Fascinated

were blown off course. A ship picked us up. It was a slaver. We were taken to a Barbary port and sold. I never saw my father's men again.'

There were no words for the horror he had felt, imprisoned, away from home for the first time in his life with no hope of ever returning.

'But you were… English.'

A smile twisted his lips; it did not reach his eyes. 'The Arab who bought me was not impressed by my heritage. Nor was he impressed by my rebellious nature. In Arabia, there is a saying: take a wife for children, but take a boy for pleasure. He liked young men. When I refused to accommodate him, he watched while his guards held me down and an Egyptian infidel crushed my testicles. Then he sold me to a Syrian trader.'

He stared into her green eyes and saw not the verdancy of England, but the barren desert and the thirteen- year-old boy he had been.

'An infection set in. The Syrian trader cut off the useless sac that hung between my legs and buried me in the sand to staunch my blood.'

Megan's pale skin turned pasty with shock.

'I do not remember the pain anymore.' A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. Images of a blazing yellow sun and bright crimson blood flashed before his eyes. 'But I remember crying like a girl. I wanted to die; it was not permitted.'

'I'm glad you didn't die,' she said quietly.

Last night and today he had been glad, too.

'I could not bring myself to tell my family that I lived,' he confessed instead.

There was no condemnation in her eyes. 'They believe you are dead?'

'I thought it would be best if they believed me dead rather than knowing what had happened to me.'

Her gaze did not falter. It ripped the truth out of him.

'I did not want them to know what had happened to me.'

He still did not want them to know.

'They would not blame you. How could they?'

'I am the youngest in my family; I have three older brothers and one sister. I was the pampered son. I've been in England for nine years, yet I did not visit my parents. They died not knowing that I was alive. I did not attend their funerals.

'Tomorrow, Megan, tomorrow I will find out if my brothers and my sister blame me.'

'Do they know you are alive now?'

'They know. I sent them a note the day before yesterday.'

The day he had decided to procure a whore.

The day Megan had come into his life.

'I will send them another note tomorrow,' he said dispassionately. 'We will meet over afternoon tea, like English do.'

'Why are you visiting with them now, if you do not wish to?' she persisted quietly.

Because his hatred had frightened him.

Because he needed to make peace with himself. Cornwall had seemed like a good place to start.

'I am fifty-three years old, and I do not know who I am. I am a eunuch. I have gone by the name of Muhamed for forty years. But I want what Connor would have had. I want a woman; I want children. I want to live among other men, as a man.'

'You are a man.'

'And which man do you think I am, Megan? Muhamed… or Connor?'

'I think the man I baptized today is the man you are,' she said firmly.

He felt as if a fist slammed into his chest.

'I don't think the gods will be appeased by a condom, Megan.'

'Perhaps not, but it will certainly give rise to speculation, come May,' she calmly rejoined.

He did not want to think about May. He did not want to think about the decision he would have to make, come the morrow.

'Hold me,' he said starkly. And for the first time in forty years, he said one simple English word. 'Please. Come to bed and hold me.'

Chapter Seven

Pink dawn divided the darkness inside the bedroom. Faint stirrings penetrated the quiet, the sound of other clients rising. Leaving.

Sounds she had not noticed yesterday, the comings and goings of others.

Megan cradled his sleeping head against her breasts and listened to the easy rhythm of his breathing.

Muhamed. Connor.

Which man did she hold?

How would his family react when they saw him?

Would they stare at him, as the stableboy had stared at him?

Would they welcome him?

Would they rebuff him?

Would they hurt him?

His arm tightened about her waist. She knew that he, too, was awake.

'Muh-' She bit her lip.

What did she call him?

'I have to go,' she said.

He did not answer.

Her heart felt as though it were being rent in two.

How ridiculous of her, to hope that he would want her to stay.

He did not stop her when she slipped out from underneath his head and his arm.

He did not stop her when she hurriedly dressed, shivering from the cold and the tears that silently dripped down her cheeks.

He did not stop her when she quietly opened the door and slipped out of his life.

Never to know if he found peace.

With his family.

With another woman.

Once in her room, Megan scrubbed her face, her teeth, dressed her hair and packed her clothes.

It was time to get on with her life.

The innkeeper, a squat man with thinning hair greased back from his forehead, leered at her, obviously aware of the time she had spent with the man he knew as Mr. Muhamed.

Meg would have cringed in humiliation; Megan turned her nose up. 'I require transportation to the Branwell place.'

'Ain't nothin' there, lady.'

'Nevertheless, I would like to hire a carriage and a driver.'

'It'll cost you six shillings.'

It was an exorbitant price, but her only alternative was to walk. Ten miles.

'Very well.'

The driver was a taciturn man who slumped underneath a worn bowler hat. He did not assist her with her luggage. Megan climbed into the seat beside him.

It was a rare Cornish day; two days of sunshine in a row.

Megan thought of the French letter, flapping in the breeze. She thought of her hair, hanging loose down her back as if she were a young girl instead of a middle-aged widow. She thought of the man who had allowed her to be free of the restrictions incurred by age and respectability.