Delectably Undone! (20 page)

“For years, we have followed you with unwavering loyalty,” said Takeshi, boldly stepping toward Miku’s uncle.

The time had come for him to act, and he was ready. He had always been ready, he realized. It had just taken the fiery temper, gentle touch and courageous spirit of his Master’s niece to finally unleash the maverick that had always lurked within his warrior’s heart.

“And for years,” continued Takeshi, brandishing his weapon, “we have honored our vow to serve you. Yet for years, you have repressed our families and starved our people. You have abused your responsibility toward everyone under your authority.” He paused, and Miku’s heart leapt to her throat at his next words, spoken in a low growl. “Even those within your own household.”

A snarl rumbled through the tightly packed room as dozens of samurai nodded and shifted their weight, as if ready to attack. Takeshi put up a hand, and the murmuring ceased.

“We understand the meaning of loyalty, of honor, of respect. It is you who have no concept of anything more than power and greed and petty lusts. And so it is you who will leave. I will no longer allow you to ravage this land and its people, taking what you want and leaving the peasants to starve. We will no longer permit such injustice,” he said, an arm sweeping toward his fellow soldiers. “Rather than bleed the peasants any further, these brave men can swear a fresh allegiance. One to honesty and justice and compassion. One to me as their new leader.”

“I thought you were just a peasant,” whined Orochi, who now lay in a quivering pile of robes at Takeshi’s feet. “You should be killed for this treasonous act.”

“I am no peasant,” said Takeshi, “and my actions are not treasonous to the villagers who truly deserve my protection.”

“I should not have permitted you to leave my niece’s room alive,” said Miku’s uncle, ignoring the look of confusion that pinched Orochi’s face. “Yet as for my niece…”

Takeshi took another threatening step toward his former Master, raising his sword to the man’s quivering jowls. “To hear you speak of Miku boils my blood,” he bit out, then paused. “But, nonetheless, she must choose her own destiny.”

“So you will permit her to leave with me, her beloved uncle?” he simpered. “I need someone to care for me in my aging years, after all.”

“I will go nowhere,” said Miku, rising from the cushion on which she knelt and moving quickly to Takeshi, her head high and resolve firm. “I belong here, with the man I love.”

She stopped before him, looking deeply into his eyes. His desire for her had always been clear, but in his face, she also saw strength tempered with gentleness, passion made complete with love. She now knew he was a man who loved her with all of his being, and whom she loved in return.

“Your niece stays,” said Takeshi, putting a protective arm around Miku. “But you will leave at once. My men will escort you on your journey to the capital, where perhaps your would-be nephew-in-law will see fit to put you up in his home and fund your extravagances. For the people of this land no longer will.”

Miku’s uncle and Orochi, along with the cowardly soldiers who had arrested Takeshi, were dragged from the room by several samurai. Miku turned in Takeshi’s arms to face him. “Will the Emperor send troops once word of your insurrection reaches the capital?”

“Perhaps, but I believe the Emperor will be happy as long as adequate taxes continue to flow to his coffers. And that can be done without bleeding the peasants, so long as we samurai and nobility are willing to live more modestly henceforth. My warrior brethren will be in agreement that this shall be so.”

“As am I,” she said eagerly, her facing shining with adoration and respect. Then, looking deep into his eyes, she whispered, “You have saved the people of this village, and you have saved me.”

“If that snake Orochi had laid a finger on you…” His voice trailed off, full of barely controlled rage.

Miku reached up and turned his face toward hers again. “No hands have touched me but yours. And I desire for no other hands but yours again.”

Takeshi lifted her into his arms then, and moving through the crowd of milling samurai like a sword parting the mist, he carried her toward her quarters.

“Can it be true that you love me, a mere soldier?” he asked, his voice husky and low as he made his way down the sun-kissed open corridor between the houses.

“You may not come from noble blood,” she said, her head resting against his strong chest as he entered her chambers, “but you have nobleness of spirit. How could I not love a man of such conviction and courage?”

“But I cannot read the poetry you write,” he said, looking past her to the writing desk, “and poetry is who you are. It is your soul.”

She ran a soft finger across his beard, and he looked into her eyes again, an expectant hope softening the hard planes of his face and making her heart ache with tenderness for him. “I will teach you to read,” she whispered, “and until then, we will create a different poetry together.”

They gazed into each other’s eyes for a long moment before he kissed her forehead tenderly and murmured the words she had just read so perfectly in his clear gaze: “I love you, my poetess.”

“And I love you.”

Takeshi moved through Miku’s bedchamber, its silken walls a glowing cocoon in the midmorning sun. Gently seating her upright on the sleeping couch, he knelt before the woman he adored. This free-spirited poetess with a gentle heart and fierce courage. The one person who had finally broken through the hardened defenses of his heart. The woman who had already inspired him to acts of greater goodness and bravery that he could have done before knowing her.

Cupping her face tenderly in his bow-calloused hands, Takeshi pressed his lips to Miku’s eager mouth. As her tongue traced the curve of his lips, she ran her fingers through his hair, loosening the formal samurai knot and allowing it to fall to his shoulders in a thick black mane. The warrior who knelt before her was all hard muscle and barely restrained strength, yet his touch remained tender, the gentle embrace of a lover.

Coaxed by his tantalizing kiss and the memory of his more intimate caresses, Miku’s body responded with the first throbs of a deeper need. She arched her back and, wrapping her legs around his chiseled waist, pressed herself to his kneeling form. His grip around her waist tightened and his kiss deepened, his tongue piercing her mouth and tasting her fully.

She writhed against his hard, muscled abdomen as sparks of pleasure began to ignite between her open legs. With each roll of her hips, she recognized with growing delight her own ability to control that incomparable pleasure Takeshi had earlier released with his fingertips…and mouth.

At the memory of his hungry tongue against her wet core, she shuddered with anticipation and leaned back to open herself fully to her willing warrior. Unable to contain his own desire as he witnessed the unfettered abandon with which Miku used his body for her pleasure, Takeshi slid his hands down her back and lifted her buttocks to his mouth. As her shoulders pressed into the soft cushions of the couch, Miku moaned with expectancy.

With an unconstrained hunger, he licked at her wetness, his tongue sliding across her soft flesh to probe deep within her before emerging again to flick repeatedly cross her point of greatest pleasure. She cried out in ecstasy, overcome by the complete control with which Takeshi mastered her desire. Though her lover, he was still a samurai, and she couldn’t deny the intensely arousing realization that, although he cherished her deeply, he could still do with her what he wished.

He gripped her more tightly in response to her sighs of pleasure, his tongue relentlessly flicking across her heated flesh as she writhed against his mouth. She was his completely now, with no one waiting to force her into the arms of another. The certainty that he could enjoy her for the rest of his life filled him with a fiercer desire than he had ever known. Not even on the battlefield, when he had parried an opponent’s sword and faced down an enemy’s bow, had his blood rushed so hot and his vision seemed so sharply focused. All he could see now was Miku, and all he wanted was to please her—and possess her—forever.

With a deliberate motion, he lowered her waist back onto the couch, her legs still lifted in his grasp. Without waiting, Takeshi thrust into her, taking her fully in one swift motion. She gasped as he filled her, then cried out as he pressed into her again and again, every hard thrust penetrating deeper than she had yet imagined possible. He was possessing her, overwhelming her…yet making her pleasure his supreme focus.

Though initially overcome by her samurai’s unbridled passion, Miku quickly responded with an equally fiery desire of her own. Her cries of surprise turned to moans of utter abandon as she gave herself fully to his carnal onslaught, each thrust penetrating deep within the slick wetness of her aching arousal. She gripped the sides of the sleeping couch with trembling hands and arched up toward Takeshi, seeking to take his full length with each pounding stroke.

Yet in giving herself over to him completely, Miku realized she was in fact achieving her greatest power. Choosing to accept his undying love, and to give hers in return, strengthened her in a way she could never achieve alone. To love and be loved was stronger than his sword and more beautiful than her poetry.

In that moment of comprehension, Miku’s body shuddered over the edge of control. Undulating waves of pleasure exploded from between her legs as she tightened around Takeshi’s shaft. He answered her cries of pleasure with his own deep moan, stiffening within her as liquid heat filled her inner core and spilled down her still-lifted buttocks. Then he collapsed onto her, all his furious need replaced in an instant with tender kisses and gentle words of love.

They lay in each others arms, their bodies and hearts entwined, the frantic ecstasy of their shared passion ebbing as a sated joy washed over them. Sighing with contentment, Miku traced a finger languidly across the bronze skin of Takeshi’s taut chest, no longer hidden from her by plated armor.

“That tickles.” He grinned, capturing her hand in his and kissing her fingertips.

She paused, then smiled. “It is calligraphy.”

“What were you writing?” he asked.

Her heart fluttered as she gazed into the inky darkness of his eyes, so full of love for her. “Your name,” she admitted. “Takeshi. It means
warrior
.”

“Yes,” he said. “And yet, in finding you, I have begun to discover that there is more to who I am.”

“You are a leader, and a poet, and my lover, too,” Miku said proudly. “Yet you will always be a warrior. And I love you for that strength.”

Takeshi looked into Miku’s face, radiating confidence in him. “And I love you,” he said, kissing her again.

After a moment he paused to speak once more, his voice low and full of emotion. “Your uncle expected there to be a wedding here today. We will send news to him in Heian-kyo that the nuptials have been consummated after all.”

“If that is your will, so be it,” Miku said, tenderness coloring her cheeks as she gazed into the dark eyes of the man who would henceforth be her husband. “For you are now Master of this manor.”

Nuzzling her long, dark hair, he whispered, “And you will be mistress of my heart forever.”

ARABIAN NIGHTS WITH A RAKE

Bronwyn Scott

Author Note

Alex and Susannah’s story was so much fun to write! Alex is a rugged intellectual, which gives him a very sexy edge. He seems the perfect comrade for Crispin Ramsden. The idea to set the story in the desert sprang from a remark Crispin makes in his story,
Untamed Rogue, Scandalous Mistress,
about how he acquired his horse. I thought it would be intriguing to use an Undone to explore where Crispin has been during his three-year absence from England. This adventure in the desert seemed ideal.

I hope you enjoy the backdrop for the story. Many of my readers are like me and love to learn something from the books they read. For those folks, here’s a great chance to learn about desert life; the
moussems,
the
souk,
the relationship between camels and horses, are all as authentic as I could make them. For history lovers, I based Alex and Crispin’s foray into the desert specifically around the events happening after the French take over Algiers. Abd al-Qadir was a real historical figure and was considered a great hero in Algerian history for his rebellion against the French, which was indeed staged from Mascara.

Enjoy, and keep reading!

Drop by and say hi on my blog
www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com.

To all those readers who have taken the time to write and
share their enjoyment of the Ramsden brothers over the
last two years. And to the fabulous team at Harlequin
Mills & Boon whose guidance makes each book shine
from the gorgeous covers to what’s inside.

And always for my family.

Look for Bronwyn Scott’s

The Secret Life of a Scandalous Debutante

Coming soon from Harlequin
^®
Historical

Chapter One

Northern Desert of Algeria, May, 1833

A
lex Grayfield unwrapped the long lengths of his turban and breathed a deep lungful of night air, expelling it with a long “Ahhh.” On the nearing horizon, the flickering of torch lights illuminated a massive array of tents, a Bedouin village rising from the sands. The faint sounds of music and laughter beckoned welcomingly across the distance. He took another deep breath and closed his eyes in satisfaction. Beside him, Crispin Ramsden’s horse shifted on the sands.

“Do you smell what I smell?” Alex exhaled almost reverently. God, he loved the desert. Out here, he was free.

“Trouble?” Crispin gave a low chuckle.

“Women.”

“Is there a difference?”

They laughed together in the rising darkness, spurring their horses forward, both of them eager to arrive at the encampment now that the journey was nearly done. Algiers, with its narrow streets and smells of fish and coffee, was two days behind them, the edge of the desert before them.

“You can’t really smell them at this distance,” Crispin challenged good-naturedly, pulling his horse alongside.

“Can’t you?” Alex couldn’t resist the gibe. He smiled. “I can smell incense and wine, meat roasting in its own juices on a spit. Only women can conjure such delicious smells.”

“Where there’s a woman, there’s danger,” Crispin warned and not without reason. Europe was littered with his bedroom intrigues.

“Well, you would know best on that score.” Alex shrugged. “There’s bound to be danger anyway, women notwithstanding.” Their journey into the desert was no pleasure trip. He and Crispin had been sent to this gathering of Bedouins to take the political temperature of the nomads.

Algiers had capitulated to the French, and Britain wanted to know if there was anything to be gained by supporting the desert rebels rallying against the French occupation. Guerrilla forces under the Emir of Mascara, Abd al Qadir, were already amassed and established after their victory. In November, the emir’s army had stopped a French advance into the desert. Buoyed by the emir’s success, would others join the fight to liberate Algiers? If so, perhaps Britain might covertly assist in an attempt to offset the growing power of French colonialism. Alex knew as well as Crispin the import of their mission. He who controlled the desert controlled North Africa.

“Do we have a connection or are we just showing up and hoping we aren’t killed on the spot?” Crispin turned the conversation toward more serious issues now that their appearance at the camp was imminent. They weren’t the first team to attempt to arrive here, although they might be the first team to arrive intact. Six months ago, Lord Sutcliffe’s entourage, including his daughter, had set out from Algiers. But they’d never arrived at their destination. The entire group was presumed most tragically dead.

“Your Arabic is fluent enough to pass,” Crispin mused, “but no one would believe I was anything other than an Englishman once I opened my mouth.”

“They might think you’re French and that would be far worse,” Alex joked.

Crispin’s French was impeccable and had been immensely useful in the circles they had penetrated in Algiers. But it was Alex’s Arabic—compliments of growing up as a British diplomat’s son in Cairo—that they’d rely on out here in the desert.

“We have an introduction to Sheikh Muhsin ibn Bitar through my father’s connections in Algiers,” Alex offered. Beyond that, it was too complicated to explain the circuitous network of friendships so common to the way of life in the Arab world.

Crispin nodded, not expecting more detail. Like Alex, Crispin had had enough experience in this part of the world to know how things worked. An introduction would be all they needed. This gathering was a happy occasion. A
moussem
like this one brought the wandering tribes together for a celebration and the exchange of news. It would be a prime opportunity to hear from many tribes at once.

Truth be told, Alex was looking forward to the
moussem.
There would be food and dancing, competitions and music. They approached the outer circle of tents and Alex smiled. If he was charming and careful, there’d be women too. Ah, life was good.

She would get one chance to escape. If she was over-careful, she’d miss her opportunity. If she was over-hasty…well those consequences were too horrific to contemplate.

Susannah Sutcliffe eased back into the tent, letting the flap fall discreetly. For six months, since her father’s death in a desert skirmish, she’d lived in the awkward limbo of the captive-slave. Muhsin ibn Bitar desired her greatly, which meant she’d not been sorely used in labor. But it also meant she owed him her gratitude. So far, she’d been able to satisfy him with entertainments and sitting at his feet during his meals.

They both knew those acts were nothing more than an extended prelude to his final seduction. He would not be put off any longer. He’d told her as much when they’d set out for the gathering. If she did not please him by the end of the
moussem
she would be given to another. That other was likely his brother-in-law, Bassam.

Susannah shuddered at the thought. Bassam was a man known for his love of diverse pleasures in the bedchamber. But neither did she prefer the company of the sheikh himself, who desired her as an earthly houri. That left only one option—taking her chances in the desert, a most dangerous option in itself. A wrong direction could lead her away from the settlements and caravan routes. It was easy to die in the desert and she would only be able to carry a few days’ worth of water at best.

Her plan was simple. She would steal a hardy desert horse or, if necessary, a camel and set out at night while everyone slept. With all the people here for the
moussem
, it would be hours before anyone noticed she or the beast were gone. There would be no margin for error.

She would stake it all on a single action. Camel or horse thievery was a grave crime among the Bedouin. She doubted if the sheikh’s desire for her would be great enough to protect her from Bedouin justice. She would live or die on the success of her plan.

Part of her argued against taking such risk. She could stay. Surely there was no shame in pleasing the sheikh. Surely, she could bear it if it meant she could live. If she lived, there might be a better opportunity later. What was it her father used to say?
Live to fight another day?
But he’d also been fond of saying
Never surrender
. She would face the desert and complete her father’s mission. When she returned to the consulate in Algiers, she’d have the information her father had been sent to seek.

A girl slipped into the tent, holding a collection of filmy fabrics in her arms. She held them out to Susannah. “The sheikh bids you attend him. I am to wait and help you with your hair.”

Susannah nodded. Her knowledge of Arabic had grown enough over the months that she understood the commands.
So the game begins,
she thought as she dressed. By English standards, the garments were scandalous, far more revealing than any good Englishwoman’s nightgown. By Bedouin standards, the outfit was sumptuous. The sheikh had spared no expense. Of course, she understood it was important to put on a display of his wealth. She just didn’t like being part of that display.

The girl combed out her hair, letting it hang long and loose behind her. A woman entered with a soft bag containing jewelry and placed a small gold circlet on top of her head and bracelets on her wrists. She should be used to the routine by now. This would not be the first night she had danced for the sheikh and his friends. The women who tended her had told her it was a great honor to dance for the sheikh, but she could not dismiss the feeling of being a slave led to market or a cow to slaughter. She’d not been raised to this life. She’d been a diplomat’s daughter raised in a proper British household. Never in her darkest dreams had she’d thought she’d end up in a Bedouin encampment, enslaved for the personal enjoyment of a desert chieftain.

The woman held aside the flap. It was time to go, time to set aside any self-pity over her plight. It was time to survive, and to do that, she needed to dance with all the abandon she possessed, to tease and withdraw, to conjure forth every male fantasy in the tent while allowing the sheikh to believe she danced only for him.