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At that moment, she freed the dagger and swung it at him, but he easily caught her wrist and pried the weapon from her fingers.

She opened her mouth to scream. “He-e-el—”

His hand clamped down over her mouth, silencing her cry. In desperation, she licked his palm, hoping the unexpected sensation would make him recoil.

Instead, he whirled her around, pressing her back against his chest, his palm firmly covering her mouth once more. With his free hand, he began to untie his cravat.

Panic gave her strength. She tried to break free from his grip, lifting her foot and stomping down hard on his instep. She felt a fleeting sense of satisfaction when he grunted in pain, his hold loosening just enough for her to escape.

But before she could run more than a few steps, she tripped over her cursed skirts and went sprawling onto the gravel path.

That would never have happened if she had been wearing her şalvar!

Gideon was on her in an instant, tying his cravat over her mouth as a gag. The fabric smelled like him—that same masculine scent that had made her dizzy during their dance.

Damn rag.

Without hesitation, he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain, striding toward the street where his carriage waited. She could feel his muscles moving beneath his jacket as he walked, hear his steady breathing despite the exertion.

He unceremoniously deposited her into the carriage, slid onto a seat beside her, and shut the door behind them.

“Take us home,” he shouted to his carriage driver.

Chapter 9

Present Day – Spring 1744

“Tell me where you are really from. How did you get here? Were you trying to run away from your husband?” Gideon asked after a prolonged silence.

It was a long story—too long and rather unbelievable to someone like Gideon, who had everything handed to him since the moment he was born.

“Home,” she snorted. “I don’t remember what that looks like.”

“Where have you lived all this time, then?”

“Moving from city to city, doing other people’s dirty work.”

“And I was part of the dirty work,” he said.

“Yes,” she confirmed, although it wasn’t a question.

There was a long pause. “How many?”

Leila let out a sigh. “I don’t know what you’re asking me.”

“How many men had you lured into your trap and killed for them?”

She swallowed. “Too many to count.”

“You must be really good at your job.”

“Not really. Most men I was tasked to kill were just too easily led by a skirt—especially when I was younger.”

“How old were you when you started doing this dirty work? When had you joined the ranks of the Brotherhood?”

Joined them. The phrase, as she understood it, implied willingly becoming a part of the group. “I hadn’t joined them,” she corrected. “I was forced.”

“The mark on the small of your back would suggest otherwise.”