The image of her with her head held high despite her nakedness, her small pert breasts heaving in her attempt to hide her fear, sheen from the heat making her fine porcelain skin gleam, and the curl of disdain on her lips, would be forever imprinted on his brain. He had never seen anything more magnificent.
But Murad’s next words chilled his heart.
“Men would kill to possess one such as you. I am going to have to guard you well. Paval tells me you’re an innocent, and he wants a great deal of money for you.” Murad reached out and squeezed her nubile breasts. It must have hurt because he caught the grimace that flickered in the depth of her fiery sapphire-blue eyes.
The spoiler of innocents moved closer to his prey.
“Perhaps I will take you here on this table to ensure I’m getting what I will be paying for. You’re welcome to fight. I like a girl with spirit.” Murad was practically drooling now.
His stomach heaved. The rage brewing in him at the thought of the man raping the girl almost overwhelmed him. He unclenched his fists but waited; the time for action was not quite here yet.
Suddenly, the sound of a hand slamming hard against flesh resounded around the shadowed room. His admiration grew. She’d slapped Murad’s face. Her voice when it came caressed him like a cool breeze, swirling around him until he was completely off balance.
“That’s the only fight you’ll get from me, you piece of filth. You may be able to take my body, but you’ll never take my soul.” And then she did the unforgivable. She spat on her would be rapist.
Alex’s body coiled ready for action, but it was too late to stop the instant backhander Murad dealt her. The force sent her sprawling unconscious across the drink-littered tables. With a cry the sultan fell on her, one hand gripping her face, hunting for her mouth to receive his slobbering kisses, the other fumbling within his robes.
Frantically, Alex looked around. Where were his men? Yet, even without them, he had to act. If he didn’t, Murad would take the girl on the table, right in front of him.
Without thinking, he stood up and called from the shadows, “So the mighty Murad first has to steal his women and then has to knock them out in order to take his pleasure. It goes to show women have excellent taste.”
At his words, Murad swung to face him. A smile began to play across his cruel lips. “What a—pleasant—surprise, Alexander. I did not know you were back on Mykonos.”
“Forgive me. You weren’t top of my calling card list.”
With an evil laugh Murad gloated, “Quite so, but how quickly you forget. I don’t need to knock my conquests out, as it doesn’t take me long to have them begging for my touch.” His leer grew as he added, “You, of all people, should understand my power. As I recall, you would have done almost anything for me—once.”
Alex shuddered as repressed memories, both disgusting and degrading, flashed before him. Out of the corner of his eye, a movement to his left showed the warriors moving to Murad’s side. With a relaxed smile, he leaned against the back wall; they would not take him from behind.
“How long has it been, Alex? Far too long I think. I have missed your beauty in my palace.” Murad’s tone became cajoling. “I never thought I’d have the pleasure of seeing my
altin kole
—my golden slave—again.”
He snarled. “Don’t you call me that or I’ll forget my manners. I’m not your slave, not any longer. All I want is the girl.”
Murad stroked his moustache and with a sly smile cooed, “She is a beauty, but are you sure that is all you want?”
Murad gestured towards the tavern keeper. “Paval, bring us a pipe. As I recall, opium was more of an allure for you than even a woman. There is no need for hostilities. Are we not old friends? Come, my Adonis, I have some of the finest opium with me. Let us lose ourselves in dreamland and perhaps, like old times, we can share the girl. I’d even let you have her first. Anything for you, my fair boy.”
Paval approached. At the first waft of the sickly sweet smell from the opium pipe, Alex’s mouth filled with saliva and adrenalin surged through his veins. No, not again. He would not give in to his past addiction. Momentarily, he basked in memories of the ecstasy the narcotic would give him. His hands itched to take the pipe while a voice in his head thundered
no
; the rapture it would afford him was merely an illusion.
He looked at the smirk on Murad’s face and almost retched. He’d die before he let himself become Murad’s plaything again. He might not have fully broken his addiction, but God damn it; he was here to rescue the girl. He owed her father. A river of sweat poured down between his shoulders. He would have to master his driving need for the drug’s compassionate relief.
“Come and taste her. You’ll know once you’ve smoked from the pipe what sweet release this innocent beauty can offer.” Murad’s sure voice held a note of triumph. He was not to know that Alex hadn’t touched the drug in almost a year.
Pushing nonchalantly off the back wall, he approached his past nemesis, one slow considered step after another, and returning Murad’s ruthless smile with one of his own.
“Perhaps you are right, she is indeed very beautiful. I’ll even hold her for you once I’ve finished with her.” Alex licked his lips. “But first maybe let’s have just a small puff for old time’s sake.” He pointed to the naked girl on the table behind Murad. “While we wait for our plaything to awaken.”
He watched Murad’s shoulders relax as he motioned for his warriors to step back and he pushed the pipe towards Alex.
Murad turned his back on him and let his podgy, grimy hand stroke high up the girl’s milky thigh.
Briefly he closed his eyes, allowing the fury of Murad’s assault on the girl to fill him, before ultimately giving into his rage and letting his leashed temper explode. In one swift movement he surged forward and seized Murad by the throat, pulling him away from the girl’s naked flesh. Murad let out a cry of alarm and his guards immediately went on the attack.
He held Murad around the throat, his hidden blade pressed into the now madly pulsing vein in Murad’s neck. “Surrender or forfeit your life.”
“Go to hell, my golden boy. You’ll likely kill me anyway,” Murad spat back.
“Call off your men, tell them to back away from the girl and move up the stairs,” he hissed through clenched teeth. It took all his will power not to sink the blade into Murad’s neck. But he needed to get the girl out first; only then could he think of taking his revenge.
Murad issued instructions in Turkish but his warriors made no move towards the stairs.
His fingers flicked in eager agitation over the knife’s hilt, but his voice remained calm. “I only want the girl. She’s not worth dying over. There are plenty of other girls for you to plunder.”
Murad barked out a harsh order. To his relief, the two warriors moved to the bottom of the stairs but his respite was short lived.
“Your move I believe, Alexander.” Murad laughed. “Your sleeping beauty can’t walk out by herself, so you’ll have to let me go if you wish to save her. If you kill me, I’ve instructed my men to kill her; you’ll never get to her in time.”
Before he could answer, Jacob, his sergeant-at- arms, appeared in the doorway. With a cocked eyebrow and primed pistol, he took in the scene before him. “Need a bit of a hand do ya, my lord?”
He jerked his head at the girl. “Jacob, get her out of here.”
Everything happened at once. In his moment of distraction the back of Murad’s head crashed into his nose, splitting it instantly. Blood poured down his face, and his eyes filled with water as pain seared through him.
Murad screamed orders at his men, but rather than staying to fight, he turned and fled, sprinting toward the exit, before escaping past his men and out into the night.
One of Murad’s warriors came for him then. With lightning reflexes, he leapt towards the table and scooped up his sword, hidden beneath the bench. He slashed at the first warrior, managing to inflict a deep wound to the Turk’s shoulder.
Jacob was busy fending off the other attacker while Paval had the good sense to run, escaping after the fleeing sultan.
Murad would be organizing reinforcements. They would need to move fast as he realized the rest of Murad’s men must be nearby.
He pressed on with the attack, advancing on the warrior with fury at having let his enemy escape. Swords clashed and the loud clang of steel filled the hot night air. From the first blows he could feel his enemy was not a skilled swordsman, so he could easily deflect his opponent’s obvious moves. He hoped Jacob was faring just as well.
The two men circled each other. The Turk charged yet again, his sword high in the air; blood was pouring from his shoulder and Alex seized the advantage as his blade ran the warrior through with one feint and lunge. The man’s death gurgle was muted by the sound of a shot ringing out across the room. He turned to help Jacob, only to see his pistol smoking, as the smell of cordite hung in the air while the other Turkish warrior slowly collapsed to the floor.
Speed was of the essence. They needed to get to his ship and soon. The last thing he needed was a fleet of Turkish pirates on his tail. Murad would crave revenge just as much as Alex had once craved opium. The sultan would be furious at losing the girl, as well as the chance to capture him again.
Breathing hard, he shouted to his friend. “Jacob, rally the men, get the ship ready to sail.”
“You’ll be all right on your own?”
“Yes, I’ll get the girl, hurry man,” he replied. He turned for the girl, who still lay naked and unconscious on the table.
He froze.
He looked at the pipe, still full of opium, lying on the floor before him. Sweat ran down his spine, his mouth dried up and his cravings galloped once more into life. With shaking hands, he bent and picked it up, enjoying its familiar feel and he allowed the powerful pull to consume him.
The girl stirred.
He looked at her.
No
. He was here for her, for her father.
Anger surged within him, and as he regained control, he hurled the pipe across the room.
He picked up the pieces of her torn nightdress and covered her, before gently sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her out into the hot night.
This time at least, he was able to leave the insatiable allure of opium, behind him.
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Thanks again for reading
Invitation to Passion
, and please feel free to email me if you’d like to learn more about my Invitation To… series.
Turn the page for a complete list of books in the series.
Books in the INVITATION TO Series
INVITATION TO RUIN
INVITATION TO SCANDAL
INVITATION TO PASSION
INVITATION TO DESIRE - 2015
And more to come
Continue for a preview of
A KISS OF LIES
Disgraced Lords Series
By Bronwen Evans
London, England, November 1815
“Get up!”
If not for the fact that the rage-filled voice bellowing in his ear was speaking English, Christian Trent, the Earl of Markham, might have thought he was back in France.
Certainly the press of cold steel at his throat flooded his brain with memories of the war: nightmarish memories, pain-filled memories. Memories he fervently tried, but hopelessly failed, to forget.
Experience had taught him that when one was in such a precarious position, with a sword at one’s windpipe, with the identity and reasoning of the attacker unknown, one was wise to act cautiously.
Without moving a muscle he pried an eye open and tried to focus on the person who was holding the deadly weapon at his neck. The slight movement of his eyeball sent pain stabbing through his head. His mouth tasted like sawdust. Christ, he must have drunk more than he thought last night.
“I repeat,
get up
!”
To emphasize his request, the attacker’s sword point pierced Christian’s skin. A small trail of warmth trickled down his neck.
In a ghostlike voice, so as not to disturb the pounding in his head, Christian answered, “How can I get up with that sword at my neck? I might still be half foxed, but I have enough wits about me not to push myself upon your weapon,” and with his hand he batted away the blade.
The sword immediately swung back into place.
As lethal as the sword itself, the voice uttered, “That would save me the bother of killing you.”
For a split second Christian welcomed the idea of death before he doused it with an exhaled breath.
He ignored the cannonballs rioting in his head as he twisted and turned, desperate to untangle his limbs from the satin sheets wrapped around his naked body. He did his best to ignore the dizzying weakness his movements evoked. The headache had him willing the contents of his stomach to stay down.
Where was he? The brothel? He recalled he’d paid for a woman. He knew she’d shared his bed. He could smell her lingering scent.
He drew a deep breath and calmed his mind. He had always prided himself on his ability to use his brain more effectively than any weapon to get himself out of predicaments.