Page 98 of Notorious

She remained quiet and Gabriel wished he knew what she was thinking.

* * *

Even in the low light Drusilla could see his expression was pensive.Asking about his past had probably not been wise.After all, it would make no difference to her feelings about Samir. She would take the boy—was in fact eager to meet Gabriel’s son—and did not need to know of his past to accept him.

Likely anything he told her would only make her yearning for him more painful. Already she wasn’t sure if she felt better or worse knowing the boy was the child of a woman who was to have been his wife, rather than one of his mistresses.

And speaking of his mistresses . . .

She swallowed her curiosity along with her jealousy and waited for him to finish. She’d started the boulder rolling and there was no stopping it now.

Drusilla let him think rather than pushing for confidences, taking advantage of the opportunity to study his body.

He’d thrust both hands behind his head, his action unconsciously displaying acres of velvety skin and chiseled muscle. Unfortunately, the blanket covered most of his abdomen and hid that intriguing V of muscle that separated torso from hips. She wished she could light a candle and then spend some time inspecting his body at her leisure, uncovering him, touching him—maybe even licking him. Would he let her do such a thing—the way he had done to her? Was that what one of his mistresses would do for him—to him? The thought was like a sharp stab to her chest. She could not bear thinking about another woman having him in a way she could not. She would ask him—tell him that she wanted to—

“There is—was—a tradition in my father’s family.”

His voice pulled her from her lustful fantasies and Drusilla was glad he was not looking at her. Instead, he was staring up at the canopy.

“When a boy turns fifteen, he is taken from his family and sent off to . . . well, to prove himself, I suppose.” He turned to her. “By the time I was fifteen, there were only three of us—three sons—left. My older brother, Assad, and my much younger brother, Malik.” His mouth creased into a frown. “Malik was a sweet boy—very loving and innocent. But he was simple. He would never offer a challenge for my father’s kingdom.” His frown turned thunderous. “Which should have stopped Assad from—” He broke off and heaved a sigh. “Never mind about that. When I was fifteen, I went to another of my father’s palaces, a smaller holding. Assad had been there for several years already, but my father brought him home.”

“Did you like your older brother?” she asked when he lapsed into thoughtful silence.

“I loved and worshipped him from the moment I could crawl after him. But then—” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Lord, Drusilla, this is a tangled web and—”

She laid a hand on his chest. “You don’t need to tell me anything you do not wish to. We don’t need to speak of this at all. I will accept and grow to love Samir no matter what I know.”

He grabbed her hand in a crushing grip and kissed her knuckles, his lips hot and almost feverish. “You could not have spoken kinder words, Drusilla. It’s been a heavy weight on my mind. Even before our marriage, I worried about his future and what I should do. I’ve long considered how I would tell my mother.”

“Your mother doesn’t know?” she blurted before she could stop herself.

He gave her a wry smile. “I know, foolish, eh? But now that you know, it will be less . . . difficult to tell her. Besides, it was not until recently that I decided that England would not be such a terrible place for him—but I have gone ahead of my story.” He replaced her hand on his chest and absently rubbed it over his skin, brushing it back and forth over his small hard nipples. She was on the brink of losing control of herself and crawling on top of him, but he resumed his tale.

“Fatima’s father was in charge of the palace where I was sent. I’d not seen her much in the prior four years. At one time she’d run freely with the children of my father’s palace. But all that changed when we turned eleven or twelve. Her family moved away, and I only saw her a few times every year.

“But after I went to her family’s home, we became closer. It was not easy to get time away from the eyes of her many chaperones, but we were driven by desire to find ways, and the understanding that we would marry caused us to become . . . careless.” He turned toward her. “We made love. More than once.”

The words were the sharp talons of a raptor. He’d said that he’d made love to Fatima, but was that what had just happened between them? He had certainly never mentioned the word love. Had he merely fucked Drusilla? Thinking the word sent both despair and desire spiraling through her body. Would he ever come to love her or to make love with her?

“I had only been there about half a year when I received word my father was dead and my brother had seized control of the palace.”

“If he was your elder brother, why was he not your father’s heir?”

Gabriel rubbed his thumb over the thin skin on the back of her hand, which he now held over the rippled musculature of his abdomen, moving in ever-widening circles. The gesture seemed absentminded on his part, but she had begun to melt, to become liquid between her thighs. Her body’s response should have been embarrassing, but she could not bring herself to regret the sensations—no matter how much pain it would probably bring her.

“Assad’s mother had poisoned the sultan’s oldest two sons. She’d been careless and over a dozen people died.”

His words made her forget all about the pulsing sensation in her sex.

“My God. What happened?”

“To Isabella?”

“Was that Assad’s mother?”

“Mm-hmm. She was an Italian lady of good birth. She’d given the sultan six children—two of them boys. For years she reigned supreme—until my mother had me.”

“What happened to her—Isabella?”