Runaway Lady. Claire Thornton
out to see if they were as soft as they looked. He still wanted to touch her hair. If he’d been an invisible spirit in the room, he would have been content to simply sit and watch her. A pretty, shimmering angel in the candlelight. But he wasn’t invisible, and he was determined not to stare at her like a moonstruck idiot. He’d mastered the art of appearing outwardly self-assured many years ago, so he deliberately adopted a relaxed, untroubled air as he ate his supper.
He’d assumed Saskia meant to take him to task for giving orders to the coachman without her permission, but instead she began asking him questions.
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-four.’ For the first time in his life Harry was almost uncomfortable revealing his age. Ever since he’d returned to England, he’d been acutely aware he’d fallen behind his contemporaries in certain crucial aspects of life. On his first day in London he’d been startled and discomfited to see an apprentice more than a decade his junior flirting confidently with the pretty girl behind the counter of a linen draper’s. Judging by the girl’s twinkling response, she’d enjoyed the apprentice’s attentions. But when Harry asked politely for some handkerchiefs her eyes had widened. He was convinced he’d seen alarm in her expression as she hastened to serve him. He knew very well that women had good reason to be afraid of some men. Sometimes, though less frequently than in the past, he still had nightmares about the damage a violent man could do to a woman. He’d had no idea how to assure the draper’s girl that, despite his sun-darkened skin and the sword by his side, he wasn’t a threat to her safety, so he’d thanked her gruffly and hurried away.
Richard’s wife had been nervous in his presence too. Harry knew there were several possible reasons for that, including the natural anxiety any woman might have to make a good impression on her husband’s older brother—especially when that brother was also the head of her husband’s family. Besides, after so many years apart, Harry and Richard had not yet regained the easy friendship of their youth and it was understandable that Mary would take her cues from her husband. But Mary had led a very sheltered life both before and after her marriage, and Harry had not been able to lose the conviction that she found being in his presence as foreign and unnerving as he found being in hers. Despite his best efforts, they had never managed more than the most stilted conversations. Harry had been acutely aware of Richard’s growing bewilderment and unhappiness at their lack of ease with each other. Just before Harry had left Bedfordshire, Richard had even burst out, “I am afraid you don’t like my wife.”
The accusation had dumbfounded Harry and left him uncertain how to respond. He had no idea how to compliment any man on his choice of wife, much less his brother. He’d assured Richard that he liked his wife very well, but it had been an awkward parting for the brothers.
With his recent experiences with his sister-in-law fresh in his mind, Harry was very relieved that he didn’t seem to make his new employer anxious. In fact, she was focusing a distinctly inquisitorial gaze on him.
‘Tell me some of the things you’ve done in the past,’ she demanded. ‘Why don’t you carry an English sword?’
‘Because I learned most of what I know from a Janissary.’
She looked surprised. ‘Did you spend a long time in the Levant?’
‘Since I was nineteen.’
‘When did you come back to England?’
‘A few weeks ago.’
‘Did you not come back at all in the meantime?’ she exclaimed.
‘No.’ The brothers had gone to the Levant together, but the Turkish climate had not suited Richard’s constitution. After Harry had nursed his younger brother through three dangerous fevers within a year of their arrival in the Ottoman Empire he’d insisted Richard return to London. Harry himself had stayed to build his fortune, but he’d missed his brother very badly during the first year of their separation. Later, when Harry had accumulated enough wealth and trading contacts to return home, the situation in England—and his future—had irrevocably changed. He’d wanted to see Richard, but he’d had no desire to confront the man whose title and estates he would one day inherit. He’d assuaged his restlessness by moving more frequently within the Ottoman Empire than most European merchants. He’d gone from his original home in Aleppo to Istanbul and ended in Smyrna before finally returning to London.
‘Why didn’t you come back before?’ Saskia’s gaze was fixed on his face.
‘I was content where I was.’
‘Then why did you come back now? Did you stop being content?’
That was too close to the truth for comfort. Harry returned fire with fire. ‘What’s your urgent business in Portsmouth?’
‘None of your—’ She broke off and sat back. ‘We’ll discuss it tomorrow.’
‘We will? Let’s discuss it now.’
‘No. We will discuss it tomorrow if you perform your duties successfully in the meantime,’ she said firmly. ‘I have known several men who returned from the Levant. They were factors. Were you a factor?’
‘Do I look like a factor?’ She’d guessed correctly and he was curious to hear her response.
‘I imagine you might,’ she said, surprising him. ‘I was told European merchants often adopt Turkish dress in the streets to avoid drawing attention to themselves. Did you wear a turban? Is that why your hair is shorter than fashionable?’
‘Franks,’ Harry corrected her. ‘To the people of the Ottoman Empire, all Europeans are Franks. Tell me the names of your acquaintances. No doubt I know them.’ The English, Dutch, Venetians and other Europeans all had their own quarters within each trading city, but Harry had always kept himself well informed about his fellow—and rival—factors.
‘I don’t recall at this moment.’ She evaded his question with barely a flicker of hesitation. ‘You didn’t tell me whether you wore a turban.’
‘Often.’ Harry had no idea why she was interested. ‘In Smyrna it was usual for Franks to wear European hats, but by the time I moved there I was used to the turban. I’m damned if I’ll ever wear a wig.’
Saskia smiled at his forthright statement, but her gaze didn’t waver as she continued her interrogation. ‘Did you return to England because you’d made your fortune—or because you’d ruined yourself and your principal?’
‘Mmm-hmm.’ Harry grinned, enjoying their verbal battle. ‘Bad bargains, bad luck, misreading the markets—every ship brought another letter from my principal reprimanding me for my poor decisions…’
Saskia gave a soft laugh. ‘Yet he still continued to make use of your services. Either he is an indifferent businessman or your decisions were not as poor as you claim.’
It was the first time Harry had ever heard her laugh. When he saw the amusement sparkling in her eyes, he realised just how strained she was usually. For a few heartbeats, lost in her reminiscent amusement, she was completely relaxed, almost carefree—and utterly captivating.
Harry forgot his mission. Forgot why he’d insisted they spend the night at Kingston. Forgot everything except the pleasure of watching Saskia’s transitory happiness. Unfortunately, his body wasn’t content with just looking. From the moment Saskia had lowered her mask he’d felt the stirring of desire. For a while he’d managed to suppress his awareness of how she affected him, but now his physical reaction to her intensified until it was almost painful. His body was making demands he could neither ignore nor satisfy.
Frustration with himself and the situation eroded his temper. Saskia, blithely oblivious of his edgy, unsettled state, was the cause of his difficulties—and she became the focus of his irritation.
‘How will you explain this to your lord?’ he demanded.
‘Explain what?’ Saskia looked up at him, a half-smile still lingering on her lips, confusion in her eyes.
Harry