“Where are we going, my lord?” she asked as they passed a cluster of more sumptuous pavilions.

The nobleman gave her another one of his heart-melting smiles. His white teeth flashed in the firelight. “To my humble abode.”

The three behind them broke into a chorus of riotous laughter. “Wait until you see it, little one,” one of them teased her.

Rosie didn’t like the way he had said that. She tugged on the gentleman’s sleeve again. “Are…are we going to do it there?”

His eyes twinkled. “That remains to be seen,” he replied.

The three youths erupted into more boisterous braying.

Rosie’s misgivings increased tenfold. “Are they…” She glanced uneasily over her shoulder again. “I mean, are we all going to do it—together?” No wonder the gentleman had paid so much gold for her! She could trick one with her vial of blood, but not four at the same time. Her knees grew weak at the thought.

The most outspoken of the three drew closer. “In good sooth, fair damsel, you are not ours to savor. But—”he flashed her a wicked grin “—if old Andrew tires too quickly, I will teach you to dance a merry tune.”

Rosie’s protector growled in the back of his throat. “Mind your manners, Jackanapes. There is a lady present.”

Rosie clutched the cape tighter. “Where?” she asked, peering into the darkness. She had never before met a real lady.

The three rogues nearly fell over themselves with laughter.

The gentleman shook his head at them. “Pigs,” he remarked to Rosie.

Very soon, they stopped in front of a large double tent. By the light of a bonfire at the entrance, Rosie saw that the canvas walls were painted salmon pink and embellished with gilded ivy. Her patron lifted one of the flaps, revealing a cozy interior, lighted by a wealth of candles in glass lanterns. She gasped with awe at the extravagance, then uttered a little squeal of surprise when the gentleman swept her up into his arms.

He cradled her against his chest as if she were made of the most delicate glass. The warmth and strength of his arms soothed her, though she did not understand why. Her body tingled from the contact. Her fingers ached to stroke his smooth cheek, but she did not dare to take such a liberty. She was nothing but his chattel, she reminded herself.

The gentleman glanced at the trio. “If you plan to come in, boys, doff your muddy boots out here,” he instructed them.

Rosie stared at him. “My lord?” His request seemed very odd.

To her further amazement, the three did exactly what he had commanded them.

“Tis old Andrew’s conceit, lass,” the tallest one explained, as he dropped his boots in a heap by the entrance. “He bought those new rugs before we left London and he is determined to keep them clean.”

Her protector nodded. “Just so. Turkish, my dear. Imported on the humped-back camels all the way from the Ottoman Empire.”

Rosie had no idea what Ottomans or camels were, but she could tell just from looking at the rugs, that they were the finest things she had ever seen. “If ye want to keep them new, my lord, methinks ye should roll them up, for they will surely grow filthy when it rains here.”

The tallest laughed. “She has hit the bull’s-eye, Andrew.”

“Ah!” The nobleman nodded as if deep in thought. “A point well-taken, mistress. However, be easy in your mind. I have a layer of waxed canvas beneath them.” He smiled again at her. “But I am most grateful for your consideration, sweetheart.”

Her pulse skittered when he murmured the endearment to her. Rosie quelled the warm feeling. This man was too smooth to be trusted. He meant none of his sweet words. Ducking under the overhang, he carried her inside his pavilion.

Rosie drew in her breath then exhaled slowly. The interior was even more lavish than its rich ground coverings. Rose-pink silk draperies masked the plain canvas walls. The color made the pavilion glow with a soft, heavenly light. A small, but elegantly carved table stood near the center pole. Beside it was a matching armchair with a red cushion covering its seat. A thin wisp of smoke curled from a brass brazier, perfuming the air with an exotic scent.

A second tent of equal size and lavish appointments opened into the first. Rosie could see part of a large bed draped with billowing gauze. Its covers were turned back. Fat pillows nestled against the gilded headboard. Fear swept through Rosie. That bed would be the stage upon which she must act the part of a shy virgin.

The nobleman set her down on one of the wooden stools that dotted the rug. “Keep your feet up for one minute, my sweet,” he instructed.

Rosie obeyed, too stunned by her sudden turn of fortune to ask why. Her master opened one of the many chests that lined the walls of the tent and took out a piece of plain muslin. He spread it on the rug in front of her. “There now. Put your feet on that, but do not move an inch off of it. There’s a good lass.” He stepped back to the center of the tent and regarded her as if she were a horse for sale.