His Wicked Embrace novel Chapter 25

Lawrence leaned back against the closed door, pausing to reflect over what had just happened. He had made love to Zehra, and it had been... Lord, it had been unlike anything he'd ever felt with any woman. He had been focused solely on her pleasure, showing her how intimacy between a man and woman should be.

And yet she'd been the one to teach him things. Like how staring into her eyes as she came apart was like watching a sunset over a lake: brilliant blue water bathed in gold light. It consumed him, drowned him in its ecstasy.

She'd been so open with herself that he hadn't been able to maintain his emotional distance as he did with past lovers. Being with her, even just holding her in his arms, made him want to tell her a thousand things and to ask her just as many questions. For the first time in his life, he was fascinated by someone in a way he couldn't get enough of. That was why he dragged himself away from the bed-not for food, but to clear his head.

I cannot let myself get attached. She will leave me in less than a week, and I'll never see her again.

A weary sigh escaped him. He pushed away from the door and walked down to the taproom, where he found a barmaid and asked for the trays of food he'd requested earlier. While she fetched him dinner, he waited in the corner by the stairs. Suddenly he had that odd notion of being watched again. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he glanced about. Men and women occupied the common room, and many were gathered around the fire in the hearth. A few men glanced his way, but they were laughing and completely preoccupied.

Am I being foolish? Is it merely the shadow of my brother's threat to take Zehra away that's making me feel eyes everywhere? It was possible, but he'd never been prey to such concerns before that left him in such a state.

The maid returned at last and handed him a tray of food. The aromas that came off the plates were enticing, and he rushed back up to their room. He chanced a glance back over his shoulder at the base of the stairs, and a hint of movement made him hesitate. Had someone followed him to the foot of the stairs? He continued to stare, but no one appeared. Only then did Lawrence feel safe enough to go back into their room. He set the tray down, then locked the door behind him, just in case.

"Are you all right?" Zehra's voice made him glance toward the bed.

"Er... Yes. Sorry, come and get some food." He uncovered the plates. They had provided hot soup, mutton, fresh bread, and cheese. The simple fare would taste like a king's feast after lovemaking.

Zehra slipped out of bed, her shapely legs a tempting vision as she joined him in the chair by the small table, using a blanket as a shawl.

"I am famished," she admitted shyly.

Lawrence handed her a plate. As they began to eat, he gave in to his curiosity.

"Tell me, what was your home like? I must admit I have never seen any place outside of England."

"We lived in a village outside of Shiraz. My mother was visiting the country with her parents when she met my father. He was a prince, a shah in the Fars province. They were negotiating trade deals with a number of countries, including England. My mother was taken with the beauty of the land and its people."

Zehra's eyes met his as she continued. "There is a mystery that shines in the eyes of Persians, an ancient calling to come close, to learn of the past. My mother said that called to her. She came to love Persia almost as much she loved my father."

"Is it truly a desert, where you lived?" Lawrence couldn't picture this beautiful woman living in a hard, hot land of sand.

"Some of it is, but not my home. Shiraz is a green land at the foot of the Zagros Mountains, an oasis from the harsh but beautiful desert."

Lawrence leaned closer, bewitched by her. She spoke of home. "Green? You had gardens?"

Zehra nodded. "We have some of the most beautiful gardens in the world. And the roses... I miss the roses."

"Roses? England is quite famous for its roses. Did you know that we have a breed called tea roses because they smell like tea?" he pointed out with a grin.

She chuckled. "Yes, but you've never seen Persian roses. We have pink roses with crimson edges and ones as yellow as midday sunlight, even orange roses that have coral at the tips of their petals." As she spoke, her eyes were distant, and she gave a wistful smile.

"My mother would cut them from the gardens and fill vases with hundreds of them. Over the next two weeks they would slowly unfurl their petals, the colors deepening, before they finally faded. The petals would fall onto the tables, and I would collect them for my mother to make rosewater. My people believe rosewater can cure anything."

"Ah, rosewater, yes. We love that perfume here. Some ladies even bathe in it." Many of his past mistresses had insisted on rosewater for their baths.

Zehra took a sip of her wine and looked to him with bright eyes. "I wish you could have seen the festivals we had for rosewater."