She swallowed. "You don't understand."

"You said that before. You're wrong. This is something I understand very well. Ask Zabrie." He undid another button. "We can—"

"Stop it!"

"You don't want me to undress you? Whatever you say." His hand fell away from the buttons and gathered up both her hands in his own. "See, I've stopped." His thumb rubbed slowly, exploringly, over her palm. "Calluses." He turned her hand over and gazed down at it. "Hard and rough. You didn't get these planting flowers in an English garden."

She tried to draw her hand away from him, but his grasp tightened.

"I meant no insult. I like them. They make us akin. I have calluses too." He rubbed his palm over the top of her hand. "Feel them. You see? I know what it is to work so hard I'm tottering on my feet with exhaustion. I understand weariness and discouragement. I understand how you can try and try and still never reach a goal. It's not easy to have to fight every single day, is it?" His voice was caressing, his words weaving silky bonds around her emotions. "That's why we have to reward ourselves when we get the chance."

"I don't have to reward my—"

"Shh . . ." He leaned forward until his mouth hovered over her breast. "I want to see you but perhaps this is better. It's quite arousing seeing what your nipples do to that shirt. Is that why you wear men's things instead of a mask when you come here?"

His breath was warm on her nipple, and the tingling increased between her thighs until it was close to pain. She felt drugged, disoriented . . . yes, it must be the incense. . . .

His head was bent, and she could no longer see those light, glittering eyes, but his sun-streaked hair shone in the lamplight and she had the odd impression of sensual savagery, hovering, about to strike ... or stroke.

His warm tongue touched the tip of her breast through the thin cotton of her shirt.

She gave a low cry, her back arching in a spasm of sensation.

"That's right," he whispered. "Feel me. Need me."

She did need him, she realized dazedly. She had always thought it was men who needed women, that the soft, whimpering cries of pleasure and subjugation she had heard from her mother and the other whores were pretense. Now she had to bite back those same cries as she felt the warmth of this stranger's lips. Dear God, perhaps it wasn't the opium pipe that had seduced her mother and made her a slave, but this same pleasure.

No! She wouldn't be caught like this. She would not be a whore. She would not be a slave. "Let me go!" She broke his grip and leapt to her feet. She fastened her shirt with trembling fingers. "Don't touch me. I'm not a whore."

He didn't try to stop her, nor did he make any attempt to cover his nudity. He merely lay and watched her, graceful, catlike, aroused. "I didn't think you were. I understand from Zabrie that a number of the British wives of the officers from the fort come here to amuse themselves."

"I told you, I'm not English." Her voice was shaking, and she tried to steady it. "It's a mistake. I don't want to fornicate with you."

"I beg to disagree." His gaze lingered on her engorged nipples clearly outlined against her shirt. "You most certainly do."

"It was a mistake," she repeated with sudden fierceness. "I was frightened and off guard."

"Frightened? Of me?"

"No." She backed away from the bed toward the door and then stopped. She couldn't leave until Zabrie came back and unlocked the door. "Not of you."

He sat up and swung his feet to the floor.

She stiffened. "Don't come near me. I have a knife."

"Do you? How very uncivilized." He didn't move from the bed. "I wasn't going to attack you. I can wait for my pleasure since you are apparently reluctant to provide me with it. Won't you sit down?"

Her gaze flew back to his lower body.

"Oh, yes, it's still there." He smiled faintly. "But I can control myself." He studied her strained expression. "Why didn't you run out of here?"

"Zabrie locked the doors."

"Interesting. Was it supposed to make the situation more exciting?"

"No, there's someone here I don't want to see."

He went still. "Who?"

She didn't answer.

"Never mind. It doesn't matter." He rose to his feet and moved over to the table by the door, where he was surrounded by the pool of light cast by the oil lamp. She tried not to look at him, but to no avail. Dear heaven, he was as beautifully exotic as a jungle animal and just as free from shame. His brown hair, bound in a queue, was full of tawny streaks set ablaze by the light. She watched the way the lamp highlighted the arch of his spine and the tightness of his buttocks, the compactness of the muscles of his shoulders. For the first time she noticed the white bandage that was tied around his left shoulder.

He picked up the bottle on the table and poured wine into a goblet. "Would you like a glass?"

"No."

He lifted the glass to his lips. "Who are you afraid of? Is it your lover?"

She didn't answer.

An object lying on the table caught his attention, and a faint smile touched his lips as he picked it up. "This must have been meant for you."

The object was an extravagant mask of brown, black, and turquoise peacock feathers. "Pretty thing. I'd like to see you in it." He held up the mask to his own eyes. "Would you care to oblige me?"

The exotic mask covered the entire top of his face, and a spray of sable peacock feathers jutted out on either side. His blue eyes shimmered through the almond-shaped holes, and the close fit of the mask enhanced the beautiful molding of his cheekbones. The tawny feathers of the mask were the identical shade as the triangle of hair on his chest and surrounding his manhood, and he looked wild, wicked, and completely male, a rare, splendid creature from an alien land. "No, I'd look foolish in it."

"What a shame." He tossed the mask down and half leaned against the table, his mocking gaze fixed on her face. "Now, who could be pursuing you? A husband? Let's see if I can guess. An aging husband who can't please you so you're forced to come here for satisfaction." He lifted the back of his hand melodramatically to his forehead. "But, alas, the husband follows you and hence—"

"Nonsense. I have no husband." She frowned. "And if I did, I would not betray him. Promises should be kept."

"Agreed." He sipped the wine. "Then we're back to the lover." He straightened away from the table and moved over to the bed. "What's his name?"

How long had she been in this room? she wondered desperately. The air seemed thick and hard to breathe and the situation unbearably intimate. Surely Zabrie would come for her soon.

He lay down on the bed and settled himself comfortably against the headboard. "Talk to me. Since it seems we're to be imprisoned together for a while, the least we can do is pass the time as pleasantly as possible."

"I don't have to entertain you."

"Ah, yes, the knife." He smiled as he lifted the wine to his lips. "But I'm strong and quick, and why risk failure when I can be appeased with a little conversation?" He waved at the chair across the room. "Sit down. My name is Ruel MacClaren."

"Ruel. That's a strange name."

"Not in Scotland. It's a very old name. Sit down," he repeated. "Aren't you going to return the courtesy? What's your name?"