Jewel of Persia

Zechariah craned his head around, though he still could not take in all the splendor. “You were right, Ruana, even you could not damage his treasury. This house . . .




Ruana graced him with her usual coy grin. “It is beautiful, is it not? The king rewarded Asho generously for the service in Egypt that injured his leg.” She motioned him

down a corridor. “My room is this way. I considered bringing the table you crafted for me before, but it was far too small.”

“Too small?” He chuckled and followed her into the cavernous room at the end of the hall. When he stepped inside, his eyebrows rose. “Yes, I suppose it would have been.

How do you not get lost in here?”

“I like space to move around.” She twirled in proof. “My husband assures me his home in Persepolis is even grander, but I do not regret that we will remain in Susa this

summer. I will enjoy putting my touch on this house.”

His gaze drifted to the bed behind her. The masterpiece had taken him, his father, and Joshua months to perfect. How they maneuvered it into the room he could not say. “You

are pleased with the bedframe?”

“It is the most amazing thing I have ever seen.” Her dimples flashed. “Were you terribly tormented while making it?”

He laughed, but a few images sprang up before his eyes. “Terribly—I could neither eat nor sleep. I became a mere ghost of a man.”

“I am glad to hear it.” She chuckled and settled her fingers on his arm. It took monumental effort to ignore the heat that seared his flesh. “The table will go right over

here, if you would like to measure the space.”

He nodded and hoped he looked nonchalant as he moved away. Never would he admit that she had been in his thoughts nearly as much as he joked. But night after night she had

inspired dreams that he had beaten from his mind in the morning with relentless training.

Adam and the rest probably hated him by now.

News of her marriage reached him a fortnight ago, at which point he tried to clamp down on his errant thoughts.

His sleeping mind had not received the message.

He held up his string to the place she indicated and marked down the measurements on the wax tablet he had brought with him. “Have you heard from Bijan recently?”

“Mmm. We just received their congratulations and well wishes. They were at Troy and would soon be moving on to Abydus to cross the Hellespont. Bijan asked that I give you

his greetings.”

“Send him mine when next you write him.” He pressed another note into the tablet and glanced her way. She leaned against a post of the bed, studying him.

His throat went dry. Perhaps it was her husband’s preference that she wear linen so fine it settled over each curve like a lover’s hand. He had undoubtedly been the one to

provide the bejeweled belt that revealed her figure and the glistening gems in her hair. A vision for her husband to enjoy—not for Zechariah.

He forced a smile. “You look at home here, Ruana. I am glad your dreams have come true.”

Something flickered in her eyes. Something dark and dissatisfied, something that spoke of illusions shattered. Something that should not have made his pulse quicken.

Her smile looked as forced as his. “Most of them, anyway.” She sank onto the mattress and patted the place beside her. “Come see how well your creation turned out.”

“I ought not.” Far too dangerous. “I would probably get wood shavings all over it.”

Was it his imagination, or did her lips quiver? “I do not care.”

He did. Should. Tried to. “Ruana . . .”

She stood again, glided his way. The flicker in her eyes returned and kindled into a flame. “I need you, Zech.”

The whisper lit a million fantasies that threatened to burn him alive. He tried to force them away, yet his rebellious hand reached for her even as he lips obediently said,

“You have a husband to meet your needs now.”

Tears welled up in her eyes as she wove her fingers through his. “Do I? It seems to me I have one far more concerned with his own pleasures. He told me to pursue mine

wherever I may.”

Sympathetic anger laced through the desire. How could her husband dismiss her so quickly? How could he not appreciate the beauty and wit, the passion and tease? “If that is

true, then he is the greatest of fools. Yet he seemed so excited to be marrying you.”

Never in the years he had known her had Zechariah ever seen such cynicism in her eyes. “Oh, yes. I am everything he wanted in a wife. Unfortunately, he wanted less than I

assumed.” She reached up to trail her knuckles over his cheek.

Lord help him. How was he to fight this? Abba would tell him to turn and walk away before the Persian witch could destroy him. Mordecai would advise him to pray.

What did Abba know? He had fallen for a proper Jewish girl, had made her a proper Jewish wife. And Mordecai—Mordecai could pray for the impossible, could pray even for a

woman he had been told was dead. Their realities were not his.

He drew in a shuddering breath. “We cannot . . . you are married.”