 
# Paradise Regained

### The King and his Queen

## Jude Knight

### Contents

Paradise Regained

Author's note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Glossary of non-English terms

Coming in 2020

About the Author

Also by Jude Knight
_Copyright 2019 Judith Anne Knighton writing as Jude Knight_

_Publisher: Titchfield Press_

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To marriage, and to the one who has been my partner over many years in rekindling the fire from embers.

# Paradise Regained

James yearns to end a long journey in the arms of his loving family. But his father's agents offer the exiled prodigal forgiveness and a place in Society — if he abandons his foreign-born wife and children to return to England.

With her husband away, Mahzad faces revolt, invasion and betrayal in the mountain kingdom they built together. A queen without her king, she will not allow their dream and their family to be destroyed.

# Author's note

This story is set in an entirely imaginary kingdom hidden high in the mountains on the northeast border between Iran and Turkmenistan. Such kingdoms, called _khanates_ or _kaganates_ , proliferated in the troubled times as one dynasty of Iranian rulers faded and another had not yet come to power.

My story is set in the year that the last Zand ruler died, and the Qajar who would be the first of his dynasty set out to reunify Iran.

At the time, westerners called Iran ' _Persia_ ' after the great empire Alexander the Great conquered more than 2000 years ago, and my hero (who is English) occasionally drops into that term. To those living in Iran, Persia was just one ancient kingdom in what was then called _Eran-shahr_ or _Airan-shahr_ , which means 'the place of the Aryans'. This evolved to become Iran-shahr and, more recently, just Iran.

James's horse is a Turkmen. His descendants today are Akhal Teke, one of the most beautiful horse breeds in the world, famed for their metallic shine, their endurance and their fierce loyalty.

James's people speak a polyglot language created from various Turkic languages and Persian (or Farsi). I've used their words here and there throughout the story. If you can't tell what I meant, look at the glossary at the back.

The page divider used in this book is a few words in Persian: Gamble everything for love. These are the first few words of a poem from the Persian Sufi philosopher poet Jalal al-Din Muhammad Rumi:

> Gamble everything for love.
> 
> If you are a true human being.
> 
> If not, leave this gathering.
> 
> Half-heartedness doesn't reach into majesty.
> 
> You set out to find God, but then you keep stopping for long periods at mean-spirited roadhouses.
> 
> Don't wait any longer.
> 
> Dive in the ocean, leave and let the sea be you.
> 
> Silent, absent, walking an empty road, all praise.

# 1

_1 794: Pari-Daiza Vadi in the Kopet Dag Mountains northeast of Iran_

The courtyard had been designed to catch and hold the fickle warmth of the mountain sun. Even in early winter, Mahzad and her ladies chose to settle in the pavilion, out of the direct heat, though the children and their nursemaids played on the paving by the cross-shaped pool at the centre of the garden.

James had ordered it built: a paradise garden on the Persian _chahar bāgh_ model, centred on water and divided into four quadrants, each richly planted in vivid colours. It had been her wedding present, and somehow, their tribe had managed to keep it a secret from their queen, though the _qaḷʿa_ , the citadel, buzzed with intrigue until James had brought her here, blindfolded.

It had been full summer, and the garden had been glorious but not as beautiful to her eyes as the face of her husband, eyes alight with mischief, with love, and with a promise for later that night when the court was asleep. They had crept down when the _qaḷʿa_ fell silent, giggling when the patrolling guards politely averted their eyes. Mahzad was confident their eldest son, Jamie, had been conceived that night.

She had been so in love, had been convinced that James had forgotten the English woman for whom he was exiled from his home and had fallen in love with her.

Eleven years and eight children later, her love was deeper and stronger than ever, but she no longer believed that James returned the feeling. He was fond of her, yes. He respected her as his wife and queen, _katan_ to his _kagan_ , but the passion of the soul? No. She reached for it with her own and met only the barrier of blank civility with which he armored himself from the world.

When he was home, he was distant if polite, and he had not been home in more than seven months. His trips away had become longer and longer, his letters home more and more formal. He was about the business of their _kaganate_ , which prospered under their rule, but he had never before failed to be home for a birth of one of their children.

Mahzad dropped a kiss on baby Rosemary's dark hair, handed the sleeping baby to the hovering nursemaid, and sent one of her ladies to summon her secretary. She had work to do. She was co-ruler of their people and did not have time to waste mourning the fickleness of men.

The messenger was only halfway down the long side of the garden when Patma came hurrying down the steps from the _zenana_ , the women's section of the palace. Even from the other end of the garden, Mahzad could see that her secretary was agitated about something. She had lost the calm she had adopted as chief of Mahzad's scribes, her usual elegant glide abandoned for a walk that bordered on a run, her eyes wide with excitement. She was not surrounded by the bevy of undersecretaries who carried her desk and writing tools, prepared her ink, ran her messages, and made copies of lesser documents.

No. There they were, just stepping out of the long doors onto the _zenana's_ terrace. Patma must have hurried some distance to have so outstripped them.

The secretary did not pause when she passed Mahzad's messenger, speaking over her shoulder as she skirted a small child pushing a toy pony and hurried up the steps to the pavilion. She stopped at the top of the steps to kick off her footwear before venturing on to the rugs that lay everywhere and then composed herself enough to offer a polite greeting, bowing as she said, "Peace be upon you, my queen."

"Peace, most excellent of scholars," Mahzad responded, inclining her head as she waited for the younger woman to burst with whatever news she carried.

Patma bowed again. " _Katan_ , _serkerde_ Gurban reports possible trouble coming our way from Iran. A caravan, he says, pursued by bandits or possibly soldiers."

Mahzad squelched the fleeting hope that the commander of her forces was in error; that the approaching group was James and his men, returning at last. Gurban would make no such mistake, and besides, James would be coming from north of the mountains, not south. His last letter put him on the shores of the Caspian, the great inland sea that separated the khanates of Turkmenistan from the shifting borders between Russia and Iran in the Caucasian Mountains.

"How large a force?" she asked.

"The _serkerde_ says three long strings of camels, and the caravan also has horses and carts. The pursuers are further back, except for those harassing the tail of the caravan. The _serkerde_ has sent men to count them, but they must surely have more men than the caravan, do you not think? Or why would it flee?"

"More men, or better armed, or better trained. Is Gurban son of Azat waiting to report to me?" She stood, assuming the answer would be "yes," and kept her face impassive when Patma shook her head.

"He has ridden out with a force to secure the pass, excellency."

"Then we shall follow." Mahzad was already heading for the palace, throwing out orders to send her attending maids scurrying to fetch her riding clothes, her personal guard, her horse.

She was ruler here in her husband's absence. She should have been appraised of the threat by her military commander, should have been the one to decide how to deal with it. Not that she disagreed with his decision. Secure the pass, of course. Keep both sets of intruders out, and settle their differences beyond the valley Mahzad and James protected.

Gurban thought women should engage in the virtues and tasks of the hearth and leave military action and rulership to men. Never mind that Mahzad had fought alongside James since the first bandit attack on their caravan fifteen years ago and been co-ruler with him since they overcame the robber chief who formerly tyrannised this hidden valley. Invited to stay and make it their kingdom, they had renamed it Pari Daiza, the enclosed garden.

Her military commander was loyal to James, but James had been gone a long time. What if...

She shook off her fears. At least he had sent to tell her what was happening.

Which reminded her. "How did you come to carry the _serkerde's_ message, Patma?"

"He came to the schoolroom, my lady. To fetch Jamie _beg_ and Matthew _beg_ to ride with him..." Patma faltered as Mahzad stopped abruptly.

"And?" Mahzad prompted.

"I heard what he told the young princes, my lady, and came to inform you."

Ah, yes. Patma would have been giving the older children their thrice-weekly lessons in calligraphy. Mahzad lengthened her stride so her court had to hurry to catch up. If Patma had not been giving that lesson, Gurban would have carried off Mahzad's two eldest sons with Mahzad none the wiser.

Gurban son of Azat had gone too far.

_A fishing port on the west coast of the Caspian Sea_

"I should have been home months ago," James complained. He had been rereading the letter that kept him tethered in this Caspian Sea port, as if it would miraculously change and disclose the reason he was being asked to wait. Hints about his father and news to his advantage? The Duke of Winshire never did anything to anyone's advantage but his own.

"We could not travel in this weather, and when the storm is over, your father's men will be able to cross the sea," his body guard Yousef pointed out.

James tossed the letter into the top of the open pack that held his clothes. The one next to it, with the odd bumpy protrusions, was packed tightly with presents for Mahzad and the children, some to celebrate his homecoming and some for Christmas which was mere weeks away.

Toys. Books. Swords. He and Mahzad had agreed the two older boys were ready for real weapons, half-sized to suit their height. Matthew, in particular, had an instinct for sword craft, both the Eastern and the Western style.

The small swords commissioned from a Spanish master sword maker might be a little large, depending on how quickly the boys had grown in the months he'd been away. The largest of the three blades was intended not for his sons but for his wife, a beautiful weapon, graceful, elegant, and deadly. Mahzad would love it.

"The _begum's_ last letter said she was well," Yousef added, which set James pacing again, for in Mahzad's last letter, she had reminded him her time was almost on her. As if she thought he didn't know. As if he wasn't counting the days.

The date on her letter was weeks ago, and still, he lingered here more than two hundred miles from home. He had never before missed the birth of one of their children.

"The baby will be born by now."

Someone would write, surely, if things had gone wrong? His tortured visions of his Mahzad dying in childbed and his children killed or sold to slavers were nonsense.

Yousef, who had begun as his jailor nearly two decades ago and become his best friend, easily followed his thoughts. "The son of Azat is a reliable man, and the people are loyal."

Peter was busy polishing a high shine into the Western style boots James had purchased in Italy. As always, he took a gloomier view. "Childbirth is a chancy business," he intoned.

James usually ignored his valet's determination to see the clouds behind every silver lining, but today's remark matched his own imaginings too closely for comfort.

Yousef snorted. "Mahzad _begum_ has birthed seven children without difficulty, and they know where we are. If she needs our lord, a fast rider would reach us in two days. Three at most."

_Which means_ , James thought, _that Mahzad doesn't need me, which I already knew_.

Oh, they still worked together well, and she always treated him with courtesy, even affection. But she was so busy with the children, with the business of the kingdom. Even in their bed, she seemed to be thinking about something else.

That had been at least part of the motivation for this long trip. Only a small part. Someone had to check a possible shipping venture as a sound way to invest the wages he and his people had earned guarding caravans through the mountain passes. He was the best person for the job, since he spoke the languages of the places in the Mediterranean where they'd need to go to secure docking-rights and had friends in most of the them. He was English, which wasn't ideal in Italy and France, but certainly more to his motley tribe's advantage than sending a Persian or Turkmen to deal with people in those countries. The land route to avoid the Ottoman Empire meant learning Russian, but he'd always picked up languages quickly.

"I am going to check on the horses," he announced. Anything to take his mind of the endless waiting.

Yousef fell into step behind him as he crossed the outer room where most of their party lounged at their ease, dicing or drinking tea. One or two made to rise to their feet, but Yousef waved them down.

In this benighted hole of a fishing village, the only inn took no more than fifty guests and their animals and was currently less than half full. It was built on the _caravanserai_ model, a series of interlinked courtyards, each lined with rooms and niches.

James led the way down the stairs, along halls, and through repeated arches until they came out into the large outer courtyard, surrounded by a long colonnade of arches that led to stabling and other housing for riding and pack animals. Melegush was tethered where he could see the courtyard, and he whickered imperatively as the two men approached.

"My golden one," James greeted him.

He had raised the horse from a foal, and there was a deep affection between them not marred by the months Melegush had spent in Astrakhan waiting for James to return from his mission. And providing stud services in partial payment of his board, which Melegush had undoubtedly taken as no more than his due.

Yousef saluted his own horse, and the two men settled to grooming their animals.

"If these agents of my father are not here by the end of the week, they can wait till next Spring," James said. "I'm not missing Christmas with my family for the old man's convenience."

"News to your advantage," Yousef mused. "What could it be, I wonder?"

From the next bay in the colonnade came the jingle of harness and the hum of voices speaking in Turkmen. Melegush and the other horses were about to have neighbours.

James switched to English to answer Yousef's question. "I neither know nor care. It will be to the duke's advantage, not mine."

"An Englishman? Here?"

The speaker stood in the archway, far more incongruous in this setting than the dark-haired James in his robes. An Englishwoman, and not just any Englishwoman but, by the few words she had spoken, one of his own class. Taller than average, with the fair hair so prized here in the middle-East, probably only her age had kept her from being snapped up as a concubine for some local despot. He'd put her in her late thirties or early forties, about the same age as himself, though time had been relatively kind to them both. Here, on the western coast of the Caspian Sea, in a small Turkmen fishing village, she wore a Western carriage dress, riding boots, and a pert bowl-shaped hat with a nonsense of a veil.

James recalled his manners and bowed, a slight inclination, playing her words back to her with an ironic quirk of his brows. "An Englishwoman? Here?"

That earned him a laugh, and he revised his estimate of her safety as the humour transformed her face, stripping away the years. He hoped she had plenty of guards and the money to keep them loyal.

In the next moment, she narrowed her brows, peering intently at him. "James? Lord James Winderfield? But it cannot be!"

Someone who'd known him? And well enough to call him by his first name? There was something familiar about her, but he couldn't call it to mind.

"Because I am rumoured to be dead?" he asked.

"Yes." The lady nodded. "Eleanor was heartbroken."

Even after all these years, his own heart caught at the thought of Eleanor. She suffered? But then, she had married the Duke of Haverford, and undoubtedly, his wealth and position had been a comfort. _No. That was unfair_. With James gone and her father and his two ducal friends pushing for the alliance, what choice did she have?

James spread his hands. "I am not dead."

"Evidently. Then why..." She caught back whatever she had been about to say. "You don't remember me, do you? Cecily Warren, I was back then. Cecily McInnes, now."

Ah. He did remember. In those days, his attention had been all for Eleanor Creydon, younger daughter of the Earl of Farnmouth, youngest debutante and reigning beauty of the Season. Perforce, he had met the circle of other girls she had gathered around her, generously sharing her success. In the mature woman before him, he saw traces of the gawky girl he remembered, an awkward leggy filly not yet grown into the unconscious grace and beauty Eleanor wore as her birthright.

He remembered Alec McInnes, too, another of Eleanor's suitors. Without rank, wealth, or looks to recommend him, poor Alec had never been in serious contention. As it turned out, nor had any of them, Falmouth having made his diabolical compact with Haverford before Eleanor ever stepped into a ballroom.

"Is Alec with you?" he asked, and was sorry when a wash of pain swept over her face before being absorbed by her studied calm.

"Alec has been gone for almost two decades, Lord James." She lowered her chin and looked up at him through her lashes. "I am a widow."

Flirting had not been one of Cecily Warren's talents as a young woman, but she had clearly had some practice in the last twenty years. Time to remind the lady that they were not alone.

"Mrs. McInnes, allow me to present my friend, Yousef ibn Ahmed. Yousef, Mrs. McInnes is an old friend from my youth."

Cecily could not quite hide the flash of surprised shock, as if he had introduced her to his horse, but she recovered smoothly, dropping a shallow curtsey. "I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Ahmed. Or is it Mr. Yousef?"

Yousef's eyes gleamed, and he bent closer, as if to impart a secret. "Let us solve the conundrum, Mrs. McInnes, by being friends. Yousef will do."

She flushed and dimpled at Yousef's clear interest. "Then you must call me Cecily, Yousef, as must you, James, and we shall be friends together."

Let them flirt with one another and leave him out of it, James thought, but he gave a half smile in agreement and allowed himself to be persuaded to join Yousef in escorting the lady to her rooms and checking the disposition of her guard.

"How fortunate for me that you were here," she said.

Which raised the question the reason behind her presence, which seemed highly unlikely. But such a chatty woman would undoubtedly tell all if he gave her half a chance. James had only to wait.

Cecily allowed herself an inward smile of congratulation as she prattled about the discomforts of her trip around the southern shores of the Caspian Sea. Step one of her mission was accomplished. Lord James Winderfield was precisely where she had been told, and she had made contact. Before she had been ten minutes in the _caravanserai_ , in fact!

He was even more handsome than he'd been twenty years ago. Seducing him would not be a chore, though it was a pity about his friend, who was even more to her taste. Perhaps they could be persuaded to share? But that would not suit the plan, would it? She needed to remember what was at stake and not allow herself to be distracted.

# 2

_P ari-Daiza Vadi_

Gurban and her two sons were atop the wall James had ordered built in the narrow winding pass that was the main entry to their valley. Mahzad ignored the pull in unused muscles as she climbed the stair, grateful for her mare's easy gait and the relatively short distance between the palace and the pass. She had not been on a horse since her seventh month of pregnancy, but she would be sure to make time for riding after today.

She forced her steps into a graceful glide, pleased to see the welcome on the faces of her two boys and most of the other men. She was still _katan_ , the queen, mother, and heroine of the people, though most of those on this wall were too young to remember how she and James defeated their oppressor and set them free.

Gurban's eyebrows nearly met as he frowned, even as he shifted from one foot to another and shot a glance sideways at his officers. Annoyed and nervous, was he? Mahzad could work with that.

She smiled. "Peace be upon you, _serkerde_ , and thank you for your devotion to the people." At the acknowledgement of his rank and purpose, some of the tension went from his shoulders. "I received your message and have come straight away. Do we know yet who these strangers are?"

_There. Now embarrass me and yourself in front of my sons and the men or take my lead._

He was no fool, the _serkerde_. "Peace be upon you, Lady. No, though both groups are dressed and armed in the Persian style."

"Look, Mama," said young Jamie. "The camels keep coming, though they must see us here on the wall. What should we do?"

"Keep them all out, of course," Matthew answered, scornfully. "Should we not, Mama?"

Another palm leaf for Gurban. " _Serkerde_? Has this young warrior the right of it?"

As she waited for his answer, she unslung her bow. She was accomplished enough with a blade, thanks to many hours of tutoring by the children's father, but unmatched with the bow. If the intruders thought to enter the valley, she would help to change their minds.

Gurban read her intent, and a reluctant smile pulled at the corner of his lips. "Matthew _beg_ is correct," he pronounced, more to his soldiers than to her sons, "as is our _katan_. She has her bow at the ready."

"Ho the gate!" The shout, in Persian, confirmed the origin of the caravan. The first camel had emerged from the twisting path, coming out onto the flat patch before the gate twenty yards away, its rider cupping his hand as he bellowed.

Gurban confirmed that Mahzad had won at least this challenge to her authority by looking to her for permission to respond. She nodded, and he moved forward, gesturing as he went so that several of the guard moved to put themselves and their shields between the intruders' possible arrows and Mahzad and her sons. _Well thought, Gurban_.

"What seek you in the valley of the mountain king?" Gurban shouted.

He spoke Persian clearly, if with a Turkmen accent. Indeed, their people were polyglot by necessity, reflecting their many origins: Turkmen, Persian, Chinese, Mughal, Arab, Caucasian, and even African, as well as their English leader. The original valley people were already of mixed ancestry. The guard who had absconded with her and James from the service of her father added an even wider mix, since most had been slaves captured in pirate or military adventures from the far edges of the Muslim world. Many others—Silk Road travellers and local tribespeople—had chosen to join them as they made a success of guarding the caravans that crossed or skirted the mountains.

"Refuge and sanctuary," the herald called back.

Gurban signaled for his archers to put arrow to bow and aim. "Return the way you came."

"We are pursued," the herald shouted, looking back along the mountain trail.

Those chasing them were not yet in view, but the herald's own party had now all reached the empty space before the gate, carefully altered by James's engineers to be within bow shot of walls and without cover.

The herald seemed to realise this, shrinking a little as if to make himself a smaller target then stretching out again. "We come in peace."

"You have no business here," Gurban said sternly. "Return the way you came. Take your enemies with you."

One of the camels was kneeling, and someone was being helped to the ground, a woman so wrapped in a chador that even her gender was a deduction. The herald turned his camel, which strode toward her as she hurried through the waiting crowd. From the wall, they couldn't hear his words, but his tone was enough to suggest argument. One that he lost, for the woman pressed forward.

Gurban raised his arm, ready to give the signal to fire.

"Wait," Mahzad said, whether out of curiosity or premonition, she could not have said.

Gurban frowned but obeyed.

The woman stopped just a few feet from the foremost of the camels, her servants hovering behind her.

"Mahzad," she shouted, in English. "Mahzad, is that you? It is Grandmother. I have come to visit."

_Caspian Sea coast_

"We are going home," Yousef explained to Cecily, who had joined them for dinner at their fire, bringing her chief guard with her. James was happy to let him carry the burden of the conversation, while James brooded about the distance that still separated him from his family.

Yousef was also yearning for the valley. "We left in the spring, and it is now winter. It will be good to be at our own hearths again."

"Home," she said, with a sigh. She looked down at the signet ring she wore on the middle finger of her left hand, a man's ring surely, and an old one too, gold and crowned in a star. "A star to lead you home." Looking up, she met James's eyes. "The promise of the ring. It is from Viking times, or so they say, and is meant to be good luck for travellers." More quietly, she added, "I, too, have been away from home for a long time."

"What adventures bring you here, Cecily?" James asked. He had been burning with curiosity all afternoon. Had McInnes left her with enough wealth to travel? He would not have thought so, though she may have had other wealthy relatives to endow her in twenty years.

She chuckled, the wistful expression on her face disappearing as if it had never existed. "Too long a tale for such an evening, Lord James. We would be here all night, you and Yousef asleep from boredom, long before I was done."

As she had all evening, she ignored Peter and her own guard, a Turk from Istanbul called Kamal. The Turkmen habit of regarding all men as equal, and of treating servants as family, was much more to James's taste, but she could not help her upbringing. He would try not to hold it against her.

"Suffice it to say," she continued, "that I left home to broaden my horizons, and I am now ready to return to England." She turned to Yousef, leaning slightly toward him, and James was amused to realise she was trying to make him jealous. "I love the East, Yousef, but I miss my own land. I miss the green hills and the trees and flowers of home. I even miss the rain."

"Have you been to Persia, Cecily?" Yousef asked. "You would love the gardens of Persia."

"Persia, Lebanon, Turkey, Egypt." Cecily sighed. "They all have their beauties. None of them are home."

Yousef quoted the thirteenth century Sufi poet, Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī.

_"I burst my breast, striving to give vent to sighs, and to express the pangs of my yearning for my home. He who abides far away from his home is ever longing for the day he shall return."_

Cecily laughed, a light studied tinkle of a sound. "You must translate for me. I fear my grasp of Persian is insufficient."

But sufficient enough to know that, of all possible languages, Yousef the Egyptian had spoken Persian.

Yousef obliged with the translation, and Cecily's eyes lit in a smile.

"Just so," she agreed.

James had clearly spent too long with connivers and tricksters, when he suspected a chance met Englishwoman—an old friend, furthermore—of lying about how well she spoke Persian. The Persian poets were the best in the world, or so said the Persians. And she would know that, if she'd travelled as broadly as she said. He shook off his doubts, although with a mental note to assume he and his party could not discuss secrets in front of Cecily in any language.

"How far to your home?" Cecily addressed the question to Yousef.

He answered easily but in general terms. A vague wave to the South West. The number of days' easy ride. Yousef waxed lyrical about crossing the desert in the spring, and James grumbled that they should have been home long since. The Turkmenistan desert in early winter could be a bleak place. They would need to carry all the feed for their animals and travel fast in the hopes of avoiding being caught by a storm.

"Ah." Cecily nodded, twisting the Viking ring to and fro on her finger. "You have been away longer than you intended. I likewise, but your home is merely a few days ride, gentlemen. I have much further to go. Still, I daresay to be away so long you have travelled far? To Egypt, perhaps?"

"To Egypt, the Hellenes, Lebanon. Even Spain and Algeria," Yousef boasted, preening a little under the Englishwoman's flirtatious gaze.

There was no reason for James to find that annoying. She was a widow and Yousef a single man, both of them adults. If they found one another attractive, it was none of James's business. Any concern he might feel was simply as a friend to them both.

"A long trip," she observed. "No wonder you have been away so long."

That prompted Yousef to tell some of their adventures: being blown off course, fighting corsairs, negotiating their freedom with the Turks and later the Italians. Their accommodations in Istanbul were more comfortable and the Ottoman officials more courteous, but Yousef still had fond memories of the Italian prison guard's daughter.

Cecily listened with every evidence of enjoyment, occasionally turning with sparkling eyes to James to ask him a question or make a comment. When they finally parted for their beds, James was surprised to discover how quickly the evening had passed.

# 3

_P ari-Daiza Vadi_

_Mamani_ , Mahzad's grandmother, made herself at home in Mahzad's garden, her own ladies and maids hovering around her. She had grown old and frail in the fifteen years since they last met, but was still every inch Mahroch _begum_ , formerly Lady Emma Finstanley, the imperious English lady who had ruled her son's _zenana_ with a firm but compassionate hand.

"Ask for anything you wish, _Mamani_ ," Mahzad told her.

"It is your home, dearest," she insisted. "I do not want to inconvenience you in the slightest. But if I could just have my couch moved a little out of the breeze..."

Mahzad distracted her by bringing the children to be introduced, admired, and fussed over.

Mahzad's father Garshasp was less easily managed. He had made himself known, stepping out from among the ranks of the camel drivers once the gates were firmly shut between his caravan and the pursuing soldiers. They were Qajar troops, loyal to Mohammad Khan, whom James had long picked as the likely winner of the struggle for Iran.

Garshasp had bathed, shaved, and dressed once more in the princely robes of a _khan_ , _khan_ , furthermore, of a province left almost independent by the disintegration of Zand Iran. He graciously forgave his daughter for escaping his control twenty years ago. He then began giving orders for the defence of the valley from the soldiers he'd brought down upon them.

"At least," Mahzad whispered to baby Rosemary as she fed her, "Gurban is firmly my supporter again. Even a woman is better than an arrogant Persian interloper."

She could hear the arrogant Persian interloper at the doors, the guards firmly telling him that he could not enter the women's quarters of the palace.

"Is this not my daughter's house?" he demanded. "I am master here."

"Our _kagan_ is master here, and our _katan_ is his deputy in his absence," one of the guardsmen replied. Luka. He had been a slave with James and would walk through hell for the man who returned to him his freedom and his dignity. The _Khan_ would not be entering today.

"Go to the doors," Mahzad told one of the older maids, "and ask my father to wait for me in the audience rooms. Arrange for food and drink to be served. Tell him I am feeding his granddaughter but will come as soon as I can."

She sent more messages, for this was unlikely to be a fond reunion between father and daughter. Her grandmother had once before chosen to support Mahzad rather than Garshasp _Khan_. Perhaps she would again. The others were her own people, hers and James's. Patma as her secretary. For secular wisdom, the village headman and the wise woman, as well as Gurban _serkerde_. For spiritual guidance, the priest of the small Chaldean Christian Church and the _mojtahed_ who ruled in their little mosque. The two men were fierce chess opponents, warm friends, and devoted allies in the welfare of the village.

She arrived to find her father and Gurban glaring at one another, while Patma cowered behind Gurban.

Garshasp spun toward her, his voice booming in the tone that used to frighten her into obedience when she was a child. "Daughter, this man of yours has offered me insult. I want him whipped."

Gurban made to protest but shut his mouth at Mahzad's gesture. She sank gracefully onto the pillows scattered around the seating area of the room and beckoned Patma to her. The girl scurried to her side, her eyes wide with fright.

"Are you hurt, my dear?" Mahzad asked.

Garshasp raised his voice again, "Daughter, this man—"

Mahzad made the shushing gesture again, not turning to look at her father. "Patma?"

"No, _begum_. The _serkerde_ came before his excellency..."

Mahzad gave the trembling girl a hug, just as a bustle at the doors announced the arrival of the people from the village. Gurban raised his brows, and Mahzad nodded, sending him to ask them to wait a moment.

With only Patma as witness, who deserved to hear, Mahzad said, "Great Khan," his formal title, "I will require none of the women under my protection to warm your bed. Not the lady Patma, not the least of my maidservants. As it is, you have frightened and attempted to molest the daughter of one of the most powerful men in these parts and insulted me and my husband, since we promised her parents we would care for her as if she were our own daughter. You owe a debt to the _serkerde_ , who prevented you from committing an even worse offence."

Garshasp opened his mouth. By the gleam in his eye and the lift of his chin, he was ready to argue, but Gurban was ushering in the valley leaders, spiritual and temporal, and he subsided. The door opened again, and Grandmother glided in, hurrying forward when she saw the others were before her.

Mahzad hissed, "Let us leave this private family matter until later." She pitched her voice to be heard throughout the room and began the introductions.

_Caspian Sea Coast_

"I saw a magpie," Peter announced mournfully. "Just one, my lord."

"Indeed."

James was barely listening. A break in the weather had tempted him out for a ride, and he had returned to news that another Englishman had arrived at the _caravanserai_. The man had asked after Jakob beg Pari-daiza, not Lord James Winderfield, so it might not be his father's agent. James had used his Eastern name and title only in Turkey when he visited this year, not while in the European countries, nor had he written it on the letter of condolence he'd sent his father after he had heard his brother Edward had died.

On the off chance the man was not from the Duke of Winshire, James washed and dressed in the mix of Turkmen and Persian clothing most of his people preferred.

"One for sorrow," Peter reminded him, reaching out to fasten the tightly fitted neck-high silk overcoat.

James brushed away his valet's hands. "But whose sorrow, Peter? My father's? He has lost a son, after all."

Peter shook his head. "Three people passed me on the stair when I came back from fetching water, my lord. Three! We cannot expect this meeting to turn out well."

James, who was nervous about the coming encounter, was not as sympathetic as usual. "You had better stay here, then, Peter, since the ill luck seems to be targeting you."

He left his valet touching wood and muttering about a black cat in the stables, which would bring good luck if he could only persuade it to allow him to stroke it.

A servant escorted James to the meeting, Yousef at his shoulder. Two men waited in an inner room on the highest level of the _caravanserai_. A fire kept the place almost too warm and rugs brightened the floor. The flickering light from lamps and the fire didn't disguise the shabbiness of the furniture. Western chairs! Had the _caravanserai_ dug them up from somewhere? Or did this pair carry them with them?

The younger man, fair haired and clean shaven, was getting to his feet, and the other, burlier and bearded, reluctantly followed.

"Lord James Winderfield?" The fair man offered a welcoming smile and a handshake. The accent was English and carefully educated.

James took the offered hand, a firm and business-like grasp and still the man smiled, baring his teeth.

"I am. And you, sir?"

"Gerald Redding, my lord, but most people call me Gerry. Very much at your service. And at your father's, of course."

That settled that question. James prepared himself to resist the long-distance machinations of the Duke of Winshire.

Redding was continuing with the introductions. "This is my colleague, Nikolai Michaelov."

The Russian offered his hand, and James found himself in a subtle wrestling match, smiling into the dark eyes as he returned the grip with interest.

James completed the introductions. "My friend, Yousef ibn Ahmed."

Redding blinked but showed no more surprise, greeting Yousef as enthusiastically as he had James. Michaelov repeated his strength test with similar results.

"I will send for another chair," Redding announced.

James politely refused. "I have spent two decades in the East, Mr. Redding, and am accustomed to sitting on cushions."

Redding declared himself delighted, following James's and Yousef's example in dropping to the floor, but Michaelov, scowling, declared he would take a chair if no one else did.

"Coffee, my lord?" Redding asked, waving to a table where a spirit stove and pot stood waiting.

James and Yousef accepted and followed Redding's lead in a general conversation about the weather and the scenery and the discomfort of a trip in a fishing boat across the Caspian Sea.

_What was Father's link with Russia?_ James had chosen the route across the Caspian Sea and through Russia and Ukraine to avoid the Ottoman Empire and stay in Christian lands. Was Mikhailov's presence unconnected? _Time would tell, but let them be the first to speak of the business that brought them here._

Somewhere, Redding had learned to make good coffee in the Eastern style, even providing sugar cubes to put between one's teeth through which to suck the rich bitter liquid from the tiny cups he produced from a case.

Michaelov shifted restlessly as he accepted his cup and said in Russian, "Give him the letter, and let's get this over with, Zjerry."

Nothing in James's face or Yousef's would have given the pair a clue that James spoke a little Russian and understood a lot more.

"Can we speak in English, please?" he asked to secure the advantage. "Or I also speak Farsi and Turkmen."

"Also Italian, French, and Spanish, or so I am told," Redding gushed. "So many languages! I suppose they have been useful in your travels? They tell me you have been securing harbour rights for ships. Do you have a large fleet?"

Was this interest from the duke? Or did his agents have other irons in the fire? Still, what Redding had said so far was no secret.

"Moderate," James replied. "An investment with a group of friends."

Yousef, one of the friends, shifted to clear the way to the dagger he wore under his robes. Yousef, too, felt the hostility radiating off the Russian.

Enough. "You have a message for me, I believe, Mr. Redding."

"Yes, of course." Redding dug into the bag from which he had already taken the jar with the coffee and the case with the cups to produce a folded document plain but for the name J. Winderfield and heavy encrustations of wax marked with the Winshire seal.

"The duke's letter, my lord. Also," he reached again into the bag, "one from your sister, Lady Georgiana."

James took the letters, tucking them inside his robe, and then stood. "Thank you, gentlemen. I appreciate your coming so far to deliver these. I hope my father paid you well."

"Oh, but..." Redding caught back whatever else he was about to say, and Michaelov just scowled.

"I would lay you any kinds of odds," James murmured to Yousef as they threaded the halls back to their own rooms, "that they have been paid to take me back to England." He laughed. "Not without an army. Not here so close to our own lands."

As expected, the duke's letter was a demand for James to return to England immediately. "You are now third in line. Your brother's wife has given him only three children, two of them useless girls, and nothing for years. The boy is sickly, so there is every chance you will step into my shoes after Sutton."

James shuddered at the thought. His eldest brother, the Earl of Sutton, had been the Duke of Winshire's pet, his lap dog and his whipping boy for as long as James could remember, under constant surveillance, never allowed an independent thought or action.

He turned to his sister's letter. It was a passionate plea for him to return to England, the emotional turns of phrase highly unlike the contained and dignified Lady Georgiana he remembered. Either she had changed or... yes, there it was. The little English rose carefully inscribed as a decoration to the salutation. What follows meant the opposite of what it said.

James searched the letter. All of the sentences had symbols instead of full stops, most of them roses but here and there a tiny heart, which meant what follows is true.

He read the letter again. She was thrilled to know he lived. If he came home, their father would have him married and breeding almost before he hit the shore. She would love it if he could find a way to write. She then gave him one, clever girl.

"Rose symbol. Of course, when you come home, you will not need to write. Heart symbol. Do you remember Henry Redepenning? He is a general with the Horse Guard and a dear friend."

The letter was signed "Lady Georgiana Winderfield." So, Georgie had successfully resisted their father's attempts to marry her to his advantage. Good for her.

James had met with Gerry and Nikolai. Cecily had watched from her own rooms as Gerry let him and his handsome friend in and then farewelled them. She could read nothing from James's expression, but Gerry was clearly upset, though he should not be surprised. She had warned them that James never did what was expected. He hadn't as a young man, and why would twenty years of independence have changed that?

She needed him to go back to England and to take her with him. Nikolai's master, the Russian Ambassador to the Ottoman Court, had purchased her from her Turkish protector and promised her freedom if she helped secure the English lordling. She had thought of running as soon as she was away from Nikolai's constant surveillance, but where would she go? Freedom was a good start but wouldn't last without a ticket home and money to live on once she arrived.

She was so tired of depending on the whims of a man, though she would make an exception for James Winderfield. She'd always liked him, but he'd only had eyes for Eleanor Creydon. Perhaps he would keep her as a mistress. Perhaps, if she played her cards right, she could even be his wife. Wouldn't that be one in the eye for all those who had despised her for her inability to win status within a _seraglio_ by producing a son for any of her various masters?

# 4

_P ari-Daiza Vadi_

"I am so proud of you, Mahzad," _Mamani_ said. "Eight children and four of them sons! The mother of a son has power, my love. You shall rule through one of them when he succeeds his father."

Mahzad did not argue that such a result depended on her living longer than James, and she would not wish to live were he not in the world. _Mamani_ was proud of her son, but all her love was for the granddaughter given to her to raise after the death of the Khan's Chinese concubine.

_Mamani_ ignored her silence. "A daughter is a token for her father to use. A wife can have some small influence until some other female catches her husband's interest. But the mother of a son!" _Mamani_ clapped her hands. "She has power, Mahzad. The child who fed at her breast, whose first words she heard, who praised his accomplishments and mourned with him at his losses. He will listen to his mother."

It was one of _Mamani's_ favourite sayings, last heard when Mahzad had threatened open rebellion at the news her father intended to use her to buy the favour of the most powerful contender for the throne of Iran in the civil war that followed the death of Karim Khan. Ali-Morād Khan Zand planned a diplomatic mission to the East, all the way to China, seeking allies by giving gifts, and he expected his supporters to provide treasures, including concubines and wives, for the expedition.

_1779: North Khorisan Province, Iran_

"You will be destined for the Emperor's own women's quarters, Mahzad," _Mamani_ said. "As a wife, no less. Just imagine! Your son could be Emperor."

Only, Mahzad wanted to say, if they could successfully avoid trouble in the broken lands that had once been the Uzbek empire. Only if she had sons. Only if one of those sons survived the machinations of the _zenana_ and then of the _divan_ , the government bureaucracy, to become ruler. She had no intention of putting all her faith in a child as yet not even conceived, but she could clearly expect no support from her grandmother, so she said nothing.

She was not the only high-ranking trophy bride in the caravan. They would negotiate their way East, giving gifts to the rulers of kingdoms and cities along the way, and most of the other girls felt as she did.

"But what can we do?" asked Fatimah, daughter of a satrap and his Uzbekistan concubine and therefore probably the first to be traded for the safety of the caravan. "That Englishman of your grandmother's has us closely watched."

Fatimah was another favoured daughter, allowed freedoms and training beyond the feminine arts, petted and praised by her father, and then sent to be used with as little compunction as if she were a pawn of ivory or jet, rather than flesh and blood.

"How much do you wish to escape?" Mahzad asked.

In the end, nine of them made the attempt, including Mahzad's maid. The other three promised to cover for them and helped them gather the men's clothes they would wear to avoid the risks of women travelling without a male escort.

Their chance came after a bandit attack in the mountains. The would-be robbers were killed or driven off, and the triumphant guard relaxed around their fires, celebrating their success, while Mahzad and her friends followed the English _serveries'_ instructions to stay in their tent. "Drunk men may forget themselves, princess," he told her. "And I would not wish to have to cut off a man's hand because one of you failed to hide when I told you to."

After midnight, as the noise around the men's fires died down, the runaway brides kissed their friends goodbye. They had long since sent their maids off to bed, and now, they helped one another into their new clothes, shushing one another's giggles as they struck male poses.

They were nine slim lads, gliding through the shadows to the horse pickets, where the guards, praise be to all the saints, nodded over a jug of wine.

Each woman saddled and bridled her own horse, and Mahzad breathed another prayer of thanks. Some of them had never waited on themselves in their whole pampered lives. The travel and the English _serkerde's_ insistence that they each learn to do some of the daily tasks, such as looking after their own horses, had hardened them and readied them for this adventure.

Mahzad was about to give the order to mount when one of the guards lifted his head and spoke.

"Going somewhere, princess?"

Startled, she could do nothing but stare into the face of the Englishman who commanded the caravan. Jakob. James, as his own people said it. In that frozen moment, the other three guards moved, standing and raising their weapons.

The other brides looked to Mahzad. _For orders or for inspiration?_ She raised her chin. She was descended from royal houses in China, Persia, Turkmenistan, and England, and would not give up.

"You are four, and we are nine," she pointed out. "We are leaving, James _Beg_."

"I am impressed," he replied, and his eyes gleamed. "I would not have thought of men's clothes."

"We are leaving," she repeated, clutching at her mare's reins until the horse sidled.

"Princess, I made a promise to your grandmother that I would defend you against all dangers. How can I do that if I let you leave?"

"You are four, and we are nine," she repeated, but even she was unconvinced. Nine pampered ladies who had never used their weapons in earnest against four hardened warriors?

"Forgive me. I have not made myself clear. If I let you leave without me, I should have said. But I have no more desire than you ladies," he bowed to include them all, "to continue with this mission now it has brought us within reach of our freedom. Will you consent to take us as partners in your escape?"

_1794, Caspian Sea coast_

* * *

James regarded the Russian and the Englishman across the delicately hand-knotted silk and woolen rug. He may have made a tactical error in wearing European clothes. He'd thought to emphasise to Redding and Michaelov that he was English and a duke's son and to be treated with respect. Instead, they appeared to have taken the message that he was ready to abandon the life he had built here in the Middle East and crawl back to accept whatever crumbs fell from his father's table.

Their contempt and condescension grew as the interview, if you could call it that when he sat silent and impassive, continued.

At his shoulder, Yousef bristled with anger on his behalf, but he would do nothing without James's signal.

"You can be sure of the prodigal's welcome," Redding said, folding his hands across an incipient paunch with a smug smile. "Your father is prepared to forgive all and to welcome you with the fatted calf."

Forgive him? For what? For being exiled? For continuing to live after he was imprisoned by the Persians and his father refused to pay the ransom? For certain, Garshasp Khan would have had him beheaded or at least castrated if the man's mother had not been English and ready to intervene on a fellow countryman's behalf by pointing out that James had weapons skills that made him valuable to the Khan's guard.

James inclined his head at Redding's nonsensical comment, a noncommittal sign but one Michaelov took as agreement.

"And you may yet be duke, Lord James. Lord Sutton has only the one son, and he is a sickly boy. With Lord Edward's death, you are third in line."

Time to end this.

"I have four sons," James told them, "and three daughters." And another child by now, whose birth he had missed, thanks to the troubles they had encountered and a further delay to meet these idiots. "I take it that my father is willing to accept Lady James and our children with the same enthusiasm?"

Not likely and the expressions on the faces of his father's men confirmed it.

"Lady James?" Redding said cautiously. "Your native wife, is it?"

His Mahzad, royal in all her bloodlines, every inch a princess and the holder of his heart, though that organ did not appear to be as essential to her as the children and the kingdom they shared. If he were to abandon good sense and his duty to their people and traipse back to England to live on his father's erratic goodwill, he had very little hope she would come with him.

After that, the meeting broke up fairly quickly. Redding did a good job of hiding his shock that James would put his "native wife" ahead of the supposed advantages of being possible heir to a duke, but Michaelov showed open disdain, and James left before he lost his temper.

"We'll leave as soon as we can pack, Yousef," James said as they arrived back in their room.

"Carefully, my lord," Peter warned. "They have a force of armed men just outside the village."

James raised his brows. "Good to know. How big a force, and how did you find out?"

"I went to find the black cat I spoke of, my lord. Sure enough, it brought us good luck, though I did not think so when it walked away from me, staying just out of reach until we left the _caravanserai_ and crossed the whole of the village. Then, it dived behind a wall, and when I went after them, I heard them say your name, Winderfield, so I hid and listened."

"Just as well for us, Peter," Yousef agreed. "What did you hear?"

Peter explained that the men were itching for action, since they'd been lying in wait for several days. "But Michaelov said you were going to come of your own accord, so they wouldn't be needed, and they were complaining about having to camp out in the fields in the cold."

James asked a few more questions about the disposition of the men and the number. "We leave tonight, as quietly as possible, after the _caravanserai_ is asleep," he decided. "Yousef, let the men know. Once we are out in the desert, no one will catch our horses."

He left Peter to pack up the room and Yousef to organise the men while he wrote a note for Redding to take to the duke a few conciliatory words. If he had to go back to England one day to be duke, as well to leave the door open.

"You are leaving, James?" Cecily McInnes stepped in front of them as they led their horses through the quiet _caravanserai_ toward the main gate.

"I am going home," James affirmed.

"Your meeting has been successful, then, but can we not travel together? I, too, am returning to England."

"I am not going to England." James pointed to the southwest, in the general direction of his mountains. "My home is with my wife and my children."

Cecily's face fell, and then she brightened again. "Take me with you. I have... I would be willing, James. I have always liked you."

What brought that on? She had been determined on returning to England mere seconds ago. Whatever her reasons, her proposition was impossible, and he said so.

"I am honoured by your interest but must refuse your offer. I am a married man, Cecily."

She dismissed the objection with a wave of the hand. "To an eastern woman. They understand these things. Are you telling me you do not keep a harem? That does not sound like the rake who set England chattering from his school days."

"I have not been that boy for more than a score of years," James pointed out. Not, in fact, since he had met this woman's close friend, Eleanor. "I made vows before the altar and have kept them these fifteen years."

And would keep them until he died, however Mahzad felt about him, because what was a man worth if he did not keep his word?

"No, Cecily, I cannot take you with me."

She took a deep breath. "You are happy, then, James? I wish you to be happy."

He took a moment to find an answer that honoured his wife and was not untrue. "I am content. I wish happiness to you, too, Cecily. It has been good to meet you again."

Yousef and Peter had waited quietly, staying out of their parting conversation, but now Yousef passed James, followed by Peter, each leading a pair of riding horses and a pack horse. James gave Cecily a final nod of farewell and then braced himself just in time to catch her as she threw herself into his arms and pressed an urgent kiss to his mouth.

He held himself rigid, setting her from him as gently as he could. "No, Cecily."

His horses danced in place, eager to follow their companions, and he quieted them with a firm command.

"I beg your pardon," Cecily said, blushing and looking down at her hands. "I should not have done that." A moment later, she pulled the signet ring from her finger. "Here. Take this as a remembrance of an old friendship."

"Your ring? But isn't it something you had from Alec?"

She shook her head. "No, no. It is not a McInnes ring. Not at all. Please. I want you to take it."

In the end, for the sake of getting out of the _caravanserai_ before the troops that awaited them could see them leaving, he accepted the ring, slipping it onto his smallest finger over his glove.

"Goodbye, Cecily. And good luck."

James and his men left the _caravanserai_ before dawn and were well into the desert before they saw any sign of pursuit and then only far behind and soon out of sight. They kept going. Turkmen horses had a smooth ground-eating gait they could keep up for hours, and James had no intention of stopping before they reached the mountains.

Riding gave him plenty of time to think over the encounters at the _caravanserai_. Had his father really expected him to tamely come to heel? No, probably not, hence the armed band outside the village. The Russian involvement worried him. The overland route to bypass the Ottomans was beginning to look like a bad idea. And Cecily. How likely was it that she arrived at such a remote location by coincidence? Had she somehow heard he was there? He couldn't fathom it. It wasn't as if they'd really known one another. She had been Eleanor's friend and years younger than him. Until he met her again, he hadn't thought of her in two decades. In truth, he hadn't thought of Eleanor, either, in years. Instead, his mind and heart were occupied by a very different lady.

_1779, Sarbisheh, Iran_

"I have several pieces of unpleasant news," said Lady Emma Finstanley. She had sent the attendants and guards to the other side of the room so they could speak privately and was herself pouring black Persian coffee into delicate glasses.

The lady had been a surprise. When James and his party had been captured and brought here to Sarbisheh, they had not expected to find a Khan fascinated by all things English because his own mother was an English lady.

James accepted the glass she passed to him and selected a sugar cube to hold between his teeth to sweeten the liquid as he drank. "Several pieces, my lady? Not something that will prevent your visits, I hope."

One by one, the other hostages had been ransomed and released, until James and his valet were the only prisoners left. Lady Emma had taken to calling on him in the enclosed garden at the base of the tower with her chief guard and several of her ladies to chaperone. Her visits helped pass the time. Sometimes, she brought her enchanting granddaughter with her, a slender girl who kept her veil on in his presence and said little but not today. Today, Lady Emma was clearly not here for casual gossip or remembrances of England. He braced for whatever she had to disclose.

"We shall see," she said. "How high does your candle of love still burn for Lady Eleanor, my dear boy?"

Lady Emma had been most sympathetic when James told his tragic story. He had fallen in love with the daughter of an earl, and what could be more suitable since he was the son of a duke? But their fathers had forbidden the match and pressured Eleanor to marry the Duke of Haverford instead, a _roué_ of twice her age. James found himself tied and delivered to a ship, with instructions to deliver him as far from England as possible, and as he made his way home again, he had been captured by the Khan.

"Do you still love her, James?" Lady Emma was leaning forward over her cup, her eyes concerned.

"Of course," he replied, though when he tried to call to mind the colour of her eyes or the shape of her lips or the dear sweet scent of her, he struggled to bring the picture to full clarity.

"I am sorry. A letter has finally arrived from your father, and the news is all bad." She put her glass down on the tray and folded her hands in her lap.

He followed her example, taking a deep breath. "Give me the worst of it, please, my lady."

She nodded, gravely. "The worst, then, and after something to perhaps mitigate it a little. Remember that, James. Your life is not over."

James waited for her to reach her point, resisting the urge to demand or implore.

"Swiftly, then. There will be no ransom. Your father has written to say you are dead to him. He also writes that the Lady Eleanor, having been told of your death, has obeyed her father and is now the Duchess of Haverford."

The moan James could not repress had several of the attendants turning to look. Yousef, his head guard, took a step toward him. He and James had become sparring partners, chess opponents, and friends in the eighteen months of waiting for the Duke of Winshire to pay for the return of his exiled son. He would probably be given the job of beheading the useless hostage, or was James to be handed over for castration?

Fear drove out the pain of his loss. Until today, he would have said he did not want to live without Eleanor. Apparently, he was wrong.

James tried to keep his voice calm as he put his trepidation into words. "Then I am of no further use to the Khan."

Lady Emma examined her nails. "As to that, I have spoken with my son." She lifted her light blue eyes, so admired in this Middle-Eastern land. "I have reminded him that you are a master of sword, unarmed fighting, and gunnery. In these troubled times, James, the Khan has need of loyal commanders to train and lead his troops, especially since he has a plan to send my Mahzad away. She will need a personal guard. I want that guard to be willing to do anything, anything at all, James, to keep her safe and deliver her to where she can be happy."

And that was how it began.

# 5

_P ari-Daiza Vadi_

"Have you confined your father to his rooms?" _Mamani_ asked, a laugh bubbling in her voice.

Mahzad looked up from the report she was reading. "Not at all, _Mamani_. He took to his rooms because he is displeased. I merely posted a guard to make sure those he has managed to offend in the past three days do not further annoy him."

So far, he had upset the valley's military commander, its elders, her secretarial staff, and his own caravan guards. He could not seem to understand that he was no longer the Khan of Sarbisheh.

He was particularly offended that his slaves refused to obey him and blamed Mahzad for their defection. Quite properly, though it was by her husband's decree that no one within their _kagan_ owned a slave, and that all slaves were made freedmen as soon as they entered within the borders of the valley. Mahzad had ordered her people to explain this to those who came with the caravan.

_Mamani_ accepted the change with equanimity, offering her former slaves a wage if they would continue to work as her servants. Garshasp lost his temper and would have been left to make his own bed and fetch his own meals if Mahzad had not taken pity on him and sent some of the palace's menservants to see to his comfort.

The larger problem was unsolved, however.

According to Gurban's report, the soldiers at the gates refused to leave without Garshasp Khan. They had fetched cannon up from the plains but could not deploy the infernal machines in the narrow space that faced the gate and was well covered by the _serkerde's_ riflemen and archers. On the other hand, the people of Pari-Daiza were locked in their valley, the back-door egress being suitable only for climbers. And their numbers were limited, even with the addition of the caravan guard, whose loyalty could not be relied on. If the Qajar forces were determined enough, they could draw on the resources of an entire army. Already, their attacks had left two men dead and another dozen wounded, though they had suffered heavier losses themselves.

Enough. She had read the report several times and had no more idea now than at the start about how to break the impasse.

The curtain over the door lifted to allow the valley's elders into the counsel room and then again to let Gurban and his deputy join them. The clerics were next, and everyone took their seats on cushions around the maps and diagrams spread out on a low table.

Gurban looked askance at _Mamani_.

"Mahroch _begum_ is here at my request, Gurban," Mahzad said, "and I have also sent for Garshasp Khan. They must know why the Qajar are so determined. James has seen their day coming for some years and has been careful to maintain treaties with them." She was watching _Mamani_ carefully as she spoke, but she turned her attention to her father as he entered the room, though she addressed the rest of her remark to the group at large. "For them to ignore these treaties in pursuit of a khan whose time has passed and who has abandoned his province to them... It needs further explanation."

"They are stubborn savages," Garshasp said.

"They want your head, _Padar_ , and will not leave without it." Mahzad added dryly. "The rest of you is optional."

"You are an unnatural daughter and a deep disappointment to me," he said, sighing as he lowered himself to a pile of cushions.

"Very probably," she agreed and then looked around at her advisers, meeting the gaze of each one before she spoke again. "I am your _katan_ ," she reminded them. "Jakob _kagan_ has said it, and so it is, but we rule by your mandate. It has been so since we came here."

"It has been so," said the headman gravely, and the others nodded.

"Do I, then, have the right to risk the valley and the people, for the sake of my father and grandmother, especially when they are keeping secrets from us? And yet, my dear people, I owe them honour and respect, as both the Bible and the Qur'an teach us. What am I to do?"

She spread her hands and let the silence build. No one seemed willing to be the first to speak. It was a trick James had taught her. Say nothing, and someone will fill the silence. Not any of her people, prewarned to stay quiet. Would her father or her grandmother be the first to fill the void?

It was Garshasp. "You would not give me to the Qajar," he stated, his voice booming in the chamber, as if volume could increase his confidence.

Mahzad said nothing, just tipping her head in question, but neither of her relatives spoke. How she wished James was here!

"My lady," Gurban said, "they say the khan has stolen something."

Mahzad kept her eyes on her father as she asked, "What do they claim the khan has, and why is it theirs and not his?"

"They would not say, my lady."

"Well, Padar? What do you have that they want?"

The khan smirked. "I will tell no one but your husband, the _kagan_."

Enough. If she could not have the counsel of the _kagan_ , she would have the wisdom of the best minds left in the valley. "Well, my people? What are our next steps?"

_Caspian Sea Coast_

Cecily carefully made her way through the _caravanserai_ to meet the Turkmen woman who had promised to guide her. She needed to be well on her way before Gerry and Nikolai realised they had lost James Winderfield. The man's stubbornness had lost her the freedom and money she had been promised for her cooperation. Worse, Nikolai would take James's escape out on her, and Gerry would probably enjoy watching.

She was under no illusions about her fate at their hands. Her own bitter experience warned her. She had been abandoned in Lebanon when her husband and their baby son died, sold to a local dignitary as a concubine, and then passed on to another and then another in various parts of the Ottoman Empire.

At last, she found herself in Istanbul where her current master loaned her to the Russian Ambassador, who had been all sympathy at her tale. Or so she thought until she found he wanted to use her to scupper James's shipping plans by helping the agent sent to bring him back to England. Having failed, she would be sold again, and with every year that passed, her novelty value as an English woman depreciated further thanks to the aging of her body.

She would not tamely go back to that life, and she would fare no better if she struck out across Turkmenistan or Persia on her own.

No. She had only one choice—to go after James and persuade him to keep her. She knew he wanted her. She had seen the reaction of his body. She even honoured him for refusing to succumb to it. And if her own dire need did not drive her...

But what else could she do?

Besides, his marriage to the native woman was probably illegal and clearly unhappy. She would not be breaking anything that was not already dead. With eight children already, the woman would probably be grateful to have Cecily to distract her husband's fertile attentions. Eastern women saw these things differently.

Yes. She would follow James, and all would be well.

_Pari Daiza_ _Vadi_

A small army was camped at the gates into Pari Daiza, not friends by the fact that the gates remained firmly closed and that Gurban had snipers on the mountain.

"Thirteen tents," Peter observed. "They won't be at our front door long, not with that number."

"They are between us and the gate now," Yousef pointed out.

"We won't be going in by the front door," James agreed.

They backed away, staying low until they were on the other side of the slope, hidden from both the valley and the invaders, and then plunged down the narrow trace of a path as quickly as could be done in near silence.

Below, only their own people remained, the Atabai clan who had been their escort into the mountains having taken most of the horses, mules, and camels back down to the plains. Only the surest footed horses and donkeys remained, and no eyes other than those of their own people to see them hide the bulk of the packages they'd brought back from their long travels.

"It'll be the secret way, my friends," James told those waiting. "Plan to take only what you must. The rest will go into the caves."

For himself, James retrieved little. They could collect the baggage once the problem at the gate was sorted, but he had presents for Mahzad and the children. Those he wrapped for security and strapped firmly to Melagush's saddle, packing it as tightly to the horse's sides as he could.

The path home wound around the eastern side of the protective mountain walls, climbing and dropping, never wide enough for more than one man or one cautiously stepping horse. At times, it seemed to disappear altogether, and they had to edge their way across slopes toward the landmarks that James and Yousef had carried in their heads since they first came this way thirteen years earlier.

At last, Yousef, taking his turn in the lead, rounded a corner to where the path ended altogether, or so it seemed. By the time James, at the tail end of the small procession, arrived, only two were before him, and one was even now leading his horse gingerly across the slope to the right of the path then around the rocky bluff out of sight. The second to last man followed, and then James, into the long cave, sloping downward, that led under the mountains and into the valley.

He emerged onto the parade ground behind the citadel and to a welcoming committee. Gurban, good man, and a troop of his best men, relaxed now, chatting with the rest of his party but ready to defend the valley even against him, had he been coerced to showing enemies the secret way.

And here she came. Mahzad, running down from the citadel, outstripping her maids and even her older sons who raced each other, shouting and waving as they came.

Mahzad faltered on the edge of the parade ground, but by then, James was in motion, striding toward her, his arms wide in greeting.

In moments, she was in his arms.

# 6

Mahzad had only a few seconds in her husband's embrace, listening to the murmured endearments she'd longed for before the children arrived. The three older boys attached themselves to the couple, being hugged in their turn, and then Rachel and Rebecca threw themselves into the family huddle. Andrew and Ruth watched, uncertain, from the safety of their nursemaids.

The _kagan_ was home, and now, all would be well.

All too soon, the children were sent back to the citadel, obedient to their father's command and buoyed by a promise of a family dinner with just them and their parents. "And presents, Papa?" Rachel asked. Mahzad scolded, but James allowed that yes, there might even be presents.

"Now, life of my heart," he said as the children and their servants trailed back up the steps to the citadel, "tell me about the trouble at our gates and what has brought it upon us."

Quickly, Mahzad and Gurban told him all that happened, breaking off frequently as yet another group of people came running to check that the arrivals were, indeed, their people and their _kagan_.

"So," James said, once he had the gist of it, "the Khan has a secret, which he will tell only to me. Very well. Let us give him the opportunity."

They did not have to look for the man. As they entered the palace, Garshasp Khan was waiting, wearing a huge smile.

"My son Jakob, you are come home. Welcome. Welcome. Peace be upon you."

Mahzad crushed her irritation at her father's arrogance, acting as if this were his own house and not hers and James's. James took the greeting with equanimity, returning the formal greeting. "Peace be upon you, Excellency. We are blessed that you have chosen to grace our house."

"You will say so." Garshasp chortled. "You will say so indeed. I have brought you a treasure, Jakob."

James said nothing more but led the way into a chamber off the main hall, turning everyone away except Mahzad, Gurban, and Garshasp.

James wasted no time, cutting straight to the point with Western directness. "I took from you a treasure, excellency, and for her sake you are always welcome here, but you have also brought trouble to my gates. I am told you have promised me an explanation."

"And you shall have it. I took it from its hiding place the moment I knew you were here. Look, my son. Look."

Mahzad leant forward to see the small gold item her father pulled from his robes. James plucked it from Garshasp's palm and held it up so that she and Gurban could see.

"A seal stamp?" Gurban asked.

"The inscription reads 'Abu Rahman ul Hafi," Mahzad said. She turned to look at her father aghast.

"Abu Rahman ul Hafi?" James closed his fingers over the seal, hiding it from view. "The saint whose shrine is in Asadiyeh?" He whistled low and long. "No wonder the Qajar are at my gates."

Garshasp smiled broadly. "A treasure, as I told you, and one you can use to buy the safety of my daughter and my grandsons."

Mahzad rounded on the old fool. "We were safe until you brought them on us."

The old man looked down his long nose at her. "Think you the Qajar would leave any of my blood alive? No. The purge is underway even as we speak. And you, you ungrateful woman, are the last of my children. Your sons are the only hope of my line."

She would have retorted, but James cut through with quiet authority. "You will address Mahzad with respect, excellency. She is no longer merely your daughter. She is the _katan_ of this valley, a position her merits won for her. Beyond that, she is, as you have pointed out, my wife and the mother of my sons and daughters."

"Daughters!" Garshasp growled. "Wait till your own are grown and then talk to me of daughters. Hah! I have given you the seal, Jakob. Use it as you will, and the rest of the goods I brought with me are for you and your sons, though half the value was in the slaves, which this wife of yours declared free. You will excuse me. This old man needs to rest." He turned and strode out, though his steps faltered as he passed through the doorway.

"Is he ill?" James asked.

"Not that I know," Mahzad answered, but perhaps he was. He had little appetite, spent much of his time asleep, and had needed to be carried back from the defensive walls yesterday, though he had claimed that was due to a touch of the sun.

Gurban looked thoughtful. "His ankles are swollen, Jakob _Beg_ , and his breath comes fast, especially if he walks. My father was like that. He had the cough, too."

Gurban's father had died three years ago.

"His heart troubles him?" Mahzad wondered.

James frowned. "What does your grandmother say?"

"Nothing." Did he blame her for not noticing? "I will ask her, James."

James nodded and turned to his military commander. "Gurban, will you send a message to the commander of the Qajar troops asking for a meeting?" Then he smiled at Mahzad. "As for you and I, light of my world, let us go and give the children their presents."

Mahzad warmed at the endearments, tucking her arm into the elbow her husband offered her and thrilling at the warmth and strength of his muscles under her hand. "Life of my heart" and "light of my world" were common Persian expressions. They meant nothing, but her heart would not listen to the cautious warnings of her mind, not when James was home, his hand cupped over hers, his thigh brushing her hip as they walked.

James resented every circumstance that kept him from his wife. Not, perhaps, the children. He was introduced to little Rosemary, who was a perfect miniature of her mother, and became reacquainted with the rest of his offspring as he fished through his pack of surprises for their presents.

"Look, Mama, a sailing boat like in the book!" Andrew ran across the room to show his mother, wildly waving the boat and narrowly missing his sister as he passed.

Mahzad took him up onto her lap and showed him how to hold it safely.

"I have a boat for each of you," James explained, looking up from showing young Jamie how to set the rudder on his perfect miniature of a _jahazi_ , a broad-hulled trading _dhow_ , "even Rosemary and little Ruth. When they are bigger, they will be able to race with you on your mother's pond." He met Mahzad's eyes. Her frown was belied by her dancing eyes. "With your mother's permission, of course."

"Mine is a brigantine," John boasted. "See Mama?"

He leaned on his mother's shoulder and began a discourse on the difference between gaff-rigged and square-rigged sails, accurate as far as James's recently-acquired knowledge went. He must have learned it from books, since he'd never seen a sail boat larger than the one in his hands or a body of water bigger than the pond in the valley when it flooded with the spring melt.

Jamie and Matthew abandoned their model boats when he handed over the cases holding their next presents. In moments, they were taking sword craft positions, balancing lightly on the balls of their feet, a scimitar in one hand, a rapier in the other.

"These are not toys, my sons," James warned. "Your mother and I judge you old enough to treat them with the respect they deserve and to learn how to handle them without danger to yourself or others."

"Except those who threaten our people, Papa," Jamie insisted.

"There is another case," Matthew observed.

Mahzad looked in alarm at John, who was too absorbed in his boat to notice.

James was quick to reassure her that he did not mean to set John to sword fighting with an edged weapon. Not yet. "It is for your Mama," James told Matthew.

He'd received the benison of his fierce warrior queen's smile when he had given Rebecca and Rachel good English yew bows in miniature and a quiver full of arrows each, but it was nothing to the glow that greeted her own sword case. The children, hugging their own gifts, stopped to watch her. Matthew let out a long sigh of pleasure as Mahzad lifted the sheathed sword in two hands.

"Toledo made," James said. It was a Western-styled small sword, like the ones he'd taught her with but in the best steel in Europe, perhaps the world.

She slid the blade partway from the scabbard, and when her eyes met his, the heat in them made him wish his much-loved offspring at the other end of the palace. He smiled her a promise for later and turned back to passing out children's books in English that he'd purchased in Siricusa, in Sicily.

He'd left the Christmas presents outside the valley to be brought in after they'd dealt with the Qajar troops. If Mahzad loved her blade, she would adore the pistols that were still packed in the abandoned luggage.

He was smiling at the thought when the messenger arrived.

" _Begum_ , you must come at once. The Khan has taken ill."

The Khan was dying but perhaps not tonight, said the doctor from the village. Mahzad and her grandmother insisted on attending him themselves, one either side of the bed. James, since he could not do take Mahzad to bed as he wanted, spent the rest of the afternoon picking up the reins of government. Mahzad had done an exceptional job, as always, but she could relax now he was back to take over.

In between meetings, he checked on his father-in-law. The man was sleeping, his mother watching over him.

"Is Mahzad—" James began, but Mahroch _begum_ interrupted.

"Mahzad has gone to feed Rosemary and to kiss the children goodnight. She said she would be back soon."

James suppressed a yawn. Two days and a night in the saddle, followed by the climb and then an eventful afternoon left him longing for his bed, but he would find energy if he could persuade his wife to join him.

He'd head for the nursery and say his own goodnights. He could escort his wife back to her father's bedside. He could, perhaps, steal a kiss somewhere along the way.

Before he could leave, Garshasp called out. "Is that Jakob? Jakob, are you there?"

"Yes, excellency," he agreed, taking the seat Mahzad had vacated.

"I am dying, Jakob." The old man took the hand James laid on the bed and gripped it tight in his own.

"Rest, excellency. You have the best of care."

"I am dying. The doctors in Sarbisheh said I would be dead within a year, and that was six months ago. Who will mourn me? Who will keep my memory alive in the land of the living? My sons are gone, all of them. Wasted." He glanced at his mother and then turned his eyes back to James. "I should have given them to my mother to raise. Their own mothers made arrogant fools out of them. If Mahzad had been a boy... Ah, what an heir she would have been."

He rambled on for a while, praising Mahzad for her wisdom and courage, as well as her four sons, berating her for abandoning the marriage her father had planned, complaining about his disappointment in his other children. James listened as patiently as he could, trapped by the hand hold he was reluctant to break.

In the end, Mahzad arrived back just as Garshasp drifted back off to sleep. James departed to see the children on his own, his opportunity for a few minutes with his wife lost. He'd join her again, but first, he'd snatch a small nap. In his own chambers, he lay down on his bed, still fully dressed. The next thing he knew, it was morning.

The Khan slept deeply, waking when the doctor arrived to examine him the following morning. "He is much recovered since last night, my _katan_ ," the doctor told Mahzad. "He has survived this spasm. He could have another at any time, but he is out of danger until then."

His visit had made Mahzad late for her daily meeting with the valley's government, but she had sent a message explaining the delay and asking them to wait. She had half thought James might come to support her, but she had not seen him since he left to visit the children the night before.

She paused to compose herself as she came through the curtained door into the audience chamber. Despite his tender words and his physical presence, James seemed as far away as ever. How were they to bridge the gap?

From beyond the pierced wooden screen that hid her entrance, she heard sounds of people making their farewells, and she leaned forward to peer through the cutouts. The meeting was over? It certainly seemed so, as first one and then another of the village councilors made their obeisance to James and left. Had she and her work as their _katan_ been so easily dismissed? Her father's disregard had been expected, but this cut her to the soul.

No. She would not look at it so. James probably thought he was helping by freeing her to look after her father. She was about to step out from behind the screen when Gurban arrived, apologising for being late.

Mahzad narrowed her eyes at the cloaked figure that one of his lieutenants held at the door while James and Gurban moved out of his earshot and closer to the screen.

"They have sent down to their base camp for their commander, _Beg_."

What was wrong with Gurban? He stood straight and formal, his face impassive. And the simple honourific, " _beg_ " or "lord" as the English would say. Most of his senior advisors and warriors, Gurban among them, called their _kagan_ "James" at his request, except in the presence of their juniors.

James didn't comment, but Mahzad was sure he noticed. He, too, was examining the cloaked figure. "He will agree to a meeting, I imagine. What else have you brought me, Gurban?"

"An act of good will, the Qajar siege commander called it." Gurban's voice was stiff with disdain. "They apparently captured your woman on her way to rejoin you."

James swore, a couple of English epithets he used only rarely, and took three strides toward the woman at the door. "Cecily, just what do you think you are playing at?"

Mahzad waited to hear no more, turning and slipping out of the door, grateful she had brought none of her ladies with her to witness her humiliation.

Though if her husband had brought his mistress here to install her under this roof, more humiliation was unavoidable.

# 7

Snow was falling in the paradise garden, preventing Mahzad from taking the calming walk she needed. She ordered the shutters closed in the great common room where the ladies of the house gathered to socialise but those in her own chambers left open, the stark lines of the garden in its winter state fitting her bleak mood.

"Mahzad?" It was James, leaning against her door jamb, frowning at her. "Your mother said you were in here. I thought you would be with your father."

Mahzad shrugged one shoulder only, a minuscule lift and drop. "He is sleeping. The doctor says he is recovering from this attack but could have another at any time."

Her husband's frown deepened, the vertical crease between his brows deepening. "I know. I spoke to him. I am sorry, Mahzad. It must distress you."

Mahzad turned back to the window. "I have not seen him in fifteen years, not since he sent me to the other side of the world to be one wife among many in a foreign land, but still, I remember that I was once his treasure."

Yes, she hated seeing the once-powerful man so shriveled and ill, and she grieved for the loss of what they once had, but if James thought her distress due to her father, he was a blind fool.

"I am sorry," James repeated. "And sorry to add further to your burdens, but..." He trailed off, and from the corner of her eye, Mahzad saw him spread his hands and shrug. "I have someone to introduce to you. Will you come out and meet her?"

Mahzad whirled at that and stalked toward him. "You do not expect me to find room for your mistress in my house, surely?"

James took a step toward her, his quiet hiss at odds with his blazing eyes. "Cecily is not my mistress, and you do neither me nor yourself any credit in making such an accusation."

"Hah!" Mahzad's bark was nothing like a laugh. "Then what is she doing here? This female who claims to be your woman and follows you home?"

James took a deep breath, visibly struggling for calm. "She is an English lady and an old friend. You must see I cannot abandon her when she asks me for help."

Mahzad fought back several scorching responses. If James could be dignified, she could also. "Very well. Present her to me."

"Mahzad."

James never addressed her with that voice of command, delivered sternly and without room for debate. Putting on the _kagan_ , he called it. _But with me? Has it come to this?_

"Mahzad, she must stay here, under your wing. Half the citadel is jumping to the wrong conclusion about her, and I fear for her safety."

Mahzad did not trust herself to speak but just brushed past James, holding herself so she touched him as little as possible.

The woman, uncloaked now, waited in the main chamber, standing alone a few feet into the room. The women of the citadel gathered in groups around her, all talking, none of them approaching. She looked older than Mahzad by several years but was still attractive, especially to those who preferred the blonde hair and blue eyes of the northerners. She would be a valuable courtesan, at least for a few more years.

She won Mahzad's reluctant respect with the calm nonchalance she displayed in the face of the room's barely-veiled hostility. Or perhaps she trusted James to save her? Did she think to replace Mahzad as ruler of the women's realm?

Mahzad had not played these women's games in fifteen years, but the lessons of her youth were easily at hand. She approached her rival with her hand extended in the Western fashion.

"Cecily, is it? My husband tells me he has offered to help you for the sake of an old friendship. For his sake, I must also stand as your friend. I am Mahzad, _katan_ of this _kaganate_ and ruler of this _zenana_. Peace be upon you, and all who come here in goodwill."

James left Cecily with the women, pleased to wash his hands of her, at least for a while. Didn't he have enough to deal with? Armies at his gate. A wife who was clearly peeved with him about something, though he'd hardly been home long enough to offend her. A dying father-in-law. And now the whole palace seemed to have made up its mind that Cecily was his mistress. Even Mahzad, who should know him well enough to trust him.

Cecily was not helping, prattling on to Mahzad about how close she and James had been in London. "...a long, long time ago, my lady. I hate to think of the many years that have passed. You can only imagine how thrilled I was that he recognised me straight away and was willing to rekindle our old friendship."

James could tell some of Mahzad's ladies put the worst possible construction on Cecily's words, but the stupid female kept on, and Mahzad seemed to be encouraging her, asking her innocent-seeming questions about her travels.

James excused himself, saying he'd promised to take the saint's seal down to the mosque, which would be its temporary home until he could send it back to where it belonged.

A pleasant visit with the _mojtahed_ and his friend the priest, followed by the promised sword craft lesson with his two eldest boys left him in a more cheerful frame of mind, which improved still further with a message from the siege, setting a meeting for the following day.

Back in his chambers, Peter was going on about crickets, something about one in the garden making an unseasonable racket just before Cecily McInnes had arrived.

"The cricket knew," Peter pronounced.

James didn't bother to ask what the cricket knew, but just sent Peter with a message to Mahzad, inviting her to join him for a private dinner. The message didn't need to say "and bed after." Mahzad would guess.

Peter returned with a note and a glum face.

"Your humble servant begs leave to be excused, most excellent lord," James read. "Your obedient wife, Mahzad."

_Like hell!_ He brushed Peter aside and strode through the halls, the people he passed taking one look at his face and getting out of his way.

The guards on the door to the _zenana_ stepped aside and let him through without a challenge. Mahzad wasn't in the central room. She wasn't in her chambers, either. He emerged back into the great room, casting an eye around the ladies who were there. Cecily, who was sitting with Mahroch, made as if to get up.

Mahroch put out a hand to stop her. "Sit. You have caused enough trouble."

James directed his glare at Mahroch, but the old woman was not discomposed in the slightest. She needed the help of a maid to rise, but she waved the girl off and walked with much of her old grace toward Mahzad's chambers.

"Come, Lord James. You and I need to talk."

"I need to see my wife." He snarled.

"Not before we have talked."

He followed her, of course, but his irritation was rising by the minute.

She deflated him by rounding on him as soon as they were in private. "James, I always thought you to be an intelligent man and one with enough sense to see what was in front of his nose, but I am disappointed in you."

Attack being the best form of defence, he answered hotly, "Don't tell me that you believe these scurrilous rumours about Mrs. McInnes. She is not my mistress. Not that I owe you or anyone else an explanation."

Mahroch lifted an elegantly plucked eyebrow. "Not even my granddaughter?"

"Mahzad should know I would never dishonour her." James relieved some of his tension by striding swiftly across the room and then back again. "Yes, and the rest of the citadel, too. It is a ridiculous conclusion to jump to. Insulting to me and to Mrs. McInnes. I can understand the Qajar commander but my own people?" His temper, barely in check when he'd arrived, was now at boiling point.

Mahroch was neither intimidated nor impressed. "Your own people, including your wife, would have been less inclined to make assumptions about your relationship with Cecily McInnes had she not been at pains to give the impression that you and she are lovers."

"No." That couldn't be true. "She didn't, did she? But why?"

The old woman dismissed his question with an elegant wave of one hand. "She had her reasons, and I am somewhat in sympathy with her, though I have put a stop to her mischief." She bent forward, meeting his glare with her own. "But it remains for you to undo the damage that she—and you, I might add—have done."

"What have I done?" James protested. "I have done nothing!"

"You will have to discuss that with my granddaughter, James," Mahroch replied sharply. Her voice dried as she continued. "I suggest you spend at least part of the time listening. You will find her at the archery butts, I imagine. When she left here, she felt like killing something. Oh, and just a small hint. It would not harm your masculine essence to tell her how you feel about her."

What was that supposed to mean? As James stalked through the citadel and down into the cellars, he tried to think about Mahroch's last remark, but the injustice of the accusations against him kept shouldering out other considerations. Not least because, for a fraction of a moment back at the _caravanserai_ when Cecily had offered herself, temptation had reared its serpently head. Only physically and he dismissed it, of course. He should be receiving credit for that, not suspicion and a cold shoulder for thoughts he'd never had and actions he'd not taken.

Cecily's treachery didn't bother him as much as Mahzad's willingness to believe the lying woman. Felt like killing something, did she? James felt like spanking someone, and he blamed Mahzad for that entirely. He'd never raised his hand in anger to a woman in his life, especially not Mahzad, who had been his equal and his partner since the day they had escaped her father's caravan.

Mahzad had posted a man at the doors to the range to prevent anyone else entering.

"Try to stop me," James invited, and the guard wisely stepped to one side.

Inside, every lamp was lighted, but even so, the butts wavered in and out of shadows. Not that Mahzad was fooled for a moment. Arrow after arrow slammed into the centre of each target as she drew and shot, drew and shot, drew and shot, a dozen arrows at a time and then only seconds to reach for the next dozen and begin again.

"I am not having, nor have I had, an affair with Cecily McInnes," James said loudly and was pleased when her aim faltered slightly, the next two arrows striking outside the inner circle. "I have slept with no one but you since I met you, wife, and I am insulted you should think otherwise."

Mahzad finished firing the arrows in her hand then put her bow and quiver carefully on the table beside her before turning to face him.

"I do not think it. The woman is a liar." She lifted her chin, her eyes blazing. "But I am insulted that you would bring someone to make such claims under my roof. Did you intend to make me a laughing stock in front of my ladies and my maids?"

"Of course not," he growled. "I had no idea that she was saying such things."

Mahzad spat like an angry cat. "Hah. And if you had? Would you have turned her back out the gate? Left her to the Qajar? No, of course not. Not an Englishwoman. Not a friend of dear Eleanor."

"No. No, I would not have left her to her fate, even if she deserves it." James thumped one fist into his hand. Women were so unreasonable. "And what has Eleanor to do with it? Mahzad, you cannot possibly be jealous of Eleanor. I haven't seen her in twenty years. She is married. I am married and happily I thought." Just like that, some of his anger seeped away, drowned in sorrow.

Mahzad, though, was just getting started. "Happily? When you spend as much time as you can away from me? What am I to you, James? Tell me the truth."

_What sort of a question is that?_

"You are my wife. The mother of my children. You know this."

"Yes." Her voice was sad, and as she lifted her chin, he thought he caught a gleam of tears in her eyes. "As I thought. You do your duty."

"No!" What was wrong with her? "That's not what I meant. What is the matter, Mahzad? Is it the baby?"

The tears disappeared, and she flared into rage again. "What is the matter with me? What is the matter with you! Walking back in after seven months—seven months, James—and ignoring everything I have done. How could you hold this morning's meeting without me? I sent a message to say I would be there soon and arrived to find you dismissing the meeting and greeting that whore. I beg your pardon. Let me rephrase that. Greeting that 'dear friend from your younger days.'"

"What?" He ignored the provocation of her description of Cecily. She was offended that he held the meeting without her? "I thought to take a burden off you when your father was so ill. I meant no insult, Mahzad. You should know that."

"How?" she demanded. "By mindreading? I have lost my magic abilities, oh inscrutable one. My genie is in retirement." She turned away, her voice dropping. "I have no idea why you do the things you do, except that I know I am a burden to you. I am sorry to inconvenience you and your father by continuing to exist."

Exasperating female. Would she stick to the point?

"What the devil do you mean now? What has my father got to do with it?"

"He wants you to come back to England," Mahzad accused. "Your 'oh so dear' Cecily told me, and Peter and Yousef confirmed it." She sniffed and tossed her head. "You will not go because I am an embarrassment to you."

"Like hell you are," James snapped. "Neither of them said that, and if they did, it isn't true."

She was avoiding his eyes, bending over her weapons, putting the arrows neatly away into the quiver and unstringing the bow. "They said you refused to go and that you told your father's men that you would not leave your wife." She whirled back to face him, snarling in her turn. "I say little difference if you did, since you are never here anyway and spend no time with me when you are."

James was reeling from her dozen blows, some of which had got completely under his guard, but this last remark matched so closely to his own feelings about Mahzad that he struck back.

"You're the one who is always busy and who never has time for me. You are too busy being _katan_ and mother and friend to everyone in the valley. You've made it more than clear you don't need me, and you don't want me around." He took a step closer toward her, crowding her against the table. "But this is _my_ valley. They are _my_ children. You are _my_ wife. It's about time you remembered that."

He seized her and forced his mouth down on hers, intending a punishing kiss that overwhelmed her defences and reminded her he was master in this area as in others, but she met his force with her own passion, softening under his invasion, molding her body to his as she clutched his head to pull him closer. His original intent forgotten, he poured all his longing into the kiss, trying to communicate his love and his frustration, losing himself in the touch and smell and sound of this one woman who was to him above all others.

Until she broke the kiss and shoved him away. "I cannot believe you blame me for all this," she said. "Just like a man."

And she stalked away, leaving him alone.

# 8

Mahzad had taken refuge in one of the unused rooms at the top of a tower. Patma knew where she was if she was needed and knew better than to tell anyone except in an emergency. Mahzad considered over and over again the words she'd exchanged with James, especially those she'd heard as she flounced from the room.

His voice, quietly grieving, repeated in her mind. "Mahzad, what has happened to us? I thought we loved one another."

Loved. As in once upon a time? As if he had loved her once and did no longer? Or did he think she had stopped loving him? He was wrong about that. The pain she felt at the distance between them, the pain that fuelled her anger, was directly proportional to the love she bore him.

The thought gave her pause. James was angry, angrier with her than she'd ever seen him. What fuel led his anger?

She had lit the brazier when she came up here, but the little fuel in its chamber was now charred ash, and the cold was seeping into her bones, even through her fur robe. She needed to return to the world below. Her children would be missing her, and her ladies would be concerned about her.

At the foot of the second flight of steps, a guard waited, studiously looking away as if she were invisible to him. She wished him a good evening and continued down to the gallery that led to the women's wing of the palace. A dozen steps toward her own realm and she stopped. She had to know. Was James angry because he loved her and feared his love had been spurned?

She whirled, disconcerting the guard from the tower, who had been following her and now tried to blend into the wall hangings. She had no time for him, turning into the hall that held the _kagan's_ chambers.

The door was open and unguarded.

Mahzad fixed her guard with a stern stare. "You can stop following me now. Tell Gurban or Patma or whoever set you to the task that you saw me to my husband's rooms."

Inside, she quietly closed the door then followed the sound of voices to the main sitting room of the suite, her temper rising again as she identified the voice of the Englishwoman.

"Very well. You won't go back to England. I cannot understand how you could prefer this barbarous place to our homeland, but clearly, you will not be persuaded, but, James, will you not let me stay? I will do anything..."

Mahzad took two steps backward, not wanting to hear the woman seducing her husband. No. She would not be such a coward. She stepped forward again and was rewarded by the sound of her husband's voice, taut with distaste.

"Enough, Cecily. You have made your proposition quite clear. Yes, and lied about our relationship to my household. I am not in the market for the services you offer. As I told you before, I am a married man, and I keep my vows."

"But you cannot refuse me," Cecily argued, sounding bewildered. "The ring, it is the power of the ring to reunite lovers. Alec always said it was the ring that brought us together. When he lay dying, he said the ring would take me home. I gave you the ring, and you have to help me."

"To reunite lovers, is it?" James said. "Then it has done its job because it has brought me home to the woman I love. My wife."

"You said you were content." Cecily sounded disappointed. "You said nothing of love."

"True, and I should have," James agreed. "But to her, not to you. She is the life of my heart and the light of my life."

"And if she does not love you?" Cecily asked.

Almost Mahzad interrupted, but she yearned to know his response and kept still.

James was silent for a moment, and when he replied, his voice was warm with a smile. "Then I shall love her enough for us both and spend my life trying to be worthy of her."

Cecily gave a short laugh. "You had best talk to her then, fool of a man, for anyone with eyes can see you are 'the life of her heart and the light of her life.' I have wasted my time. I wish you well, James. I really do."

" _Mamani_ told me a little of your story, Mrs. McInnes," Mahzad said as she entered the room, startling them both. "I will discuss your situation with my husband, and we shall agree on a way to help you. At the moment, however, James and I need to be alone."

Cecily swept an obeisance in the Eastern style. "You are generous, _begum_."

James, his heart in his eyes, did not look away from Mahzad as Cecily passed her and left the room and—Mahzad leaned backwards to check—the suite.

"I love you," James said when she turned back toward him.

"That occurred to me when I started to wonder why you were so angry," Mahzad said, staying where she was.

"You were angry too," he pointed out.

She nodded. "I was."

"Say the words. Say the words, Mahzad, and put me out of my misery."

She took a step toward him. "I love you, James." Another step. "You are an annoying..." Another step. "...frustrating, arrogant man..." A final step, into his arms, avoiding his seeking mouth so she could finish what she had to say. "...and I love you more than life itself."

He would wait no longer, but she was as impatient as him, and the important words had been said. Actions now were more welcome. There would be time enough for more words later.

The negotiation with the Qajar had been straightforward enough, and the day before Christmas, the siege ended, and the troops set off for lower lands, taking with them the seal, a large gift that included two fine horses fully caparisoned in fine Turkmen harnesses, a small herd of their mountain sheep, and Cecily McInnes.

Cecily embraced Mahroch, who had first persuaded her to tell her story and then Mahzad. She looked at James and decided against offering him a kiss in farewell.

_Quite right, too. The woman had been trouble enough._ James had arranged her travel to East India Company residency at Bushehr on the Persian Gulf, had paid for passage from there to England, and had given her funds that should keep her in comfort once she arrived.

Mostly, he said to Mahzad, because he wanted her out of his _kaganate_. Mahzad just smiled. Cecily's story had won Mahzad's sympathy and that of most of the women and many of the men, including his own, though he should still be annoyed at her deceit. Would be, too, if he were not so happy.

Cecily mounted into the saddle on the camel that would carry her down the mountain, and the animal stood. They watched as the long train of soldiers and animals began winding around the trail out of the basin before the gates.

"All will be well now, my lord," Peter said happily. "We met the sheep coming toward us as we rode down to the gates, and that is good luck." At that moment, a white splash appeared on his sleeve, a present from a passing bird. "Even more good luck!" Peter cried, delighted, ignoring the laughter of Gurban's soldiers.

James nudged Melagush, who bounded ahead to prance beside Mahzad's mare, showing off his paces.

"What have you planned for the rest of the day?" Mahzad asked. "The children are taking advantage of the lull in the weather to have a boat race."

"We could go and watch," James agreed. With the crisis over and the winter setting in, few would bother the valley until Spring. He and Mahzad could relax and enjoy their family... and one another. "Or we could tend to some of our unfinished business."

Mahzad thought about that, her lips pushed out in an adorable pout he would have kissed if not for embarrassing his wife in front of her grandmother, her ladies, and his warriors.

"We have a number of items still to count off, do we not?" she mused. "One hundred and ninety-seven by my calculation."

James could not hold in his bark of laughter. Dear heavens, he loved this woman. They had spent the night of their reunion making love, cuddling, and exploring the roots of the distance they had allowed to grow between them. In the morning, when she had commented on the number of times they had joined, he'd reminded her they were starting from a deficit, since he had been absent for two-hundred and thirteen days. "Then you owe me two-hundred and eight more times, my lord," she had quipped in response. He hadn't realised she'd been keeping count ever since.

He offered her his arm to escort her to her horse. "Then by all means, let us see if we can manage to reduce the count," he agreed.

If the grins of their court hinted at a better understanding than was entirely comfortable, James didn't care. He had followed a star like the Persian wise men of old, and it had brought him home.

* * *

THE END

# Glossary of non-English terms

_beg: (Turkic/Persian) higher official; prince or lord_

_begum: (Turkic/Persian) the female equivalent of beg; princess or lady_

_caravanserai: (Persian) a roadside inn_

_charar bāgh: (Persian) a four-part garden; the layout is based on the four gardens of Paradise mentioned in the Qur'an and has four smaller parts divided by walkways or water_

_kagan: (Turkmen) ruler_

_kaganate: (Turkmen) kingdom_

_katan: (Turkmen) consort of the ruler_

_khan: (Turkic/Persian) ruler_

_mamani: (Persian) grandma_

_mojtahed: (Persian) a specialist in religious law_

_padar: (Persian) father_

_Pari-Daiza: (Persian) enclosed garden, the term first used for the notion of paradise_

_qal'a: (Persian) citadel_

_seraglio: (Turkish) the women's apartments in an Ottoman palace_

_serkerde: (Persian) military commander_

_zenana: (Persian) the women's apartments in an Iranian household_

# Coming in 2020

_My plan is to publish a book every two months, beginning in March. Six weeks, if I can manage it. (I have two written and another two started.)_

### The Children of the Mountain King

**James Winderfield, exiled third son of the Duke of Winshire, is back to inherit the ducal title**

In 1812, high Society is rocked by the return of the Earl of Sutton, heir to the dying Duke of Winshire. James Winderfield, Earl of Sutton, Winshire's third and only surviving son, has long been thought dead, but his reappearance is not nearly such a shock as those he brings with him, the children of his deceased Persian-born wife and fierce armed retainers, both men and women.

The Duke of Haverford, his one-time rival in love, sets out to destroy him, and his children with him, but Sutton is no longer the friendless, open-hearted youth that was exiled for his temerity. Even inheriting his father's title won't stop his enemies from trying to kill him. But no one, his people whisper, ever wins against the King of the Mountains.

As the new Duke of Winshire's four older children and his twin nieces navigate society to find acceptance and a love of their own, Winshire rekindles his acquaintance with the influential and beloved matriarch, Eleanor, Duchess of Haverford. Their time is long past; their friendship, though, is golden.

### To Wed a Proper Lady (Book 1) — The Barbarian and the Bluestocking

**Everyone knows James needs a bride with impeccable blood lines. He needs Sophia's love more.**

James, eldest son of the Earl of Sutton, must marry to please his grandfather, the Duke of Winshire, and to win social acceptance for himself and his father's other foreign-born children. But only Lady Sophia Belvoir makes his heart sing, and to win her, he must invite himself to spend Christmas at the home of his father's greatest enemy: the man who is fighting in Parliament to have his father's marriage declared invalid and the Winderfield children made bastards.

Sophia keeps secret her _tendre_ for James, Lord Elfingham. After all, the whole of Society knows he is pursuing the younger Belvoir sister, not the older one left on the shelf after two failed betrothals. Even when he asks for her hand in marriage, she still can't quite believe that he loves her.

(This book was first published as a novella, and has been extensively rewritten to make it a novel. The novella was in the Bluestocking Belles' collection _Holly and Hopeful Hearts_.)

### To Mend the Broken-Hearted (Book 2) — The Healer and the Hermit

Trained as a healer, Ruth Winderfield is happiest in a sickroom. When she's caught up in a measles epidemic and finds herself quarantined at the remote manor of a reclusive lord, the last thing she expects is to find her heart's desire. A pity he does not feel the same. She must return to London's ballrooms, where the wealth of her family and the question over her birth make her a target for the unscrupulous and a pariah to the high-sticklers.

Valentine, Earl of Ashbury, is horrified when an impertinent bossy female turns up with several sick children, including the two girls he is responsible for. His niece and his daughter, , he reluctantly gives them shelter. Even more reluctantly, he helps with the nursing. The sooner they leave again the better, even if Ruth has wormed her way into his heart.hasn't seen his daughter -- if she is his daughter -- in three years. She and her cousin, his niece, remind him of his faithless wife and treacherous brother, whose death three years ago will never set him free. Val spends his days trying to restore the estate, or at least prevent further crumbling. is

### To Tame the Wild Rake — The Sinner and the Saint

The Marquis of Aldridge doesn't want to yearn for the sister of a friend from his raking days. Especially since she has rejected him in no uncertain terms. Charlotte Winderfield, niece of the Mountain King, keeps a secret that bars her from marriage, but even if she found the courage to trust, she would never trust a rake.

### To Reclaim the Long-Lost Lover — The Diamond and the Doctor

Her girlhood lover is back, as compelling as ever, but Sarah Winderfield, Charlotte's twin, cannot forget he abandoned her, leaving her to face the anger of her family and worse. Sarah is even lovelier than when she was a girl, but Miles Pointon has not forgiven her for betraying him to her father's revenge: indenture to the Caribbean and years of servitude.

### To Save the Desperate Maiden — The Lion and the Lamb

Andrew Winderfield is sorry for the girl next door, who is brutally treated by her step-family. His support for Anne Markham has unintended consequences when her step-brother forces a compromising situation. A marriage begun in such unpromising circumstances faces further challenges when a totally unprepared Anne faces the critical eye of the _ton_.

### To Escape the Fortune Hunter — The Princess and the Pauper

Rosemary Winderfield wants children of her own, but she is resigned to the reality that most of her suitors are fortune-hunters. An Anglo-Indian friend from her childhood has been told to find a rich wife. Surely this is the perfect match? So why does Rosemary's eye keep straying to Simon's equally penurious friend Daniel Beckett, who has become engaged to a friend of Rosemary's. Could love be a possibility after all? Or will the demands of friendship and loyalty prevail?

# About the Author

Jude has been trying to be a novelist since she was fourteen. She was a good enough reader to see that the first two attempts (one when she was fourteen and one in her early twenties) weren't good enough to publish. Then along came life. A seriously ill child who required years of therapy; a rising mortgage that led to a full-time job; her own chronic illness... the writing took a back seat.

As the years passed, the fear grew. She'd waited so long. If she never finished any of the dozens of novels she started, no one would ever judge them.

Jude's mother believed in her, and on the way home from that great lady's funeral, Jude realised she'd left it too late for her Mum to ever hold a print copy of one of her books. So she replaced the fear of finishing with the fear of not finishing, by telling everyone she knew that she was writing a novel.

In the five years from publishing her first fiction book in 2014, Jude published seven novels, thirteen novellas, a heap of shorter stories, and more novellas in group anthologies. She plans to keep going till she runs out of years.

Jude writes historical fiction with a large helping of romance, a splash of Regency, and a twist of suspense.

She then tries to figure out how to slot it into a genre category.

She's mad keen on history, enjoys what happens to people in the crucible of a passionate relationship, and loves to use a good mystery and some real danger as mechanisms to torture her characters.

In her other identity as Judy Knighton, she is a plain language consultant specialising in contracts, insurance policies, and financial disclosure statements. Fiction is more fun.

Website and blog: <http://judeknightauthor.com/>

Book blurbs and links: <http://judeknightauthor.com/books/>

### Do you like news before anyone else, plus discounts, and free stuff?

Sign up to Jude's newsletter. The main newsletter goes out once every two months, and includes news about coming books, discounts, contests, and events. Every newsletter also has news abut books from Jude's author friends, and a free story that Jude writes just for newsletter subscribers.

In between newsletters, if Jude has something exciting to share she occasionally sends a one-topic email.

### Free book as a thank you

As a thank you for subscribing to Jude's newsletter, you can expect a series of three emails, the first offering a free copy of one of Jude's books, and the next two with links to other free stories. So why not subscribe today?

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# Also by Jude Knight

### Regency books

> _The Golden Redepennings series_

True love is rare and elusive, but they won't settle for less

_Candle's Christmas Chair_ (A novella in _The Golden Redepennings_ series)

They are separated by social standing and malicious lies. He has until Christmas to convince her to give their love another chance.

_Gingerbread Bride_ (A novella in _The Golden Redepennings_ series)

Mary runs from an unwanted marriage and finds adventure, danger and her girlhood hero, coming once more to her rescue.

_Farewell to Kindness_ (Book 1 in _The Golden Redepennings_ series)

Love is not always convenient. Anne and Rede have different goals, but when their enemies join forces, so must they.

_A Raging Madness_ (Book 2 in _The Golden Redepennings_ series)

Their marriage is a fiction. Their enemies are all too real. Uncovering the truth will need all the trust Ella and Alex can find.

_The Realm of Silence_ (Book 3 in _The Golden Redepennings_ series)

Rescue her daughter, destroy her dragons, defeat his demons, return to his lonely life. How hard can it be?

_Unkept Promises_ (Book 4 in _The Golden Redepennings_ series)

Mia hopes to negotiate a comfortable marriage. Jules wants his wife to return to England, where she belongs. Love confounds them both.

> Other Regency books

_A Baron for Becky_

She was a fallen woman. How could the men who loved her help set her back on her feet?

_A Suitable Husband_

A chef from the slums, however talented, is no fit mate for the cousin of a duke, however distant. But Cedrica can dream. (novella)

_House of Thorns_

His rose thief bride comes with a scandal that threatens to tear them apart.

_Lord Calne's Christmas Ruby_

One wealthy merchant's heiress with an aversion to fortune hunters. One an impoverished earl with a twisted hand. Combine and stir with one villainous rector. (novella)

_Melting Matilda_ (A novella in the Bluestocking Belles February 2020 collection, _Fire & Frost_)

Sparks flew a year ago when the Granite Earl kissed the Ice Princess. In the depths of another winter, fire still smoulders under the frost between them.

_Revealed in Mist_

As spy and enquiry agent, Prue and David worked to uncover secrets, while hiding a few of their own.

_The Beast Next Door _(A __ novella in the Bluestocking Belles collection _Valentines from Bath)_

In all the assemblies and parties, no-one Charis met could ever match the beast next door.

### Lunch-length reads: story collections

_Hand-Turned Tales and Lost in the Tale_

A double handful of short stories and novellas, free from most eretailers. Try the range of Jude's imagination one bite at a time, in a lunch-length read.

_If Mistletoe Could Tell Tales_

A repackaging of six published Christmas stories: four novellas and two novelettes. Because nothing enhances the magic of Christmas like the magic of love.

_Hearts in the Land of Ferns_

Five stories all set in New Zealand: two historical and three contemporary suspense. All That Glisters has been published in Hand-Turned Tales. The other four have all been published in multi-author collections, but never before in a collection of Jude Knight stories.

### Victorian books

_Never Kiss a Toad (with Mariana Gabrielle)_

Caught together in her father's bed, Sally and Toad are wrenched apart, to endure years of separation. But neither distance nor malice can destroy true love.

_God Help Ye, Merry Gentleman (with Mariana Gabrielle)_

A Christmas collection: two purpose-written short pieces in the world of _Never Kiss a Toad_ , showing Sally's and Toad's childhood and youth. Plus some other published pieces from blogs, newsletters, and books set in the same world.

_Forged in Fire (_novella in the Bluestocking Belles collection _Never Too Late)_

Burned in their youth, neither Tad nor Lottie expected to feel the fires of love. Until the inferno of a volcanic eruption sears away the lies of the past and frees them to forge a new future.

### Post-apocalyptic fiction

_A Midwinter's Tale (_novella in the Speakeasy Scribes collection _Resist and Rejoice)_

Verity Marchand is an orphan of time, her family tavern under the ice that grips Boston. When Verity's dreams lead her into a nightmare, she'll need a miracle—or the family cat—to save her.

### Contemporary

_A Family Christmas (_novella in the Authors of Main Street collection _Christmas Babies on Main Street)_

Kirilee is on the run, in disguise, out of touch, and eating for two. Trevor is heading home for Christmas, after three years undercover, investigating a global criminal organisation. In the heart of a storm, two people from different worlds question what divides and what unites them.

_Abbie's Wish _(novella in the Authors of Main Street collection _Christmas Wishes on Main Street_ )

Abbie's Christmas wish draws three men to her mother. One of them is a monster.

_Beached _(novella in the Authors of Main Street collection _Summer Romance on Main Street_ )

The truth will wash away her coastal paradise

_The Gingerbread Caper_ (novella in the Authors of Main Street collection _Christmas Cookies on Main Street_ )

A mischievous cat, a spy mystery, a gingerbread-munching burglar, a Christmas challenge gone wrong, and a tender new love. All in a New Zealand seaside resort.
