A Touch of Passion_A Rouge Regency Romance Page 4

  Of course, knowing Portia, he thought she might simply have run off to experience an adventure.

  The silence lengthened as Philip sank into a chair, dropping his head in his hands.

  Grayson at last found his voice. “How long?”

  Philip simply turned his head and raised an eyebrow.

  “How long has she been missing? Time is of the essence.”

  “She hasn’t been seen since yesterday afternoon, when she visited with Rose.” At the mention of Rose, Philip’s face turned pink. “Rose left town last night.”

  “Then Portia is likely with her.”

  Philip shook his head. “No, Rose did not take company with her when she left. I’ve spoken to her.”

  “I thought you said Rose had left London. How did you talk with her so quickly?”

  Philip gulped his drink. “You must be the only man not to know. Rose is my latest paramour. She was meeting me at a small hunting lodge just north of London.”

  Grayson raised an eyebrow. He could hardly blame Philip. Rose was a very beautiful widow.

  “That’s how I knew to come here. Rose told me that Portia received a note from you asking her to meet you at Vauxhall Gardens. Then when I returned to London early this morning, I was greeted by Freddie Sunster muttering about the wager. I checked at White’s, then came straight here to wring your bloody neck. Rose swears Portia said it was you, as she recognized your coat. The dark blue coat with the brass buttons.”

  “My coat’s missing.” Grayson stood and paced. “Where was she last seen?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s hopeless.”

  Grayson swung to dispute Philip’s words, but Philip sounded so defeated. Grayson watched as Philip pulled out a crumpled note from his pocket.

  “This note was delivered to our townhouse. Maxwell took it to the Home Office while I went checking all the places Portia could be, then I made my way here.”

  Maxwell was Portia’s youngest brother, only eighteen, and he worshiped the ground his sister walked on. He was proud of her cider business and worked for her.

  “Why was I not informed as soon as you knew she was missing?”

  “She’s not your sister,” Philip snapped.

  Grayson opened his mouth to protest, but Philip said hurriedly, “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. I know you promised Robert you’d protect her with your life.” He walked over to stand beside him, looking out the window. “I hope you believe in divine intervention. She’s been taken from England, supposedly in your name, to hide your defilement of her. It’s going to take a miracle to get her back.”

  “God damn it to hell. I would never …” Grayson looked at the note in Philip’s hand but didn’t want to take it. Accepting the note would make the situation real.

  He took it and unfolded the note as reluctantly as a man about to read his own death sentence.

  It was almost too easy, Lord Cumberland. Lady Portia no longer exists. She has been taken from your world and sent to one from which she can never return, all on the orders of one man, Lord Blackwood. After he defiled her, he paid me to ensure all evidence was destroyed, so to speak.

  Lady Portia appears to be a woman of loose morals, meeting men in gardens at midnight. She must learn that women should be seen and not heard. Your sister needs to be taught a woman’s place, and what better way to achieve this than in a harem?

  A pity that once she is shown the error of her ways it will be too late. It will be kinder to leave her with those who have trained her. Allah has spoken—women are on this earth for man’s pleasure, nothing more. We shall teach her what you could not.

  Grayson crumpled the note in his fist and tried to calm the rage burning in his soul. “I would never do this! She is like a sister to me,” he repeated. Portia might be wild and unconventional, but she did not deserve to have her liberty taken from her. A woman like her thrived on freedom; she would wither and die in captivity. Portia was not someone to bend to another’s will either, and her survival in a harem would likely be short.

  “I’ll kill the men who have done this. Who? Who has her?” Grayson would not renege on his promise to Robert. He would save her, no matter how long it took.

  Philip’s voice choked with emotion. “The Home Office told Maxwell it’s most likely that Sultan Hassid, ruler in Alexandria, has bought her. Since the French Revolution, he’s hated all infidels. He’s the only sultan currently flaunting the white slave trade in our faces. He’s the only one defiant and arrogant enough to be party to the kidnapping of the sister of a decorated war hero and earl.”

  Grayson strode over to the door and opened it, calling for Timmins. “Pack my bags, I’m leaving for Alexandria.” Seeing Timmins’s openmouthed surprise, he yelled, “Now!”

  He turned back to face Philip. “Why use me? Why my name? You know it’s untrue. I would never—”

  “Of course it’s untrue. What I cannot comprehend is why her abductors would go to such elaborate lengths. Why not simply just kidnap her? This is an elaborate plan, and it seems as if they want society to blame you.”

  Grayson’s head was a riot of thoughts. He turned to Philip. “We leave tonight. They already have one day’s head start.”

  “Thank you.”

  The two men stood looking at each other, Philip’s eyes swimming in tears. “She’s ruined, isn’t she?” he whispered.

  Grayson swallowed and stilled his building anger. He needed to think. “I doubt we will be able to keep her disappearance a secret, unless …”

  He began to pace again his mind whirling. “We could say she has caught another lung fever. Society will remember her last bout.”

  Philip nodded. “We have to try. I shall alert Mama.”

  Grayson swung around. “Who else knows she’s been taken?”

  “Just one or two at the Home Office, as far as I know.”

  Grayson frowned. “If she was taken from the gardens, which port would they head to?”

  “I have no idea. They would want to get off English soil as soon as possible.”

  “Then I suggest Great Yarmouth. Meet me here in one hour. That should give me time to pen some notes to the coaching inns along our route to have fresh horses ready. We head to Norfolk. We’ll take one of Lord Coldhurst’s ships. I happen to know one has just arrived back from the Americas.”

  The two men galloped through the night, thankful that snow was not falling, but it was still cold enough to require scarves to cover their faces.

  The ride also gave Grayson time to think. He was surprised at how Portia’s plight hurt. He was angry at her, but more because he realized he didn’t wish to lose her from his life. It was a sobering moment of self-honesty.

  He remembered Robert’s last words as he lay dying in Grayson’s arms on the battlefield. Robert’s last thoughts were of those he loved: I hope you will steer Philip and aid him in taking over as earl. If you are as loyal to him as you were me, he’ll shoulder his new responsibilities well. As for Portia, promise me you’ll look after her. My brothers indulge her too much. I know she’s getting more unconventional. I can’t see you as husband material for Portia, but you’ll know how to handle her, direct her, and guide her.

  The problem was, he didn’t know how to handle her. Portia both confused and dismayed him. Intelligent and witty, she didn’t give a fig for convention and took too many risks with society’s rules.

  It stung that Robert hadn’t thought he was good enough for Portia. Before the war Robert probably would have been right, but now Grayson wanted a wife, a family, a woman who was a credit to his name.

  After they rescued her, he would hide her away to keep her safe, and never let her go.

  He briefly closed his eyes and prayed they would be in time.

  Chapter 3

  ALEXANDRIA, FEBRUARY 1816

  “They’ll come for you soon.”

  Grayson’s quiet words sent terror and hope coursing through her body in equal measure.

  When Portia had heard his vo
ice on the other side of the small ventilation grate in the wall, she thought she was hallucinating. She’d been kept in the small windowless room for almost three days. The only person she had seen was the man who brought her meals. Perhaps he was a eunuch; she couldn’t tell, but given where she was being held, it was most probable.

  Fear sliced across her stomach and she pushed closer against the wall, as if trying to get to Grayson. Panic like a rising storm swept over her. She was being held captive in a harem. At first the girl within, the girl who craved knowledge and experience, had been excited at the prospect of learning the harem secrets—until she realized why she was here. To her horror, she wasn’t there to be ransomed. She had overheard her kidnappers as they put her on the ship bound for Alexandria. The sultan had acquired her for his bed. She was actually going to be put into his harem against her will. Inexperienced as she was, she wasn’t stupid. She understood that it meant she’d been captured and delivered to the sultan to be used as a sex slave.

  Portia Flagstaff pressed her fingers through the wire mesh, hooking them around Grayson’s as if her life hinged on his. She gave a choked cry. Her life did depend on him. If he couldn’t rescue her, she could find herself trapped and lost here forever. For a woman who loved her freedom and exploring the world, being shut away frightened her more than losing her virginity to a stranger.

  She peered through the small grate. Grayson stood on the other side of the wall, dressed in the flowing robes of an Arab. Thank goodness he was already inside the palace, but there was one of him against hundreds of the sultan’s men.

  “When they come, you’re to submit. Submit and live. I’ll find you, and I will rescue you. But you must survive. Promise me. Don’t do anything to antagonize them. They will hurt you.” His voice was low and urgent, her anchor in this strange and dangerous world.

  “I promise,” she whispered through the small ventilation mesh. If Grayson Devlin, Viscount Blackwood, promised he’d save her, then he would. She did not doubt him.

  “Good girl. I have Philip with me, and we have help from the British consulate. I know you’re strong; however, now would be the time to learn humility.”

  “What will they do with me? I’ve been locked in here for several days.”

  She swore she could hear Grayson mutter, “Thank Christ.”

  She heard footsteps approaching her cell, a key turning in the lock. She gave a small cry.

  “Portia, don’t panic. You’re to be brought before the sultan today. You only have to do two things: submit and survive. For me—please …” His voice held a desperate edge, and she knew the time to face her nemesis had arrived.

  “We will save you. Do you trust me?”

  She gripped his fingers tighter. “Yes. Tell Philip … tell him I’m fine, and that I love him,” she said, choking on her words.

  She heard Grayson growl, “Don’t give up, ever. No matter how long it takes, I will come for you. Don’t think or talk as if you’ll never see him again. We will rescue you. Keep your wits about you and be ready to escape as soon as we can get you.”

  Before she could answer, she heard the sound of someone about to open the door. She quickly moved away from the grate. The Arab who entered her cell didn’t speak. He merely gestured for her to precede him out into the corridor.

  She took a steadying breath and walked with her head held high, Grayson’s words—submit, survive—echoing in her head.

  The minute she stepped through the door two guards fell in behind her. She decided that if she was to stay brave she couldn’t look at her surroundings. So she stayed fixated on the man in front, her eyes focusing on his turban.

  The man wasn’t walking fast, but soon she lost all sense of direction. The warren of passages created a maze she’d never be able to navigate on her own. Panic rose, and her breathing became uneven. She knew it was her imagination, but she swore she could feel the guards’ breath on the back of her neck. She curled her hands into fists, trying to control the surge of fear flooding her veins.

  Soon they came to two huge, ornately carved doors inlaid with gold. Two heavily armed men who barely moved at their approach guarded the door. The man she followed barked some command and they stood aside, allowing Portia and her captors to enter into a room straight out of the Arabian Nights.

  The walls appeared to be alive with gossamer silks waving in the slight breeze. The roof was intricately painted with images of men on horseback galloping over sand dunes. A clap focused her attention on the front of the room, and that’s when the blood really began to pound in her ears.

  At the end of the room sat an enormous throne made of solid gold. Sitting—perhaps the better word was lounging—upon it was a man who was also very large. He wore the most ridiculous turban with a large white feather sticking up from a ruby at the front. His robes could not hide the rotundness of his stomach, but they were a rich blue in color and covered in jewels, a mixture of pearls and diamonds. His face was as round as his belly, his eyes were small little slits, and his mustache was thin; he had a small beard that covered his chin and made him look like evil personified. She swallowed the ever-present fear and faced her nemesis, head held high, the guards still close at her back.

  Grayson would save her.

  The sultan and her guide were having a heated discussion in a language she could not understand. She wished her guide would stop, as whatever he was saying was upsetting the sultan, and she’d rather he not be agitated when she was given an opportunity to speak.

  With a growl and a wave of the sultan’s pudgy hand, her guide bowed low and moved to stand at the base of his mighty throne. Soon the sultan’s beady eyes focused on her, and he beckoned her closer.

  Hands still fisted, she took a step forward. His head moved right and left, up and down, as he surveyed his captive.

  After what seemed like minutes had passed, he spoke to her in very good English with a light Arabic accent. “I don’t know what you have done, but you have a powerful enemy to have ended up here.”

  Portia had no idea what he was referring to. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It is of no importance. Take off your gown.”

  She blinked several times. Had she heard him correctly?

  “Take off your gown or I shall get Hassan to do it for you.”

  She glanced around the huge room. There were many guards lining the walls. She flushed with embarrassment. She was about to open her mouth to refuse when she remembered Grayson’s words. She darted a glance around the room again; was he here? The thought of having to disrobe in front of these men was nothing compared to the thought that Grayson might see her humiliation.

  He’d told her to be strong. Had he known what would happen?

  She obviously did not move fast enough, because the sultan clapped his hands once more, and the man she now knew was called Hassan advanced toward her.

  “I can do it myself if you would help me by undoing the hooks at the back.”

  Hassan stopped midstride, and a look of admiration flashed over his features before his face became a mask of blankness once more. With a curt nod he came behind her and gently began to undo the hooks of her gown. As the material loosened she cursed herself that she had not worn a corset. She’d simply left on her shift, not wanting a corset to be an impediment to Grayson at Vauxhall Gardens. Though that had been many nights ago, now it seemed as though years had passed since then There would be no hiding from anyone now. A small tear escaped and ran down her cheek as the gown dropped to the floor. She quickly wiped it away. Crying would not help her.

  Only Grayson could help her.

  She stood with her arms clamped to her sides, fists curled, her head bowed. Eerie silence filled the room.

  She felt Hassan, at her back, step closer, and he whispered in her ear, “Forgive me, my lady, but the sultan says to remove the undergarments as well.”

  Her head snapped up as she felt his hand on her shoulder untying the bows of her shift at her shoulders. Her breasts would b
e exposed, but she shuddered in horror at the thought they would take the rest of her undergarments. She’d be naked, exposed, stripped for others’ eyes to see what no man had ever seen.

  Her shift fell from her body, and she refrained from covering herself. When she felt Hassan’s hands at her waist, before she could stop herself her head lifted, she looked at the sultan, and she said, “You would let others gaze upon what no man has ever seen and what could be seen by you alone?”

  Hassan’s fingers at her waist hesitated. She swallowed, her mouth dry, watching the sultan speculate.

  He nodded, then barked at Hassan, whose hands halted. To Portia he said, “You do know you are only delaying the inevitable? But I concede your point. No man, you say.” His eyes narrowed, but Portia did not flinch under his gaze. “You are quite old to remain untouched.” She remained silent. “But then I’m told you are the daughter of an earl. I understand the English ways. You must remain unspoiled until your marriage.”

  She could add nothing to this conversation, so she remained silent.

  “However, I wondered if there was a scandal surrounding you. You are quite beautiful, yet you remain unmarried with such a desirable social position. Plus, there is the fact someone wanted you to disappear.”

  “I’m probably worth more to you as a prisoner to be ransomed. However, I warn you, the money you could receive would be limited should I be … that is … if I am not whole when I am returned to England.”

  The sultan gave a small smile and remained silent for a moment. “Ah, my beauty, there are some things worth more than any precious gems. Taking an innocent to my bed, and one as fair as a grain of desert sand with hair the vivid color of a desert sunset, is a jewel to prize above any.”

  Portia’s heart sank as she watched lust fill his eyes. There would be no ransom and no escaping his bed unless Grayson rescued her in time. She had to grit her teeth to stop herself from looking wildly around the room for any sign of him.