A Secret in Her Kiss (16 page)

Chapter Nineteen

B
ennett hugged the dark shadow of the building, motionless. His vantage point allowed him to see far too clearly the way Abington’s hand caressed Mari’s lower back as he escorted her to the waiting carriage. Bennett pressed himself so tightly against the wall that the bricks dug into his shoulder blades. Every base male instinct ordered him to stride over to the coach and rip Mari away from Abington. But thankfully, his control held.

He’d thought escaping her presence would help. Surely, he could find something to else to occupy his thoughts, something that didn’t involve watching her until he’d memorized the intriguing curve of her cheek. Or straining to hear her murmuring voice on the other side of the door.

But he couldn’t. Desire for her still consumed him.

He forced himself to focus. This was his best chance to capture the man following her. And he’d given his word he would do that. After tonight, he intended to have the answers he needed to find the person who knew of Mari’s work. Then at the end of the week, once she sketched Vourth, he’d be free to return home.

As the coachman cracked his whip and shouted a sharp command to the horses, Bennett tensed, readying his still muscles.

After a long moment, a white-turbaned figure emerged from a nearby gate and hurried after the lumbering coach. Bennett emerged from his hiding spot.

Time for answers.

Bennett tackled the man to the ground.

The man grunted as they rolled on the cobbles. He twisted roughly from side to side, but Bennett’s greater size and weight gave him the advantage. Bennett pinned the man’s face onto the dirt and removed the coarse length of rope he’d brought from his pocket. Taking quick note of the disfigured left hand, he bound the hands of Mari’s pursuer and knotted it tightly.

He hauled the man to his feet. “Who sent you?”

The man erupted in a string of Turkish words. Most of which, Bennett suspected, weren’t polite.

“Do you speak English?”

The man continued his diatribe. Spittle flew from his mouth in his rage.

Bennett shoved the man into a walk. Daller should be able to assist him until Abington arrived.

The man fought all the way to the embassy, but Bennett had dealt with recalcitrant prisoners many times before. At the door of the ambassador’s home, the man suddenly wrenched himself to the right, but Bennett had anticipated a final escape attempt. His boot caught the prisoner’s ankles and the man went sprawling. His turban tumbled off, revealing sparse, unkempt hair.

Bennett pulled the man upright and shoved him past a very astonished butler.

Inside the study, Bennett stood watch over the man as he awaited the ambassador. The door to the study flung open, and Daller strode in.

“Prestwood, what is this? My footman tells me you’ve dragged in a prisoner?”

The man blanched at the arrival of the other man. His shouting and cursing stopped and he shrank back into the chair he’d been placed on.

“This is the man who’s been following Miss Sinclair.”

Daller’s eyes narrowed. “Is he the one behind the attempted shooting?”

“I doubt it. But I suspect he knows who is.”

The prisoner’s eyes darted about, looking everywhere but at the ambassador. His gaze fixed on the window. Bennett grabbed the man by the neck of his shirt as he attempted to jump to his feet. He slammed him back into the chair. “He will only speak Turkish.”

“Ah, that is where I come in.” Daller advanced on the man, his customary charm absent. He asked something in Turkish.

The turbaned man spat at his feet.

Daller growled and rattled off an angry sentence.

The prisoner flinched and tried to inch back in the chair, but he nodded.

“I threatened to turn him over to the local authorities,” Daller said. He asked a different question.

“Abdullah.” The man replied.

Daller looked up at Bennett. “His name.” He continued with a different question.

After a long pause, Abdullah answered. His head shook quickly from side to side and his nostrils flared.

“He says he doesn’t know the identity of the man who hired him.”

“Ask how he was supposed to get in touch with him.”

The ambassador spoke again. “He claims the man always contacted him. He doesn’t know how to locate his employer.”

“Can he describe the man?” Bennett asked.

Daller spoke and the prisoner shook his head so wildly his thin greasy hair fell over his face.

“He claims he cannot.”

Bennett rubbed his temples in frustration. “Do you have somewhere we could lock him up for the night?”

Daller frowned. “We don’t yet have the information we need.”

No, they did not. But Abdullah seemed more frightened than stubborn at the moment. He would need to wait for Abington after all.

Daller eyed Abdullah with distaste. “With some convincing, he might talk. These locals are a stubborn lot.”

Bennett shook his head and suppressed a shudder. While torture might be the expedient option, it wasn’t something he was willing to resort to. “Lock him up. Perhaps by morning he’ll be willing to talk.”

The ambassador summoned two large footmen who grabbed Abdullah by his arms. He broke free and lunged toward Bennett.

“Grab him, you fools!” Daller ordered.

Bennett stepped to the side, sending Abdullah crashing to the carpet. The red-faced footmen regained control of him. Abdullah resumed his yelling and cursing, although more fear than anger laced his words. Daller’s name featured prominently in his shouts.

Daller chuckled after Abdullah was removed. “I don’t think some of the things he cursed me with are even possible. So we try again in the morning?”

“In a few hours. I intend to bring Abington in on the interrogation.” Bennett glanced at the gilded clock chiming on the mantel. Mari should be returning shortly from her party. He might as well collect Abington himself rather than sending a note.

“Is Abington in the city?” Daller asked.

Bennett nodded.

Daller wiped a strand of hair from his forehead. “Very good then.”

The questioning might delay his and Mari’s departure for Vourth, but he wanted her safe when he left for England. He owed her that much.

He went to his room and finished packing the supplies for the mission. His pack was heavier than anything he’d carried on campaign, but he’d been unable to resist purchasing a few items that would make the journey more comfortable for Mari.

An urgent knock sounded. Bennett stashed the rucksack out of sight before opening the door.

A wide-eyed young maid stood outside, twisting a mobcap in her hands. “Your prisoner, sir. He’s hanged himself.”

Chapter Twenty

“U
nfortunately, he’s still a eunuch!”

Mari laughed at the jest uttered by a wrinkle-faced old woman. The songs and comments were intended to help ease the bride’s fears about her wedding night, although straightforward explanations would probably have been more effective than the ribald jokes and innuendo.

Mari’s neck ached from resisting the urge to peer over her shoulder and see if any messengers had arrived. Had Bennett captured the man following her? She reminded herself for the hundredth time that this plan was of his own making. She had no part in it other than as bait. Yet her eyes wandered to the door.

Nothing.

What if Bennett had been injured? She distracted herself from the worry by scooping more henna into the paper tube. But her hands were cold as she finished the final leaf design on Ceyda’s palm and stepped to the side.

With great flourish, Fatima approached and pressed two gold coins into the henna on the bride’s hands. “You’ll wrap that for me, won’t you, Mari?” She gestured to the linen strips each guest wrapped over the coin she gave to hide the amount.

“I think everyone here already saw how much you gave. You could wrap it.”

Fatima shrugged delicately. “It’s for Ceyda’s good. If everyone sees my generosity, they’ll feel compelled to give more.”

Mari cast a concerned look at Ceyda’s mother. “Some cannot afford to give more.”

Fatima followed her gaze. “Oh, I gave her gold to place on her daughter’s hand. I cannot have my sister-in-law appearing poverty-stricken.”

Mari shook her head. Fatima might have flashes of humanity if she didn’t ruin them with her ego.

The other women placed coins of varying amounts into the henna and covered them until Ceyda’s hands were completely wrapped.

As Mari slipped the silk bags over the wrapping, Ceyda held her arms stiffly out in front of her.

“It’s fine to lower them.” Mari leaned close to the worried girl. “There’s a trick to this, you know.”

Ceyda’s traditional red veil fluttered with her nervous breaths.

“The warmer the henna is, the darker it will turn. I’ve tied the bags as loose as I dared. Just try to keep as still as possible.”

Ceyda nodded. “But I thought the color was supposed to foretell my happiness.”

Mari passed the silver henna bowl to the nearest woman. “Why not make your own?”

With the bride adorned with henna, the female musicians streamed into the room and soon the air pulsed with the drums and the high keening pipes.

Fatima leaped to her feet and began to dance. She spun around the floor with the grace and inherent sensuality Mari had always envied. “Come, Ceyda. Dance!”

Mari placed a hand on Ceyda’s arm. “Remember the hotter you become, the darker the paste will turn.”

“Doesn’t Fatima know?” the girl asked.

Mari watched as Fatima threw back her head. Normally, she would’ve assumed the worst, but for once, Fatima laughed with real enjoyment. “I really don’t know.”

Fatima called again. “Come, Ceyda!”

When the girl tensed, Mari sighed. “I’ll go.”

Fatima frowned as she approached, but then playfully dragged Mari out to the floor before pulling other guests out to join them.

In the past, Mari had enjoyed the traditional harem dances. She’d known on some level that they represented the marital act, but she hadn’t realized how closely they mimicked the movements involved. When Bennett had touched her, her back arched just like this, her hips gyrated, her chest thrust forward. Remembered pleasure swept through her. She followed Fatima’s lead, losing herself to the rhythm. What would Bennett think if she danced like this for him? How long would he let her dance before he growled that low, deep rumble and pulled her to him?

Fatima slowed, her eyes narrowing. “You’re better than before.”

Mari stumbled, then twirled between some of the other women who had joined the dancing. She exhaled, pressing her hands to her heated cheeks and hurrying to the edge of the room. She refused to give Fatima the opportunity to ask about her newfound aptitude.

The evening wound down, and the women slowly took their leave, bidding tearful farewells. Soon only Ceyda, her mother, and Fatima remained in the room with Mari.

Ceyda brushed off her red veil. Her pale, round face shimmered from all the attention lavished on her. “Let’s see if I will be lucky!”

Mari slipped off the silk bags and helped Ceyda remove the wrapping on her hands. She pulled loose the coins the guests had pressed into the henna paste to express their good wishes, and passed them to Ceyda’s mother.

Fatima peered over the older woman’s shoulder as she wiped the money clean. “Not a bad amount, although it’s less than I received. Yet it’s to be expected, I suppose. Your people cannot be expected to give as much. It’s fortunate I’m able to lend you the use of my house to help you save costs.”

Ceyda’s smile faltered and her mother flushed.

Mari glared at Fatima. She might be wealthier than the rest of her husband’s family, but she could be gracious about it. “Perhaps Ceyda’s sweet personality leaves her in little need of the extra luck the money brings.”

Ceyda eyes lit with gratitude, but her mother concentrated harder on cleaning the coins.

Mari bit the inside of her lip. She needed to keep her mouth closed. Ceyda’s family was depending on Fatima and her husband for much of the wedding. She wasn’t the one who’d bear Fatima’s retaliation if she were provoked.

Mari lifted Ceyda’s hand and gently brushed off the henna. As patterns slowly appeared, she exhaled. Orange.

Ceyda giggled in delight and hugged her. Her mother finally glanced up and kissed her daughter on the cheek.

Even Fatima unbent for a moment, the annoyed lines around her mouth smoothing. “You’ll make a good bride, Ceyda. Your husband is paying a respectable bride price, not lavish, but enough that you need not be ashamed.” Her lips curved with relish as she glanced at Mari. “At least you don’t have to offer a fortune to convince some man to consider you.”

Mari started at her words.

Fatima’s smile widened. “Kittens should think twice before toying with tigers.”

But despite her obvious glee, her statement hadn’t wounded Mari. It had shocked her.

Fatima knew about the dowry.

“Who told you about that?”

She shrugged. “Men of all positions cannot resist giving me what I want.”

Ah, she’d slept with Esad’s solicitor then. She must’ve been desperate for the information. Normally, she wouldn’t dream of wasting her talents on a mere servant.

“Esad won’t be pleased.”

Fatima knocked the henna bowl onto the floor with a clatter. “The wrath of my uncle. What will he do, cut me off? Oh, wait, you’ve already seen to that.”

“I didn’t ask for the money.”

“The fat old man just decided to give the money to you because he likes you?” Fatima snorted.

With murmured farewells and uncomfortable glances, Ceyda and her mother hurried from the room.

This wasn’t how Mari had wanted the evening to end. She bent and picked up the bowl to give her temper a chance to cool. Besides, Fatima’s slaves had enough work.

Fatima snatched it from her hands. “You have Esad’s fortune. You don’t need to take my silver.”

Fatima’s jibe had an oddly calming effect. The woman was as selfish and petty as she’d been as a girl. Although Mari didn’t want Esad’s money, she didn’t blame him for not wanting to leave it to Fatima.

“Milady?” Nathan called from the doorway to Fatima’s rooms. He tried to enter but was blocked by the large eunuch, the only male slave her husband allowed in the area.

Nathan must’ve become nervous when the bride had departed and she’d not yet appeared.

“Good night, Fatima. Thank you for inviting me.”

The sullen lines melted from Fatima’s face when she spied Nathan, now inexplicably dressed in the clothing of a servant. She tucked her arm through Mari’s and escorted her to the door. “Who’s this?” Her voice took on that breathy, seductive quality she employed around men she fancied.

“My footman.”

“If he were mine, I’d want him somewhere other than at my feet.” She brushed past the eunuch and smiled at Nathan. “If you’re interested in working for a more pleasant mistress, come to me.”

“Don’t you have enough servants?” Mari asked through clenched teeth. She needed to get Nathan alone to ask if Bennett had sent word.

Fatima drew her finger down Nathan’s chest. “No, actually. I lost one of my best a few months ago. Talat assigned him elsewhere. Silly man. Abdullah was one of my favorites. He had so many uses.”