the sleek, hot, wetness of her, the rippling of her climax, the soft, pleading sound of her voice, the heady, deep kisses, her hands on his buttocks, and the primal need to thrust inside her took over. He had never felt anything so perfectly right.
And so irretrievably, unbearably wrong.
His curses rang out into the desert night as Christopher flung himself away, jumping to his feet, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with horror. ‘Dear God in heaven, what am I doing.’ Grabbing his tunic, he pulled it over his head, tugged on his trousers, panting, cursing, heart hammering, threw her clothing at her. ‘Put these on. I cannot—I am—put these on, for the love of God, put them on.’
He couldn’t breathe. Tahira was staring at him uncomprehending, but his Arabic had deserted him. What had he done? What had he done? What had he done?
He pulled at his hair viciously. Tahira sat up, staring at him wide-eyed. Her mouth was opening and closing but he couldn’t hear her for the roaring in his ears. He couldn’t stay here and look at her, so gloriously naked, so painfully naked, the evidence of his shame, the evidence that despite everything, the blood which ran in his veins defined him after all.
Shaking his head, he ran for the well house. The first bucket of icy-cold water over his head made him gasp. Another bucket brought him back from the abyss, but only to the edge. One tiny iota of self-control had prevented him from catastrophe. One tiny last iota. He drank from the third bucket, hands shaking, but his breathing slowing.
Tahira.
‘Oh, God, Tahira.’
Rushing back out, he found her, fully dressed, huge-eyed and frightened. ‘Christopher, what on earth...?’
His grasp of her language returned. ‘I’m sorry. By the stars, I am so sorry. I did not mean—I would never—I thought I would never—did I hurt you?’
‘Hurt me? No! You frightened me. What happened, Christopher?’
‘What I promised I would never do. I am so sorry.’
‘But it didn’t—you didn’t.’
She tried to put her arms around him, but he shrank back. ‘You can’t trust me. I cannot trust myself.’
‘No more can I, it seems.’ Her hair was still loose, a wild tangle of curls that she now tried to tie back but failed, her fingers shaking. And her knees, it seemed. ‘I have to sit down.’
‘I’ve frightened you. The last thing in the world—’
‘Christopher!’ The shock of her sharp reprimand startled them both. ‘I’m sorry, but I cannot—it was not only you. I was every bit—if you had not stopped, I would have—we would have—but we did.’ She laughed, a strange shaky sound. ‘We did stop, I’m still fit for my wedding night, thanks to you.’
‘You give me too much credit. I wanted—I always thought that there was a line I could not cross, but blood will out.’ With a racking, dry sob, he dropped on to the mat and covered his face with his hands. Shame and horror sent his mind lurching into a terrible dark place he had never inhabited before.
‘Christopher, please, there is no need...’
‘There is every need. You don’t understand.’
‘What don’t I understand?’
‘I am my father’s son after all. Base-born, base of blood and equally base of mind. I thought myself better than he. Tonight, I’ve proved myself every bit as vile.’
‘Base-born? No, I don’t think you mean what you say. You are so upset, I think you are using the wrong words. Base-born means...’
‘I am a bastard,’ Christopher said, dropping his hands, using the crudest translation of the word he knew. ‘My father was not married to my mother. I am a bastard, the product of an act such as I so very nearly—you understand now, Tahira?’
But she shook her head, her mouth trembling, wrapping her arms tightly around her knees. ‘You speak in riddles. I don’t understand any of it. I feel as if I don’t know you at all.’ A tear splashed on to her cheek. She shook it away violently. ‘This is our last night together. Don’t let it end like this, Christopher. Whatever it is that has made you—I don’t understand, but I want to. Won’t you tell me? Please?’
He opened his mouth to deny her, but the words would not come. ‘I have never spoken of it.’
‘You think I won’t keep your secret?’
‘I think my secret will make you despise me.’
‘I couldn’t. It is simply not possible.’
‘You can’t be certain of that.’
‘Is there anything I could tell you which would make you despise me?’
He answered without thinking, ‘Nothing.’
Was that relief on her face? Had it been fear? He had no idea. He couldn’t think straight.
‘Then tell me, Christopher. Trust me. Please.’
It was all too much. He had neither the energy nor the will to resist her. For so long he had kept it all pent up inside him. No hope of relief. No hope of understanding. The need to unburden himself was overpowering. Christopher shrugged fatalistically, closed his eyes, let himself fall back to that day, nine months ago, and began his tale in a hoarse whisper.
London—October 1814
Christopher had deliberately turned up unannounced at the imposing house which occupied a prime site on London’s Cavendish Square. Though he dreaded the forthcoming interview and fervently wished that he had not come into possession of the document which had led him here, he desperately needed answers. Whatever the truth turned out to be, no matter how earth-shattering, he simply had to know.
‘His lordship is not at home to callers lacking a prior appointment,’ the butler informed him, eyeing Christopher’s plain black coat and simply tied cravat with some disdain. ‘He is an important and extremely busy man.’
‘No doubt, but I think you will find that he will be most eager to receive me when you show him this,’ Christopher said coolly, handing the man his business card.
The butler hesitated, but he was no fool. Perhaps it was the quiet authority in Christopher’s voice, it most certainly wasn’t his unostentatious attire, but for whatever reason the servant acquiesced. ‘Very well, if you will be so good as to wait here a moment, sir, I will ascertain whether your confidence is well placed.’
Less than a minute later, Christopher was shown into a study on the ground floor. The scent of beeswax polish mingled with the slightly musty smell emanating from the myriad tomes and ledgers which filled the serried ranks of bookcases lining the walls. From the empty grate a faint trace of smoke and coal ash added to the range of prosperously genteel odours.
His heart was pounding in his chest as he approached the middle-aged man seated behind the imposing walnut desk. Lord Henry Armstrong was distinguished rather than handsome, dressed with simple but expensive elegance. His grey hair was sparse on top, there were deep grooves running from his nose to the corners of his mouth and a fretwork of lines across his brow, but beneath heavy lids, his eyes were alert and piercing, his gaze assessing. His reputation as one of the most astute diplomats in government ranks was obviously well deserved. Those eyes met Christopher’s for the very first time, making his stomach lurch in a sickening manner. A distinctive deep blue rimmed with grey, they were his lordship’s most striking feature and were now widening in disbelief. ‘Christopher Fordyce,’ he said faintly, getting to his feet. ‘Is it truly you?’
Ignoring the proffered hand, Christopher sat down, while his lordship made for the side table, pouring himself a large brandy from the crystal decanter. ‘Would