A Secret in Her Kiss (9 page)

“So Mari, this is Major Prestwood?”

She nodded and made the introductions.

The pasha’s hand crushed his in a bruising grip. “I look forward to furthering our acquaintance. Mari, Beria requested to see you when you arrived.” He shrugged to Bennett. “Women’s talk, no doubt. We shall find other ways to entertain ourselves.”

Mari hesitated for only a moment before surrendering to the none-too-subtle maneuvering and left the courtyard.

The pasha placed a hand on Bennett’s shoulder. “Come, let us retire to my office.”

The man’s heavy hand remained on him. “I won’t flee if you remove your hand,” Bennett said.

The pasha’s eyes widened, then he chuckled. “There is some precedent for my precaution.”

The main entry hall of the pasha’s home was immense, easily outstripping most London ballrooms. Ornate script decorated archways and window frames. Gold shimmered in the intricate filigree, intermixed with the red and blue tile work on the walls. A thick Persian rug shielded the white marble floor.

In contrast, the pasha’s office was organized and spartan. A Western-style English desk dominated the space. The pasha offered him a chair and then sat across from him.

“How are you enjoying my city?” He pulled a pipe from his desk.

Bennett refused the one offered to him. “It is indeed incredible, unlike any I have seen before.”

“Have you seen Topkapi Palace and the Golden Gate?”

Bennett nodded. “Fascinating, but that is hardly what you wish to discuss, is it?”

Smiling, the pasha tamped tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “I thought to disguise the interrogation. It keeps men’s hearts beating longer.”

“You need not fear for me.”

The pasha stroked his thick, graying beard. “If you prefer plain speaking, it is not you I am concerned for.”

“I expected as much. Ask what you will.”

“You kissed her.”

He had said he preferred to be direct. “Yes.”

The pasha’s eyes narrowed when Bennett did not elaborate or offer excuses. “You could not have known her more than a day.”

“Less than that.”

The pasha lit his pipe and drew in a deep breath of the smoke. “Do you intend to be this difficult the entire time?”

Bennett shrugged. “Not if you ask me questions I can answer. That kiss”—and all the others for that matter—“is between Mari and myself alone.”

The pasha blew a stream of smoke into the air. “I could have you executed and no one would protest.”

Bennett respected the man across from him, but he refused to be cowed. “I definitely would.”

The pasha leaned back in his chair. “Yes, I suspect you would. Why are you not married?”

Bennett answered truthfully. “The war with Napoleon has just ended. Before that I refused to leave any woman a widow.”

“And Mari just happened to be what you dreamed of on the battlefield?”

Bennett hesitated.

“Come now, Major. I have been in battle most of my life as well. When death looms, thoughts turn to more pleasant things. Is she the wife you wanted?”

“No.” He hadn’t thought much about what his future wife would be like. Imagining a woman while in the midst of battle had always seemed wrong, like he’d dragged some unfortunate there with him. And he had no desire for a wife, imaginary or no, to see what he was capable of.

As Mari had yesterday.

Yet she hadn’t flinched away from his violence. She’d picked up his knife and, Bennett suspected, would have used it if needed. “No, she is much more.”

“Indeed? There isn’t much about her that would cause a man to stop and beg an introduction. Her father has sufficient funds, but is by no means wealthy. She isn’t exceptionally beautiful. She’s brash and impulsive and far too bright.”

The words were a tactic to goad him into confessing more than he’d planned. Yet Bennett couldn’t keep his back from straightening at the slurs. “She—”

“If you are going to mention her eyes, do not waste your breath. They would inspire a passing compliment, not a courtship. Why do you pursue her?”

Bennett stared at the man and again found refuge in the truth. “Mari has more . . . vitality in her than any woman I have ever known.”

The pasha puffed on his pipe. “You are either a wise man or a very clever one. I cannot yet decide which.”

“Perhaps I am both.”

“Yes, that is what concerns me.” The pasha paused. “Most other men I would suspect of using Mari to get to me, but you do not plan to remain here, do you?”

“No. After visiting with my cousin and seeing the treasures of Constantinople, I plan to return home.”

“Does Mari know of your plans?”

Bennett nodded. “I have made it quite clear I am eager to return there after my visit.”

“Has she agreed to return with you?” The man’s gaze sharpened.

“No, but I have not yet asked her.”

“Then what are your intentions? I won’t let her be hurt.” The words weren’t spoken as a threat but rather with the calm assurance of a man who did not question his power.

Bennett shifted in the chair. “I will keep her safe.”

The pasha placed his elbows on the desk. “Even from yourself?”

S
elim opened the door as Mari and Achilla approached home.

He nodded to them as they entered. “The major isn’t joining you?”

Mari shook her head. “No, but he will return in a few hours to fetch me and my father to the ambassador’s soiree.”

“He is trustworthy?” Selim asked.

“Yes.” She had answered without thinking about it. She hadn’t even been trying to protect the illusion of their courtship. Why had that been her instinctive answer? Yet she couldn’t bring herself to qualify it. He’d proven himself to be extremely trustworthy—to the British army.

Even Esad had apparently found nothing amiss with him, judging from their laughter and banter as they’d left his house.

Achilla crossed her arms and stepped directly in front of Selim. “I tried to tell you about him yesterday.”

Color stained Selim’s cheeks, and he stared past her shoulder. “I do not gossip about my employer. To do such a thing would lose their trust and earn my dismissal.” He bowed and walked away.

“The major isn’t your employer!” Achilla called after him.

But Selim didn’t acknowledge Achilla’s outburst.

Mari frowned as they walked to the women’s quarters. “So how go things between you and Selim?”

Achilla glared over her shoulder. “There is no Selim and I. I thought he held my hand a touch too long this morning. Yet it is foolish. What would I want with a dirty Turk?”

Mari raised her eyebrow.

“Fine, he isn’t that. But it hardly matters.”

“He refused you?”

“Yes! It may sound arrogant, but I know he’s attracted to me. Yet when I tried to talk to him, I might have been mute for all his reaction.”

No words of comfort sprang to Mari’s lips. Selim was a man of strong convictions.

Much like another stubborn fellow she knew.

Vague discontent crawled over her skin and she rubbed her arms to dispel the sensation. “I’m going to the garden.”

“You’ll leave me with enough time to ready you for the party? Perhaps the red silk tonight?”

Mari frowned. That dress had been relegated to the back of her closet for a reason. “I don’t—”

“The ambassador’s guests will be looking for a reason the major’s attracted to you.”

“Is that the reason we want to give them?”

Achilla grinned wickedly. “Well, it’s a reason, is it not?”

The thought of Bennett seeing her in the scandalous gown sent delicious rebellion flicking through her. He’d sworn there wouldn’t be a repeat of last night, but could she tempt him from his determination? He had forced her to change her intentions to quit. Perhaps she’d return the favor. What would it take to get a man like Bennett to break his word?

The red dress would be a good start. “I’ll wear it.”

Feeling daring, Mari slipped into her room and retrieved Bennett’s notebook from where she’d stashed it among her drawing supplies. Perhaps she should have told him she had it, but he’d left it in the dirt, so really he had no right to protest what happened to it after that.

Besides, he felt it was his duty to pry into every aspect of her life. She could return that favor as well.

After she’d had a quick peek inside, she’d tell him she had it.

Warm, moist air cocooned her as she stepped into the walled garden. Although much smaller and wilder than Esad’s, the green space exuded a vibrancy that soothed her. She’d collected the plants on her various travels throughout the region, slowly replacing the typical tired garden plants with more exotic specimens.

Fingering the worn, cracked spine of Bennett’s book, Mari settled on the bench. A moment’s hesitation assailed her. She didn’t doubt the book was private. Poetry, he’d said it contained. Surely not his own. His idea of poetry was probably lists of orders he intended to dole out.

She opened the book, smoothing the first page. It rustled softly under her hand. She peered around the garden to ensure she was alone.

With a keening gasp the boy did fall

With red blossoms clutched to his breast

To his side a soldier rushed

To pluck the standard from hand still agrasp

Rather than that hand to hold

Mari leaned forward, her heart loud in her ears.

The poem was Bennett’s.

She slammed the book shut, her breath scouring her throat. She’d expected the book to be personal, but this—this was his soul. Yet with shaking fingers, she reopened the book, tucking it close to her as if to protect it from what was to come.

For upon one lad victory did not hang

But on cloth of blue and red.

And the boy well-train’d by duty’s call

upon that flag did gaze,

With eyes held fast in death’s cold hand

Assured of victory

She traced the smudged ink with her finger. He didn’t write as she expected, in neat, orderly lines. His bold, slanting script was crammed into every inch of the page in disorderly clusters. Some words had been removed with a light, dissatisfied line, while others had been brutally obliterated by dark scratches of ink.

This wasn’t just a poem. He’d been the soldier to save his regiment’s flag.

The words about not being able to hold the dying boy’s hand had been changed and rewritten half a dozen times, anything sentimental or regretful scoured away.

It was the poem of a man who didn’t think he deserved forgiveness.

Someone might look at this poem and see an ode to duty, but it wasn’t that. It was an anguished cry for absolution.

Mari pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to stop the burning behind them. For the first time she understood the hold opium had on her father, the draw and fascination that laced through one’s veins, unquenchable. She shouldn’t read this. Yet nothing could induce her to stop. She bent her knees in front of her and turned the page.

Chapter Ten

A
s Bennett’s hand poised to knock on Mari’s door, footsteps hurried up the walk behind him.

Bennett’s hand dropped to his sword.

A softly accented voice spoke. “Ah, Major. You are early.”

Bennett lowered his hand. It was Mari’s butler, Selim. His face was flushed and his hat askew. “I apologize for not greeting you properly. I was seeing to the hiring of a new valet. I intended to be in place before you arrived.”

Selim bowed and ushered him inside. The butler studied him for an instant, then bowed again. “I will inform the family of your arrival. Please have a seat while you wait.”

Bennett glanced around the large central room. Unlike the ambassador’s residence, which could have been plucked from any street in Mayfair, Mari’s home had been arranged to native custom. Low-lying couches clung to the walls and thick velvet pillows piled in the corners. He could think of no way to arrange himself that wouldn’t have been awkward and absurd. Dress uniforms were not designed for lounging.

He settled for leaning against a marble pillar.

Sir Reginald strolled into the room. The man’s evening attire hung loosely as if he’d lost weight. “Major! It is good to see you. Although you didn’t need to come, I could have escorted my daughter and spared you the crush of carriages in line for the ambassador’s.”

Bennett bowed. “The less time I spend at these functions the happier I am.” And he would have spent the entire time waiting for her to arrive, restless and on edge.

Sir Reginald chuckled. “True indeed. I escape to the card room as soon as possible.”

Leaving Mari alone, which was precisely why he couldn’t entrust Mari to her father’s escort. Even if her life wasn’t in danger, she shouldn’t be left to fend off unsavory characters on her own. The ambassador’s residence had far too many secluded alcoves. Alcoves where a man could maneuver a woman for a brief interlude. Or if she were unchaperoned, perhaps a long one. Blood pooled in his lower regions.

Hell, she punched holes in his concentration as easily as breathing. How did she do it?

Apparently, by simply walking into a room.

Mari paused in the doorway, a crimson dress hugging her slender frame. Like most English evening dresses, the gown fitted through the bosom, but there the resemblance ended. Rather than sweeping from the high waist to the floor with straight demure lines, the fabric had been tailored like the native vests to accentuate the line of her waist. Only after it skimmed her softly rounded hips did it flare gently around her legs.

Her father smiled at Mari. “You look lovely this evening, my dear.”

Was the man blind? Why didn’t he order her back to her room to change? Yet another reason he couldn’t trust this man’s judgment.

She straightened and smiled. “Thank you.” As she crossed the room, each step swayed her hips as provocatively as an opera dancer’s.

Hell and damnation. Her hair was down too. No attempt had been made to tame the ringlets into an acceptable style; instead, two jeweled combs tucked over each ear kept the hair from her face.

“Bennett.” She held her hand out to him with a polite nod. At least she wore gloves, nice proper white satin ones that extended to her elbows. He caught her hand and raised her knuckles to his mouth. Her hazel eyes locked with his as his lips brushed her glove. Heat slammed though him like a battering ram.

He retreated back a step. “Mari.” He tried to summon a polite compliment, but finally let it go. Politeness had nothing to do with his current thoughts. His brain couldn’t string together a sentence that didn’t involve a suggestion to strip that gown from her delectable body.

Sir Reginald pounded him between the shoulder blades. “My Helena inspired speechlessness as well.”

Bennett cleared his throat and offered Mari his arm. “We should be off.”

Her satin-covered hand rasped over the wool of his sleeve. “You wanted me to convince them we’re courting, correct?” she murmured.

Yes. But not make him regret they weren’t with almost physical pain.

Selim opened the door as they approached.

“I haven’t seen much of you in the past two days, Mari. Have you been busy in your garden?” Sir Reginald asked.

Mari’s fingers trembled on Bennett’s sleeve, but her voice was composed. “No, actually, I left to draw for a few days.”

Sir Reginald frowned. “Indeed. You really should let me know these things.”

Her hand locked on Bennett’s arm. “I mentioned it at my birthday dinner last week.”

Her father chuckled. “Birthday? Things are constantly slipping my mind these days. Did I get you anything?”

“No, Father, I think we are past that now.”

He clapped her on the shoulder. “I knew I’d raised a sensible girl.”

Couldn’t the man hear the emptiness in her voice? Bennett covered her hand with his own. To his surprise, she drew a fraction closer. How many birthdays had passed unremarked? Bennett traced a light circle on the back of her hand. She glanced up at him, her expression strained.

“Yet another reason my daughter is a fine catch, Major. She isn’t forever pining after fripperies like other young ladies.”

Bennett wished he’d thought to bring her some small trifle this evening, flowers or a fan or some such. They were supposed to be courting, after all. “Perhaps I will have to find something to inspire her more worldly desires.”

Mari’s sharp intake of breath pressed her breast against his arm. The implications of what he’d said hit him and he cleared his throat, and he looked down expecting to see reproach.

Instead, she grinned, a teasing glint returning to her eye.

His embarrassment melted away, and he found himself grinning wolfishly back. What he suddenly wanted—no, needed—to know was whether she was playing her role or something more. He allowed some of the heat she inspired into his expression, and she flushed.

But what the hell did that tell him?

Her father remained blissfully inattentive to the whole exchange.

They walked to the coach the ambassador had lent him for the night. The groom assisted Mari inside. Her father settled on the bench across from her, leaving the seat next to her available. Bennett climbed in and sat with his thigh pressing flush against hers. “I apologize for crowding you, space is a bit tight.”

Her eyebrow rose as she glanced at the spare inches on his other side. “Think nothing of it.”

Mari smoothed her dress where it wrinkled between their two bodies, the back of her hand caressing his leg from hip to knee.

He felt more than heard her muffled laugh. The minx. But he suddenly found himself lighthearted for the first time since he’d forced her cooperation yesterday. Perhaps she didn’t hate him completely. And even though he shouldn’t care, he found he did—immensely.

She leaned close, her words whispered on a breath. “I’m working on those worldly desires.”

“No more work is required.”

Her father straightened. “Oh, but you must allow Mari to continue her work. She is quite the skilled naturalist.”

Only years of training allowed Bennett to keep his face expressionless. It didn’t help that Mari twitched with repressed laughter next to him. “I simply meant she wouldn’t be required to work. I can more than support a wife.”

Sir Reginald eyed them with suspicion, as if he’d finally realized he might have missed some of the undertones. “You plan to stay in the army then?”

“For the short term, at least.” A safe enough answer. “I have a small estate as well.”

“Do you miss it?” Mari asked.

Bennett hesitated. After Napoleon had been captured the first time, he’d fully intended to sell out. Eleven years was a long time to be away, and he’d been ordered to do things he yearned to forget. On the battlefield, he’d longed for when he could do nothing more than sit in his study and write poetry, but when he’d finally returned home, the poetry would not come. He’d fueled countless fires with his lamentable attempts. The news that Napoleon had escaped Elba had almost come as a relief. Yet now that the dirt from the endless graves at Waterloo had blackened his soul, he no longer knew. “It is my home.”

Mari’s face grew pensive, and she turned to stare out the window.

The coach wheels jolted along the cobbles as they drew to a slow creep in the crush of carriages near the ambassador’s residence. Sir Reginald sighed. “I do miss that old isle.”

“Do you think you will return?” If he could convince them to return to England, Mari would be away from the intrigue. And safe.

“Alas, my work keeps bringing me back here.”

Bennett brushed Mari’s arm with his knuckle. “And you? Would you like to go back?”

Mari drew away, pressing against the wall of the coach. “Never.”

They stopped outside the ambassador’s residence. Bennett helped Mari from the coach and then her father.

The ambassador greeted them inside the door. “Prestwood. Sir Reginald. Miss Sinclair.” He bowed slightly. “I am pleased you could join us.”

Sir Reginald grinned and pounded the younger man on the back. “I wouldn’t have missed it, Daller. Ah, there is Titolo. I must ask him how his translations are progressing. Fascinating topic. I trust you know all about it.”

“Er—”

“Don’t worry. I shall fill you in later.”

To his credit as a diplomat, Daller managed to hide most of his dread behind his smile. “I look forward to it.”

Sir Reginald strode off without a backward glance.

Daller turned to Mari. His eyes widened slightly as he surveyed her. “You look radiant tonight.”

Mari’s fingers tightened on Bennett’s sleeve. “I believe you might actually be sincere this time.”

Daller glanced at Bennett, then chuckled. “Ah, my dear Miss Sinclair, in spite of my broken heart, I have always held you in the highest regard.”

Mari simply raised her eyebrow in response.

When she made no move to continue the conversation, Daller cleared his throat and smiled at Bennett. “I had hoped our cousins, the Saunder twins, would attend tonight, but they were delayed in Venice for a few weeks.”

Bennett hoped his grunt sounded suitably disappointed. The conversation in the ballroom would be exponentially more intelligent for their absence.

Daller rubbed his hands together. “Well, I shan’t keep you. The ballroom has been holding its breath, awaiting your appearance.”

Bennett nearly groaned, but he’d learned something of manners. “I look forward to it.” He led Mari toward the ballroom, feeling like a man mounting the steps to the gallows.

“Shall I guess the gender of the half holding their breath?” Mari whispered. She pressed her lip in a firm line, but the corners quivered.

Bennett’s dread dissipated. “Jealous?”

She tossed her hair. “Only if you’ve been ordered to court one of them as well.”

I
f only she’d thought to bring a fan. Mari grimaced. She could have used it to jab away the encroaching harpies that clawed their way toward Bennett. She’d been right about who awaited him inside. Fresh blood was fairly rare in Constantinople, a well-connected bachelor even rarer, but Bennett’s pure physical appeal added to that list made him irresistible.

Yet Bennett could only talk to so many at a time, and eventually, some of them were forced to speak to her so they could have an excuse to linger. Their none-too-subtle interrogations set her teeth on edge. Maude Williams, to her right, had met Bennett during a dinner at the ambassador’s and volunteered herself to answer the questions Mari ignored, which was most of them. She took great glee in Mari’s ignorance that Bennett was in fact the younger son of an earl.

“The Earl of Riverton, surely you’ve heard of him.” Maude tittered and dabbed a bead of sweat from her copious bosom. “He is a well-known diplomat.” She leaned in. “The rumor is that Lord Daller became ambassador more on that connection than his own merit. Oh—” A small space had opened closer to Bennett and the woman swooped in to fill it.

Bennett handled the women with finesse and even charm, but his eyes didn’t crinkle at the corners like they did when he was truly entertained. The thought lightened Mari’s somber mood.

As much as she wanted nothing in common with the silly females around her, she found herself watching for an opening next to him as well.

It was all the fault of his blasted poetry.

She’d known the type of man he was—hard and intractable. The kind that would risk her life because he’d been ordered to.

The depth of emotion underpinning that façade had staggered her.

She didn’t want to feel the grit and sand of the fields of Spain. She didn’t want to feel his grief as the belongings of another dead comrade were auctioned. She didn’t want to feel the hope he’d found in the sunrise at Salamanca.

She knew the inner thoughts and feelings of the man now, and she wasn’t sure she liked the sensation.

It meant she could no longer resent him for following his orders. A man of his dedication
had
to, and she’d been forced to understand why.

A woman draped herself over Bennett’s arm, her bosoms practically spilling from her bodice. In fact, Mari was certain she could see the tops of the woman’s nipples.

Enough was enough. Mari forced her way through the crowd.

Bennett met her halfway, relief in his gaze. “The music has started. Shall we dance?”

She nodded and he led her through the throng of sighing women to the dance floor.

“Those women could’ve taught a thing or two to the French about how to press a charge.”

Mari smiled at him. She’d seen that in his writing, too, a wry humor she’d only earned hints of so far. “Not even cannon fire would have dispersed them.”

He smiled at her weak jest, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Other couples jostled against them as they formed the set. “How many people are invited to this event?”

“Several hundred. Any European in the empire with claim to gentility is invited, as are many of the local government officials.”

“Why do you come?”

She raised her eyebrow. “The women here will tell you I am pining for a match.”

“What will you tell me?” He led her through a complicated turn, his lead so skillful and steady she didn’t have to focus on her footing.