Chapter Three
Zehra sipped her wine, even though her belly quivered with an ache born of days with little to no food. She fought to ignore the beating headache rising in her head by examining the bedchamber of her rescuer. His tall four-poster bed with a dark-green coverlet looked inviting, perhaps too much so. He had a shaving stand, complete with a washbasin, and a chest of drawers. A tall bookcase stood against one wall, and it was filled with books, some old, others quite new. She carried her wine glass with her as she approached the shelf.
“Who are you, Lawrence Russell?” she whispered, reading the gilded spines on the shelves. Gothic novels, poetry, sciences, art, philosophy. He was well-read, it seemed. Surely a man who was well-read was less likely to be a cruel man. At least, sh
