Chapter Twenty-Two
When Sabine opened her eyes, Foye lay past asleep less than a foot from her. She was, for a moment, disoriented and wondering how the marquess had gotten into the pasha’s palace, let alone into her room. But then she remembered, and the familiar fell away. He’d gotten her out of the palace and away from Kilis. They were in Aleppo, in a khan, and last night they had become lovers.
She had no idea what time it was, except that it was no longer night since there was enough light for her to see the room and, very clearly, Foye’s face. She could study him without rudeness or worrying that he would misunderstand the reason for her stare. He knew too well the ways in which others found his features inelegant. She thought he didn’t know well enough the ways in which he compelled. He’d pulled his quilt up to his chin and slipped one hand underneath his cheek. The butt of a pistol protruded from the edge of his pillow.
In repose, his features still had that ill-fitting jumble but the sight made her heart feel light—and anxious. Looking at him now made her belly shiver with the recognition that she wanted him again. She wanted his arms around her, his mouth on hers. How interesting, though, that she did not find him unattractive now, when he was not awake to imbue his face with sheer force of personality. His beard was growing, dark along his cheeks and the line of his chin. Thick, dark lashes lay on his cheeks, and his hair was disheveled. He was a very large man, but only in the way that one man is taller than another.
He lay between her and the door. Quite ready, she was certain, to die for her should they be discovered by the pasha’s men. What other reason was there to make a barrier of his body? Godard would be—she caught herself. Her uncle was dead, and a part of her wondered if the pasha hadn’t played some role in his illness.
If Foye had come for her even a day later, she was convinced she would already have been beyond rescue. But Foye had come for her. On his own. Despite all her letter writing and sending Asif to Aleppo with a letter for the British Consulate. Foye had come. Not some official from the Levant Company nor anyone else in an official capacity.
She reached out and touched his cheek with her fingertip, to a spot above the whiskers growing. His skin was warm. She was a fallen woman, this time in truth. Lord Foye was her lover. Sabine brought back her hand and saw his eyelids lift.
“Good morning,” she said. “Though perhaps it’s afternoon.”
“Sabine.” He caught her hand and brought her fingers to his lips for a kiss.
The angles of his face came together in interesting ways. She could no longer look at him and see him as unattractive, though she knew others might think so. There was too much intelligence in his face. Too much honor. Too many memories of his face as he came to pleasure with her. He threw aside his covers and reached for his clothes. After some searching, he extracted his watch from his waistcoat and consulted it. He stood barefoot on the rugs covering the floor, unconcerned by his nudity, while he wound his watch by the light coming in through the windows.
Foye, Sabine thought, was a magnificent man.
“Mid-morning,” he said, still with his back to her. He peered out the window. Camel bells tinkled in the interior courtyard; a few of the beasts protested. Men’s voices, the cadence of the local languages, Arabic and, though she did not speak the dialects, Druze and Kurdish, too.
“The time?”
“Thirteen past ten.” He consulted the watch again. “And fifty-three seconds.” He snapped the watch closed. “I suggest we dress and find some breakfast. I want to send one or two men out to see if there is any sign of Barton and the others. Or the pasha.”
How strange it was to be lying in bed, conversing with a man who happened to be standing before her naked, as gloriously lovely as Michelangelo’s David. She knew his body, the texture of his skin, his taste, his scent, the sound of his voice as he whispered in her ear.
She knew his temperament, too, that he was calm and possessed a sharp intellect. That he would do what he promised. He was the Marquess of Foye. A nobleman. And he claimed to love her.
He fixed her with a penetrating gaze. “When we’ve found something to eat, you and I have business to attend to at the consulate.”
“I wrote to them about Godard.”
“Did you?” She could see him assessing that. “Before or after Godard died?”
“After.”
“Are you certain your letter was delivered?”
“I gave it to Asif.”
He nodded. “Then they’ll know of his death. We’ll need the official documentation in England.” With a frown, he said, “They ought to have sent someone to investigate. I wonder why no one came?”
Sabine shrugged. “Perhaps they did, and Nazim Pasha sent them away.”
“Then what good are they?” He stood there with his hands on his hips. “Useless. Worse than useless if that’s what happened.”
“Who knows what lies the pasha might have told them?” She sat up, keeping her blanket around her. She felt unaccountably happy. “Do you intend to tell them Nazim Pasha demanded a ransom for me?”
“That and more. Detaining a British citizen against her will won’t be looked upon kindly,” Foye said. “No matter what they think of the man.” He clasped his hands over his head and arched his back in a long, luxurious stretch. Every muscle was on display. There was not an ounce of excess flesh on him. When he was done, they ended up looking at one another. He smiled. “What are you thinking, Sabine? That I am shameless?”
“No.” She put her chin atop her knee. “I am thinking that you are beautiful.”
His smile turned serious. “Thank you, Sabine.”
“Come here, Foye.”
He did, and holding and touching him in the brightness of morning made her heart overflow. Afterward, Sabine held him close and tried to memorize the way he felt in her body and in her arms. The scent of him, the texture of his skin and the taste. The way she felt safe and adored and physically sated. He pulled away with a charming reluctance.
“I wish we could stay here all day.” He traced the line of her collarbone with the tip of his finger. “We could forget the world outside and spend all our time making love.”
“That would be lovely.” She pressed her hand to his cheek, and again her heart hurt at the happiness. “Very lovely.”
Foye dropped his head and kissed the underside of her throat. “Mm. Sabine. What is it you do to me?” He lowered his body to hers, his weight on his hands by her shoulders. “I think you make me very stiff,” he said with a wicked grin.
“Is that proper, my lord? I think that sounds very improper.”
“Mm. I think it’s proper, my dear.” He dipped his head again. “Lovely, lovely Sabine. You make me properly stiff.”
“What an unhappy occurrence. If you were to ask me. Is there something I can do to help you with your condition?”
“I wonder.” He nuzzled her throat again. “Can you? Would you be willing to try to give me some relief?”
“I’ll endeavor, effendi.”
“What an excellent servant you are. Remind me to raise your wages next quarter. Now, my lovely dragoman, will you let me have my wicked way with you again?”
“Oh, yes, please,” she said. She meant it, too. With all her heart.
“My pleasure,” Foye replied. He used his thigh to nudge her legs apart, and since she now knew what he intended, she shifted, and he pushed inside her. And yes, he was very much bigger than she was, and she loved the difference between their bodies. He felt good inside her, so very good, that before long she wasn’t thinking about much except for Foye and the place where their bodies joined. His eyes flashed, but she knew he was being careful. Too careful. There was more he wanted from her.
“Foye,” she whispered. “I know you won’t hurt me. I know.”
He paused and dropped his head to her. “I never would. Never.” She arched against him, but he didn’t let go of his restraint with her. “Sabine. My love.”
She held him when he came and knew with an ache in her heart that she wouldn’t ever be the same without him.
“It’s time we got you dressed,” Foye said later when they had their breath back. “It’s two days to Iskenderun. The sooner we’re on our way the better.”
“Trussed, you mean.”
“Yes, trussed. What a sin that is.” He dropped a kiss to her breast, one then the other. “I won’t be able to ogle your bosom.”
Sabine sat up and between them they transformed her back to Pathros, and then she helped him become the very proper and alarming Marquess of Foye. He kissed her after he was dressed, too, and her heart melted at the tender way he held her.
“I don’t know how I’m going to keep anyone from thinking I’ve unnatural affections for you,” he said.
“Don’t joke about that,” she said.
His expression turned serious. “Before we leave Aleppo, Sabine, we will be proof against the pasha. There’ll be no need for subterfuge.” He smiled broadly. “I’ll be forced to give Pathros the sack.”
“Are you sure that’s wise, Foye?”
“I don’t think my wife would tolerate my involvement with the boy.” He put his hands on his hips. “Do you?”
She widened her eyes. “You mean us to be married? Here? So soon?”
“The Consul here can perform the ceremony, Sabine.” He frowned. “We did nothing to prevent conception either last night or this morning. And that is not a circumstance I would have allowed if I had not intended to marry you, and quickly, too.”
“But—”
“We are not in England yet, Sabine. The law is different here. A young woman without a husband and without a male relative to take charge of her is in a precarious situation. Nazim Pasha made it clear he did not agree that I had standing to take you with me.” He drew his eyebrows together. “Why do you think I had to resort to kidnapping you? Believe me, I had exhausted all other means at my disposal before choosing this.”
“I await your point, Foye.”
“My point, Sabine, is that should Nazim Pasha overtake us, he might succeed in regaining you. Based on past experience, I doubt anyone at the consulate would mount a formal protest with the pasha or the Sublime Porte before you have been sold or made a gift. If we are not married, there will be no relative of yours to protest on your behalf.” His eyes went hard. “If my wife were to be abducted, I assure you, the authorities would act. Without delay.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Foye—”
“Need I remind you that I am a peer, and my title, all that Foye is now and in the future, is subject to primogeniture. We must be married now. It’s months by sea to home. You’ll be well advanced if I’ve got you with child.” He raised a hand. “Do you think for a moment I will permit anything to happen to you? All I ask is that you do not make my efforts on your behalf more difficult. You may well believe, Sabine, that the consulate would move heaven and earth for me and my wife.”
Sabine looked at him. “You’re certain of this, then?”
“Yes.” He wasn’t worried that she doubted him; he was worried she doubted her feelings for him. Matters had moved too quickly between them from the very first. He had no doubts. To her, their future seemed perilous indeed.