The Lady's Tutor (30 page)

“Please.” Elizabeth defiantly tilted her chin at the old woman. “I
would like to know.”

“She said that you English ladies are all the same. That you
despise her country and you insult her mistress.”

“That is not so!” Elizabeth yelped indignantly. “I have a great
respect for the Arabic culture! Why, I know some Arabic phrases! And if I meant
to insult her mistress—you—I would not visit your home to do so!”

More rude words escaped the Arab woman’s mouth. Uncannily bright
eyes glittered at Elizabeth.

“What did she say now?” Elizabeth called out more belligerently.

‘She said she does not believe that you know any Arabic. That Englishwomen
lie because they do not know how to tell the truth.”

Elizabeth stiffened her spine, unable to pass up the challenge.
“Ma’e
e-salemma,”
she said clearly, loud enough for the countess to hear.
Taalibba
—
no,
that was between her and the Bastard Sheikh. “Sabah el kheer.”
And then,
just for the Arab woman’s ears,
“El besiss mostahi,
” the impudent,
shamefaced one. Or at least she hoped that the rather insulting phrases were
not used in a purely sexual connotation.

The old Arab woman stabbed a finger at Elizabeth and uttered a
volley of vituperative Arabic.

The countess did not wait to be asked to translate. “Joseffa said
you speak her tongue with the finesse of a camel and that you still mock her
culture and insult her mistress by not sharing the bath. But she forgives you,
because you are English and Englishwomen are puny cowards.”

The thick, suffocating steam rose directly to Elizabeth’s head.
She jerked the heavy wool bodice over her arms and down her hips. “I am not a
coward,” she said through gritted teeth, untying the horsehair-padded bustle
from around her waist. A dull thud, the impacting fall, was absorbed by the
steam.

Elizabeth stared at the old woman, needing to further prove
herself, doing so by untying the tape of the first petticoat.

She had asked the Bastard Sheikh to teach her how to please a man.

Elizabeth untied the tape of her second petticoat. It dropped in a
heap of dampening cotton.

She had asked her husband for a divorce and had been threatened
with the loss of her two sons.

“I... am not... a coward,” she repeated, standing in her corset,
chemise, and drawers, daring her to repeat the offending remark.

Joseffa made a circling motion with her right hand for Elizabeth
to turn around while her bright eyes dared her to do so.

Elizabeth thought of her husband’s brutal appraisal... and knew
that true or not, the old Arab woman would respect her more for courage than
beauty. She turned around.

Moisture collected between her breasts, itched a path down her
abdomen. Shedding the corset was a luxury. But that was as far as she was going
to go ... now.

Folding her arms over her breasts,
Elizabeth faced the old woman and nodded toward the screen . . . then breathed
a sigh of relief when she left. Muted murmurs drifted through the steam.
Elizabeth decided she did not want to know what comments Joseffa might be
relaying about her body.

Without the direct challenge the old woman represented, Elizabeth
felt her courage dwindling. It simply was not done; she could
not
bathe
naked with the countess...

Yes, she could.

Elizabeth
had no sooner removed her shoes and peeled down her drawers and stockings than
the old woman stepped back around the screen.

She stifled a gasp, too startled to cover anything. But not for
long.

The old woman held out a large, thick towel; Elizabeth gratefully
accepted it. Folding it around her body, she padded out from behind the screen,
the old woman at her heels. Elizabeth did a little dance; the wooden floor was
hot.

When she reached the edge of the pool, the old woman grabbed the
edge of the towel and yanked. Elizabeth jumped into the water.

It was—

Incredible.

Crouching down so that her breasts were submerged, she spread her
arms out to retain her balance. The water caressed every inch of her skin, her
breasts, her hips, her thighs. Elizabeth had never felt so—
liberated.

“Are you all right?”

Elizabeth swirled around. “This is ... quite remarkable.”

The countess smiled; blond strands of hair stuck to her face. “I
am so glad you enjoy it. Were this a true Turkish bath, there would be three
pools; a hot bath, a lukewarm bath, and a cold one. I find the heated one best
suits the English climate.”

Tendrils of hair slithered free of Elizabeth’s bun. They clung to
her wet neck and back. “Lord Safyre . . . does he have a Turkish bath?”

“Yes. Ramiel has retained many Arab customs.”

Elizabeth wanted to ask the countess to enumerate, but thought
better of it. Perhaps he kept an entire harem locked away in his house.

But why would he come home in the early hours of morning drenched
in a woman’s perfume if he had his own harem?

A cold chill raced down her back. “My carriage—it is outside. I
never planned—that is, I meant only to have a short visit—”
To defy my
husband.

“Joseffa!” The countess’s voice gently carried over the water. The
old Arab woman came to the edge of the pool. “Joseffa—” The countess turned
toward Elizabeth. “Would you like the carriage to return for you or would you
rather go home in one of mine?”

“I—return, please.”

“Joseffa. Tell Anthony to inform Mrs. Petre’s coachman that he
should return for her in three hours.”

Three hours!

Joseffa was gone before Elizabeth could countermand the countess’s
orders.

The countess smiled at Elizabeth. “There. Now we shall have time
for a nice, long chat.”

Elizabeth tentatively waded out into deeper water. She imagined
beautiful concubines gathered about the edges of the pool, talking, laughing,
happy in the Bastard Sheikh’s home.

“What are harem women like?” she asked compulsively. “Are they . .
. beautiful?”

“Oh, yes.” The countess gently rotated her arms in the water,
creating small whirlpools. “Otherwise they would not be bought.

Elizabeth felt a pang of envy—not to be sold into slavery, of
course, but it would be nice to be wanted by a man so much that he would pay
sterling coin.

“Lord Safyre said they are more concerned about pleasing a man
than they are pleasuring themselves.”

“Ah . ..” The countess stopped her idle motions. “Of course it is
true, for the most part, but I have never asked . . . Arab men are very
secretive when it comes to talking about women.”

“Siba,”
Elizabeth
murmured dryly.

The countess laughed delightedly. “It is such a pleasure talking
to another woman who knows of these things.”

Elizabeth walked deeper into the water, until it came up to her
chin. “I wish I knew how to swim.”

“Ramiel is an excellent swimmer. He had his first lesson here, in
this pool.”

Elizabeth tried to contain her curiosity, but failed. She had
imagined Ramiel experiencing many kinds of love; the love between a mother and
her son was not one of them. “How old was he?”

“Three. He wriggled out of Joseffa’s arms and leapt into the
water, right there.” The countess pointed toward the very end of the pool,
where it was five feet deep. “When I fished him out, he spat a mouthful of
water into the air and laughed.”

A reminiscent smile curved Elizabeth’s mouth. “When Phillip was
three he discovered that the banister made a wonderful slide. I caught him just
as he sailed off the end. He laughed and threw his arms around my neck and
asked if I would carry him back upstairs so that he could do it again.”

The countess laughed. “How old is he now?”

“Eleven—soon to be twelve. He entered Eton last fall. Richard, my
elder, will be taking exams for Oxford in six months.” A mother’s pride rang in
Elizabeth’s voice. “He’s only fifteen.”

“They sound like lovely boys.”

“Oh, they are.” Emotion roughed Elizabeth’s voice. “I would not
know what to do without them.”

She would not let Edward take them away from her.

Water swirled and foamed; the resulting current buoyed Elizabeth’s
breasts. Her scathing remark about a woman’s full breasts serving as buoys was
more apt than not, she thought wryly.

The Bastard Sheikh’s instruction promptly came to mind.
He can
position his manhood between her breasts and press them together. . . as if
they were a vulva.

Hurriedly
turning away from her thoughts, Elizabeth saw that the countess floated on her
back.

Her eyes widened in shock. The countess had no pubic hair. In
fact, she had no body hair whatsoever.

Pivoting, she used her arms to propel herself more quickly through
the water to the edge of the pool. She leaned her forehead on the tile and
closed her eyes against the forbidden images that flooded her imagination.

Ramiel. Naked. A hard column of veined manhood jutting out from a
hairless pubis.

The water churned behind her. Elizabeth could feel the countess,
solid rather than liquid. Her question came unbidden. “Did you bring your son
to England so that he would not be taken away from you?”

The gentle slap of water lapped the tiles. Elizabeth did not think
the countess was going to respond. And then—

“No. I brought my son to England because I could not stand to leave
him behind.”

“Do you regret. . . leaving?”

A gentle hand reached out, anchored a strand of hair to Elizabeth’s
damp bun.

Elizabeth stiffened. The gesture was maternal, something she would
do to one of her sons. She could not recall her own mother ever touching her in
such a manner.

“Yes. But if I had to do it over again, I would do so.”

“Do you not think that you owed it to your son to stay with his
father?”

The question was out before Elizabeth could stop it. She waited
for the answer, shoulders tense, eyes staring fixedly at the wooden floor
blanketed with steam.

“Yes. No. That is not an easy question to answer. I think Ramiel
would have been happy had we stayed in Arabia.
I
would not have been
happy, though, and I think my unhappiness would have affected him far more than
my bringing him to England did. He was happy here, surrounded by friends and
loved ones. When he turned twelve, however, I could no longer protect him from
those who would slander him because of his birth. Arabians view a son borne out
of wedlock differently than do the English. So I sent him to his father. And I
cried. And I worried. And I trusted in the love that I gave him, that it was
strong enough to carry him through manhood.”

A hot, wet trail of steam slithered down Elizabeth’s cheek.

Other words, masculine words, reverberated inside her ears.
Your
two sons will shortly be men. Who will you have then,
taalibba?

Elizabeth wondered what the countess would say if she told her
that she had asked Edward for a divorce. She wondered what the countess’s son
would say if Elizabeth told him that Edward had retaliated by threatening to
take away her sons.

Taking a shaky breath, Elizabeth faced the countess. “Thank you
for sharing your bath with me. It is an experience that I shall treasure.”

Elizabeth flinched away from the pale, slender hand that flicked
moisture off her cheek.

The countess viewed her handiwork, reached out and swiped
Elizabeth’s other cheek. “You may come and bathe here anytime you wish. I will
leave instructions with my servants that you are to have complete access to my
home. My only request is that you do not bathe alone. Joseffa must always
accompany you; should anything happen while you are in the water, she will save
you.”

Joseffa was probably eighty years old and weighed half of what
Elizabeth did. “And who will save Joseffa?” she asked tartly.