Free Lion's Bride by Iris Johansen Page A

might believe you less than you are.”
    “A terrible fate.”
    “Your neck is feeling better?”
    “Yes. You have strong hands.” He added deliberately, “Not the hands of a lady who sits at an embroidery loom.”
    “I knotted the silk in carpets when I was a child. My mother persuaded Nicholas to let her train me in embroidery, but it was almost too late. She had to work three years to straighten the muscles of my hands and fingers.”
    “Straighten?”
    “Children’s hands and bones are not fully formed. When they’re set to working the carpets for long hours, the muscles become cramped and twisted and the hands crippled for anything but the task.”
    “Good God. Then why do they set children to do such work?”
    “Children’s hands are small and the task is delicate,” she said matter-of-factly. “Everyone uses children for the carpet making.”
    “And will you?”
    “No, I will not use children at all.” She added with satisfaction, “The muscles are almost unknotted. Now it should begin to feel good.”
    “It does.” He was silent a moment. “How did your mother work with your hands?”
    “Like this. Every evening she pulled and stretched and kneaded. We were given a rest from the embroidery loom every four hours, and she made me open and close them over and over.”
    “Why the devil did she let them put you to that task to begin with?” he asked harshly.
    “I think you’re eased.” She started to remove her hands. “I’ll tell Omar to bring more hot—”
    His hand shot over his shoulder and caught her wrist, his gaze still straight ahead. “Why?”
    “Let me go.”
    He pulled her hand forward until it was in his field of vision. “Small,” he murmured. “Clean, well shaped.” His thumb rubbed one of the calluses on her forefinger. “But strong. I like your hands, Thea of Dimas.” He brought it to his lips and lazily licked the palm. “I would have been very angry if they had been crippled.”
    She could scarcely breathe. “You would not have known. We would never have met. I’d never have dared to come to Damascus if I’d had only the skills I learned as a child.”
    He licked her palm again. “Why would your mother be so cruel as to let her child be used so brutally?”
    “My mother wasn’t cruel.” Each time he touched her palm, a strange tingling jolt went up her arm and through her body. “Don’t…do that.”
    “The oil on your hands is lemon flavored. I like the taste. Why did she let you be put to that task?”
    “She…had no choice. She begged Nicholas to—” She was saying too much. Dear heavens, she was feeling too much. She jerked her hand away and jumped to her feet. “Why are you questioning me? That time has nothing to do with now. My mother is dead.”
    “How did she die?”
    “Of the fever. Several women died that winter.” She moved hurriedly toward the door. “I will get Omar….”
    “Thea.”
    She stopped with her hand on the door. “I will answer no more questions.”
    “I…thank you.”
    Her gaze flew back to him. His big body gleamed like burnished bronze in the water, but it was his expression that held her. Gentleness from the beast?
    He quickly lowered his gaze to the water. He said gruffly, “Though I had no need of your services. I was only a little stiff.” He scowled. “Well, maybe more than a little.”
    A smile tugged at her lips. He sounded like a cross little boy.
    “And I don’t want Omar.” He reached for the soap. “Send me Tasza.”
    Her smile vanished. He was not a little boy. He was a rude, lustful brute who used women only as toys.
    “As you wish.” The door slammed behind her.
    Jasmine was waiting in the hall. Her gaze immediately went to the damp bodice of Thea’s gown. “You are wet. Did he put his hands on you?”
    “No,” she said curtly. “I was leaning against the tub. He didn’t touch me.” Yet she felt as if he had. Her breasts felt heavy and ripe, and the palm of her hand still tingled. “I