravat. It was damnably hot today. Sweat trickled down his temple, down his back, from his underarms. The man sitting across from him didn’t have so much as a hair misplaced by the heat swamping the island.

“I advised you not to come,” he said.

“Yet you’ve proved your previous words false by letting me pass the threshold of your home without maiming me.”

“This is true, English.” He waved to a slave holding a pitcher of cool liquid. Two glasses were poured. Rothburn did not take his.