Scoundrel's Honor (19 page)

“Rajih,” she breathed, not needing to turn her head to recognize his scent.

“Does my touch please you?” he murmured softly.

“You should not—”

“Shh.” He spoke directly into her ear, his fingers lingering on the rigid muscles at the base of her spine. “Allow me to ease your tension.”

“I thought men were forbidden to enter the women's quarters unless they were…”

He chuckled as she stumbled over the word. “Eunuchs?”

“Yes.”

“But I am not just a man,” he said, his innate arrogance threaded through his dark voice. “I am caliph. I go where
I please. And it pleases me very much to be here with you.”

She shivered, knowing she should send him away. “I will not become your concubine.”

“Perhaps you should wait until you are asked to fill such a position, Emma.”

“But you…”

Baffled by his reprimand, Emma shifted so she could glance over her shoulder, her words faltering at the teasing smile that curved his lips.

Rajih was always handsome, but with his robes loosened to reveal a glimpse of his golden chest and his carved features softened, he was near irresistible.

“I am offered the finest beauties to be found throughout the world,” he reminded her, his slender fingers wielding their magic as they moved up her back. “Women with hair of fire or as dark and glossy as a raven's wing. Women who have been trained in the fine arts of pleasing a man or those who have been sequestered since they were babes to ensure their purity.”

Despite the mocking shimmer in his eyes, Emma knew he was not boasting. He was a prince among his people, not to mention extraordinarily attractive, and she was quite certain any woman would consider it an honor to capture his attention. And, of course, in this part of the world, it would be very likely that the various sheiks and clan chiefs would offer the most beautiful of their women for his pleasure.

She smiled, astonishingly indifferent to her shameless lack of clothing and his brazen touch as she followed his lead.

“Some of them princesses, no doubt.”

“Certainly.”

“Hmm.” Her gaze swept around the shadowed alcove. “And yet your harems remain empty.”

Without giving her time to anticipate his intent, he bent down to brush his lips along the line of her shoulder.

“As you know, I have been away from my home for several weeks.”

Her hands clenched the pillows, her body reacting to his skillful touch despite her reluctant heart.

“And your females managed to escape during your absence? How unfortunate.”

He nibbled a path to her neck. “Do not fear, I have only to reveal my interest in seeking companionship to have the seraglio filled with graceful females, all eager to please their master.”

She made a sound of disgust even as her body threatened to melt beneath his warm caresses.

“Master?”

He nipped the lobe of her ear, the heady scents of incense and precious oils making it difficult to think clearly.

“But of course. At heart I am still a savage.”

“Then it is convenient I am not destined to be a member of your harem. No man shall ever be my master.”

The moment her brave words echoed through the still air, Emma knew she had made a mistake. Rajih sucked in a sharp breath, his hands sliding into her damp curls and arching her neck so his lips could create havoc along the line of her throat.

“You challenge me to prove you wrong,
habiba,
” he husked.

“I—” A burst of heat exploded in the pit of her stomach as he reached the sensitive spot at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “Oh. That is not fair.”

His laughter feathered over her skin. “Are there rules to our game?”

“You think this is a game?”

“A most delightful diversion.”

Her toes curled as she struggled to think clearly. “Am I the prize to be won?”

“If you prefer, I am willing to be your reward,” he chivalrously offered, shifting until his hard arousal pressed against her thigh. “Tell me what you desire.”

Belatedly realizing that matters had progressed beyond what was comfortable, Emma stiffened.

“Rajih…”

She was not certain what she intended to say, but in the end it did not matter as there was the rustle of robes and a veiled servant was suddenly kneeling in the doorway of the alcove.

“Master,” the woman murmured.

Swearing at the intrusion, Rajih wrapped Emma in the towel and shifted to block her from the view of the servant.

“I requested that we not be interrupted.”

“Forgive me, Caliph, but your steward insisted you would wish to speak with Girard Bey.” Her head was pressed to the tile floor. “He has information that is of interest to you.”

For a moment Emma could feel the tension coiling through Rajih as he battled with the urge to send the servant away and his obvious curiosity about his unexpected guest.

At last he thrust his fingers through the dark satin of his hair and accepted the inevitable.

“Offer him coffee and assure him I will join him shortly,” he commanded.

“Yes, Caliph.”

In silence, the servant rose and vanished from the alcove. Rajih turned to offer Emma a tight smile, his eyes smoldering with a frustrated desire.

“Forgive me.” He rose to his feet in an elegant motion,
straightened his robes. “I fear our entertainment will have to be postponed until later.”

“Wait.” Clutching the towel about her body, Emma rose and grasped his arm. “Please.”

He covered her hand with his own, his eyes smoldering with promise.

“So eager, Emma? I promise not to keep you waiting for long.”

She ignored his sensuous words, her thoughts returning to Anya.

“Does this man have information concerning my sister?”

His lips twisted, as if chagrined by her response, but his voice was gentle.

“No, Emma. Girard Bey is very much a gentleman of the city. I must depend upon those who consider the desert their home to locate the missing caravan.” He lifted her hand to his lips before heading out of the alcove. “Return to the baths. I will join you as soon as I am able.”

Emma forced herself to count to one hundred before she scurried to her private chambers and hurriedly pulled on the loose satin robes in rich blue and trimmed in gold that had been left on the low bed. It was odd to feel the cool satin brush her bare skin with no undergarments to act as a barrier, but she was in too great a hurry to consider modesty.

With quick steps she moved through the harem, ignoring the guards who stood at the doors and the numerous servants who gawked as she headed toward the formal quarters of the house. She was not certain whether or not females were allowed beyond the seraglio, but she was determined to follow Rajih.

It was not that she suspected he would deliberately lie to her, she assured herself. But she sensed he would be quite willing to hide information. Even if it concerned Anya.

It was the sound of voices that led her toward the large saloon on the opposite side of the house. Halting at a side door, she peered into the room, absently admiring the mosaic on the floor and the soaring ceiling that was painted with a lovely scene of a desert oasis. The low divans were crimson velvet with gold satin pillows and the high windows were shuttered against the sun, leaving the area bathed in welcome shadows. On one divan a middle-aged gentleman in a pale green, European-cut jacket and black breeches was settled, his thin face and small eyes reminding Emma of a rodent.

“Caliph,” he was saying, his thick French accent revealing his heritage. “Forgive my intrusion.”

Emma pressed against the door frame as Rajih appeared through an archway, a silver tray in his hands. A faint smile touched her lips. While the Frenchman was obviously dressed in the latest fashion, and possessed the air of a well-pampered nobleman, he was easily overshadowed by Rajih who was wearing what many men would consider little more than a dress and carrying a tray as if he were a common maid.

There was something harshly masculine about the Caliph that would cast any other man in the shade.

Well, any man but Dimitri Tipova.

She scrubbed the treacherous thought from her mind as she watched Rajih set the tray on a low table in front of the divan.

“My doors are always open to you, my friend,” he said, reaching for the crystal decanter. “Sherry?”

The stranger leaned forward to grasp a small glass, and then—to Emma's shock—tucked a tidy pile of francs into the inner pocket of his jacket.

“You know my weaknesses too well,” he said with an oily smile.

Rajih shrugged, seemingly accustomed to offering money along with his sherry.

“Pleasures are not weaknesses and it is my honor to ensure your stay in my country is one of comfort.”

The man sipped his sherry. “So kind.”

“I presume that you have information for me?” Rajih prompted.

“Oui.”
He set aside the empty glass. “You requested that I send you notice if I learned of any Russians arriving in Cairo.”

“And?” Rajih demanded.

“I have reason to believe the Russian ambassador has just welcomed a small party into his home.”

Emma frowned. Was it possible that the Russian ambassador was involved in the slave trade? And if he was, could he truly be so shameless as to have the girls brought to his home?

It seemed a needless risk when the pasha was so adamantly opposed to the barbaric practice.

“Do you have a name?” Rajih asked.

“Dimitri Tipova,” the Frenchman said, unaware as Emma pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle her shocked cry of disbelief. “So far as I can determine he has no title, but it seems as if he is being offered a gracious welcome so he must be a favorite of the Romanovs. Is that the man you seek?”

Rajih dipped his head, his expression resigned rather than astonished. Almost as if he had been expecting Dimitri to travel to Cairo.

“It is.”

The Frenchman grimaced. “It will not be an easy matter to have him removed from Cairo if he is under the protection of the ambassador.”

“Do not trouble yourself, Girard,” Rajih smoothly assured him. “I will deal with Dimitri Tipova.”

D
IMITRI WAS WELL AWARE
that his ability to blend into any surrounding was his greatest talent.

He could move as easily through the gutters of Moscow as across the glittering ballroom of the Winter Palace. And with the proper clothing, no one would suspect he was an imposter.

Such a skill had allowed him to rise from a lowly pick-pocket to the Beggar Czar.

Now, however, he felt distinctly disturbed.

It was not the Turkish robes he had donned in favor of his tailored clothing, or the small boys who stood at his side waving palm leaves in an effort to stir the stifling heat that filled the low brick house with its arched entryways and tiled floors. He had traveled through the near Orient on several occasions and had become accustomed to their traditions.

No, his unease was caused entirely by the fat gentleman sprawled on the low divan across from him.

Dimitri wasn't privy to Alexander Pavlovich's reason for offering Baron Koman the position of Ambassador to Egypt, but he suspected the czar had been anxious to rid himself of the vile man's presence. Why else would he send him to the most distant post possible, regardless of the fact he was utterly incompetent?

Dressed in loose robes and puffing on a water pipe, the rotund Russian lounged on his cushions, waiting for the pretty maid to refill his plate. His blond hair was thinning
and his heavy features already red and swollen from his years of dissipation.

He reminded Dimitri of the decaying ruins outside of Cairo that were being swept away by the desert sands. He could only wish the same fate for Baron Koman.

Oblivious to Dimitri's seething dislike, Koman waved his full plate in Dimitri's direction.

“Oxtail?”

“Thank you, no.” Dimitri hid a shudder as he rose from the divan and paced toward the fountain in the center of the floor. The heat and smoke from Koman's pipe were making his stomach churn. “I prefer to avoid a heavy meal so early in the day.”

“Which accounts for your fine figure while mine…” The Baron laughed. “Well, it sadly reveals my love for my fine chef and my distinct distaste for bestirring myself. I blame the damnable heat. Only a savage would be foolish enough to dash about when a sensible man would seek the shade.”

“The natives would probably be equally shocked to witness us tunneling a path through the snow.”

“True enough, my boy.” The baron licked his fingers, eyeing Dimitri with a curious gaze. So far as he knew, Dimitri was a favored friend of Alexander Pavlovich, as well as of the Duke of Huntley, who had come in search of Russian girls being sold in the slave trade. There was no need to explain that he was also a hardened criminal who was under threat of death in a number of countries…although not Egypt. At least not yet. “And there are benefits to living in a place that is not entirely civilized,” Koman continued, a lecherous gleam in his eyes. “When you have finished your meal, we will travel to the bath where a man may find whatever pleasure he might desire.”

Having visited a number of baths in Cairo, Dimitri was unfortunately aware of what pleasures were offered.

“An enticing invitation, but I am anxious to speak with the caliph.”

“My dear Tipova, as I warned you last eve, a man cannot simply demand an audience with the caliph,” the baron protested. “There is very rigid protocol that must be followed.”

Not for the first time, Dimitri regretted his decision to call upon the ambassador. On the journey to Egypt it had seemed a reasonable decision to seek out the baron and request his hospitality for the duration of his stay. Huntley had warned Dimitri that rampaging like a madman through Cairo in search of Emma would not only make enemies of the locals, but would embarrass the woman he had come to claim.

Now he accepted that he had sadly miscalculated. The fat buffoon was never going to stir himself. Besides, Dimitri was in no mood for diplomacy. The need to find Emma was like a savage fire burning in his gut. He did not care if he had to sift the damnable country sand grain by sand grain to find her.

“I have a letter of introduction from the Duke of Huntley,” he growled. “What more could I need?”

“Who is to say with these heathens? Best for me to approach the caliph when the timing is appropriate.” The baron's tone was patronizing. “Until then I promise to keep you suitably entertained. You mentioned an interest in the local brothels? I know of a female who can dance the—”

“My only interest lies in finding the Russian girls who were stolen from St. Petersburg,” he interrupted.

Koman heaved a deep sigh as he struggled to lift his considerable bulk off the divan.

“I would expect such a tedious lack of appreciation for the exotic pleasures from Alexander Pavlovich,” the older man mourned. “But I had expected better from you, Tipova.”

Dimitri smiled wryly. “It seems I am destined to be a disappointment to all I encounter. Have you heard rumors of Russian girls being sold in the markets?”

With a flick of his hand, Koman sent his servants scurrying from the room, leaving them alone to speak in privacy.

“In truth, Muhammad Ali Pasha's disapproval of the slave trade has made the traffickers meticulously cautious. The females are no longer paraded through the bazaar for a gentleman to purchase.” The baron pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of his robes, his gaze sliding uneasily away from Dimitri's. “You must receive an invitation to the private auctions.”

Dimitri tensed. The bastard. It was obvious the man was intimately familiar with the slavers and their delicate wares.

“I am certain a gentleman of your standing could swiftly procure the necessary invitation,” he said.

“Undoubtedly, but it would be such a bother. Far better to allow the officials to tend to such affairs.” With a forced smile, the baron backed toward the entryway. “Ah. If you will excuse me?”

“Of course.”

Dimitri made no effort to halt the idiot as he scurried out of the room.

Why bother? The baron was a worthless idiot who Dimitri was embarrassed to claim as a fellow Russian. But there had to be at least one person in the house who could be of use.

With that thought in mind, Dimitri left the smoke-filled room and dredged up memories of the brief tour he had taken of the house last eve. There was a separate counsel building near the pasha's citadel, but Dimitri recalled Koman waving a dismissive hand toward an office before leading him to his private quarters.

Passing the stairs that led to the upper rooms, Dimitri turned down a short hall and entered the large chamber that held a traditional desk and chair. Tall shelves lined with leather-bound books consumed the walls and a Persian carpet covered the floor. The double doors leading to the inner courtyard had been left open and Dimitri sucked in a deep breath of the fresh air. Although his profession meant he spent many nights in dark gambling houses filled with smoke and sin and lust, he found it increasingly unpleasant to mingle among the desperate souls.

Yet another warning he was growing old, he wryly accepted.

Stepping over the threshold, Dimitri halted as a thin gentleman with a thick mane of brown hair, dressed in a modest gray jacket and black waistcoat, rose to his feet. At first glance he appeared a somber man with unremarkable features and retiring demeanor. But Dimitri was accustomed to seeking the worth of a man beyond his outward appearance.

He, better than anyone, understood that a man could create any guise he desired.

“Stanislav, is it not?” he asked. “Baron Koman's secretary?”

Stepping around the desk, the man offered a deep bow, his brown eyes filled with a shrewd intelligence.

“Yes, my lord?”

Dimitri waved a dismissive hand. “Please call me Tipova, I am no gentleman.”

“May I be of assistance?”

“That is my hope.” Dimitri folded his arms over his chest. Stanislav was young, but there was an air of tidy efficiency about the office otherwise absent throughout the rest of the house. “There must be one person on the baron's staff who possesses the skill and ambition to ensure that Alexander Pavlovich is unaware that his Egyptian ambassador
is a fat, lazy letch with no interest beyond his enormous appetites. I am betting that person is you.”

The man paled, his gaze darting toward the door. “Sir—”

“Any deception came to an end the moment I stepped over the threshold,” he warned his companion. “Now it is your decision whether my recommendation to Alexander Pavlovich includes the removal of the entire household or merely the baron.”

Stanislav froze, his expression revealing his flurry of emotions—suspicion that Dimitri was attempting to lure him into a trap; fear that he might be tarnished with his employer's incompetency; and a burgeoning hope that his secretly nourished ambitions might at last be fulfilled.

It was the hope that at last triumphed, and with a small gesture, the secretary headed toward the private chamber attached to the office.

“If you will follow me?”

“You are a gentleman destined for a fine career,” Dimitri murmured.

“I can only hope I survive to reap my just rewards.” Once they were in the small chamber that held nothing more than a narrow bed and wooden armoire, Stanislav closed the door and turned to face Dimitri. “What do you desire of me?”

“You know why I am in Egypt?”

“I heard rumors that you seek a female who was taken from St. Petersburg by slavers and that you believe she was brought to the streets of Cairo.”

Dimitri nodded in approval at the concise response. “What do you know of the woman?”

The man folded his hands behind his back, his expression clouding as he considered the question.

“There have been several Russian females sold in the slave markets over the past years.” He shook his head.
“Unfortunately, the poor creatures are so broken by the time I can find them that they dare not speak of the men who have abused them. A pity. I can think of nothing I would enjoy more than having the animals drawn and quartered.”

Dimitri smiled. “Do not fear, Stanislav, soon enough those men responsible for the theft of the girls will be brought to justice. If not by Alexander Pavlovich's hand, then by my own.”

The young man arched a brow at the cold, lethal intent that was threaded through Dimitri's voice.

“I have heard that angering Dimitri Tipova is more dangerous than crossing paths with a wolf. Now I realize the rumors did not exaggerate.”

He gave a sharp laugh. Certainly he had cast himself in the role of a dangerous wolf, stalking his prey with patient cunning. Only Emma had made him realize that he had been little better than those he hunted, willingly sacrificing young girls to sate his personal lust for revenge.

“A pity the rumors did not also claim I was man of intelligence.”

The secretary frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Before I could detain those responsible they fled to England with several Russian girls.”

“Ah.” If Stanislav sensed that Dimitri was not being entirely forthcoming, he was wise enough to keep such thoughts to himself. “And you believe they were traveling to Cairo?”

“Yes. Can you discover if they have arrived?”

“Do you have the name of the slavers?”

“Valik.”

“Russian.” The secretary nodded, his absent expression revealing he was already considering the best means of acquiring the information Dimitri demanded. “That should narrow my inquiries. I will begin immediately.”

“Stanislav?” Dimitri called as the man opened the door and prepared to leave the room.

“Yes?”

“I prefer discretion, but do whatever necessary to locate the girls.”

“If they are in Cairo, they will be found, that I can assure you,” the younger man promised without hesitation.

Dimitri smiled. “Czar Alexander is fortunate in his choice of diplomats.”

 

D
IMITRI WAITED UNTIL THE
sun was setting before he made his way on foot through the crowded streets of Cairo to Caliph Rajih's palace.

With his dark coloring and traditional robes, he easily blended with the natives, capable of moving through the pedestrians without attracting attention. Not that his robes made him invisible. Unfortunate, since he had not had the need to sneak past guards since he was a lad.

Trusting his youthful skills, he slid along the high wall surrounding the palace, using the shadows to conceal his presence from the numerous guards. Then, reaching the back mews, he climbed over the wooden gate and dropped onto the cobbled yard near the stables.

A wry smile touched his lips as he realized he had managed to knock over a small marble statue, a mistake he would never have made as a lad, but at least he hadn't broken his fool neck. And for the moment, he hadn't alerted the entire household to his intrusion.

Aware his luck could change at any moment, he made his way to the gardens. His visits to Cairo taught him the women's quarters would be placed at the back of the house and surrounded by yet another wall. Egyptian men were fiercely protective of their females.

Actually, he had always considered them well beyond
protective. They were insanely obsessed with keeping their wives secluded.

He was dedicated to keeping women safeguarded, but why would a man desire a harem? The various females who drifted in and out of his life were enjoyable enough, but he had never felt compelled to lock them in his home. He had enough duties without adding a large number of wives he would have to tend to for the rest of their lives.

No, he had no urge to keep a female as his prisoner.

Not unless that female was Emma Linley-Kirov, a treacherous voice whispered in the back of his mind.

Clenching his teeth, Dimitri crushed the fury that threatened to overwhelm him.

From what he could discover Emma had gone willingly with the caliph aboard his ship. In fact, the dockhands they had questioned in London had been adamant in their assurance that the female in Rajih's company had not only been a willing companion, but had frequently urged him to hurry.