The Maid the Greek Married, page 1
“You don’t have a second name?” the scarred man—Ares—asked, the first words he’d said personally to her since the ceremony.
“No,” she said. “Perhaps I had one once, but I can’t remember what it was. I’m just Rose.”
What he thought of that, she had no idea, since he betrayed no reaction to the news whatsoever.
A few minutes later, a copy of the document was given to her.
“Here,” said Ares. “Your marriage certificate.”
Rose looked down and saw her own name. Rose Aristiades.
It gave her a little jolt. For years and years, she’d had no last name. For years and years, she’d only been Rose. But now she wasn’t. She had a last name now and a connection to someone.
She had a husband.
She looked up at him, but he’d already turned away, heading toward the door. He paused in the doorway and glanced back at her, enigmatic as a sphinx. “I will see you in three months, Rose.”
Then he was gone.
Jackie Ashenden writes dark, emotional stories with alpha heroes who’ve just gotten the world to their liking only to have it blown apart by their kick-ass heroines. She lives in Auckland, New Zealand, with her husband, the inimitable Dr. Jax, two kids and two rats. When she’s not torturing alpha males and their gutsy heroines, she can be found drinking chocolate martinis, reading anything she can lay her hands on, wasting time on social media or being forced to go mountain biking with her husband. To keep up-to-date with Jackie’s new releases and other news, sign up to her newsletter at jackieashenden.com.
Books by Jackie Ashenden
Harlequin Presents
The World’s Most Notorious Greek
The Innocent Carrying His Legacy
The Wedding Night They Never Had
The Innocent’s One-Night Proposal
Pregnant Princesses
Pregnant by the Wrong Prince
Rival Billionaire Tycoons
A Diamond for My Forbidden Bride
Stolen for My Spanish Scandal
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
Jackie Ashenden
The Maid the Greek Married
For Eric and Joan.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM FORBIDDEN TO THE DESERT PRINCE BY MAISEY YATES
CHAPTER ONE
Spring
THE LITTLE MAID was cleaning his room again.
Ares had come in to prepare for drinks with his father-in-law and there she was, on her knees in front of the big stone fireplace, sweeping ash out of the grate, and humming.
And she kept on humming as he shut the door behind him and strolled across to the chair that stood near the fireplace and sat down.
She kept on humming as if he wasn’t even in the room.
He’d thought that humming would irritate him the first time she’d appeared to clear the fireplace, but it didn’t. He even liked it. The soft sound of her voice was light, with a pleasing husk to it. Feminine. Soothing.
Mainly, though, he liked that she hummed as if he wasn’t Ares Aristiades, CEO of Hercules Security, one of the largest private security companies on the planet and in demand from governments the world over.
Ares Aristiades, ex–French Foreign Legion, scarred and broken and harder than the Greek mountains he’d been born in.
Ares Aristiades, whose heart and soul had died years ago, and now was burdened with neither.
Duty, though, remained, because here he was, visiting his in-laws at their remote mountain compound near the Black Sea. The way he’d done most years since Naya had died. Or at least, the years he hadn’t been either in hospital or in the Legion.
This particular maid had cleaned his room every year for the past five years, though it had only been in the last two years that he’d noticed her humming. And the last year he’d become aware that she was a woman and that the plain black dress she wore did nothing to hide the lush curves of a nineteen-fifties pinup.
She had long, honey-gold hair that she kept pinned in a severe bun at the nape of her neck and a sweet, heart-shaped face. Her mouth was full, her nose slightly tilted, her lashes long and looked like they’d been dipped in gold.
The staff here weren’t permitted to meet the eyes of the guests, or so his father-in-law had said—a strange rule for staff that Ares didn’t see the point of but hadn’t been interested enough to argue about—and the little maid never had.
Apart from once, the previous year, as she’d scurried out of his room with her bucket full of ash. Those gold-dipped lashes had risen, and she’d flashed him a wide-eyed glance.
Her eyes had been golden too.
She’d only given him the briefest of looks before hurrying away, but there had been no fear in them, only a kind of awed curiosity.
Which was surprising. That wasn’t people’s usual response to him. People were usually...disturbed if not downright terrified. Facial scars had that effect, he’d discovered.
He’d thought she wouldn’t be back cleaning his room after that, yet here she was, a year later, kneeling in front of the fireplace, once more shovelling ash.
He didn’t know what to make of it.
He didn’t know what to make of the desire that had ignited the moment her golden eyes had met his. He’d thought that as dead and gone as his wife, but one look from the little maid and it had roared into life, as raw and as powerful as it had been when he’d been young.
He didn’t know why he still felt it even though a year had passed since that one brief glance, yet he did.
What was different about this woman, he wasn’t sure, nor did he care to think about it in any depth. But it had made him aware that the years were passing, and he wasn’t getting any younger. And that he’d made certain promises.
Promises to his father that he wouldn’t let the blood of Aristiades die with him.
Promises to his late wife that they would fill their house with children.
Both his father and his wife were gone, but those promises were iron chains, and he couldn’t—wouldn’t—break them.
His conscience had died with his wife and now all that kept him on the right path was her memory and the promises they’d made to each other.
His father, Niko, had been very insistent that the line of Aristiades must be preserved, especially since they were descended from the mighty hero Hercules. And although Ares had no use for bloodlines himself and it didn’t matter to him if he was the last Aristiades, he’d sworn to his father he’d preserve it.
But it was for Naya’s memory that he’d actually do it. She’d always loved children and they’d planned on a big family, and even though she was gone, those plans hadn’t changed. His entire life since she’d died had been about honouring her, and having children would be another thread to add to that complex tapestry.
However, if he wanted them, he was also going to need a wife, and really, the sooner the better.
The room set aside for him was stone, its hard lines made softer with expensive silk rugs on the floor and velvet curtains. Not that he cared for rugs or curtains or anything that could be termed ‘soft.’
Yet this little maid looked soft, and he liked that more than he’d anticipated.
‘What is your name?’ he asked in Russian, assuming she was Russian since she worked here. His voice sounded rusty and harsh, cutting through the silence like a rockfall in a quiet valley, but he took no notice. His vocal cords had been damaged in the fire and he was long used to that by now.
She gave a start. ‘Rose,’ she said in her light, husky voice. Then she turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder. ‘What’s yours?’
Her eyes were exactly as he remembered from a year earlier, like big golden coins, and once again there was no horror in them. No pity, either, or even compassion for the massive burn scars that pulled at his skin. She looked at him as if she didn’t see his scars at all.
Such pretty eyes.
The raw flicker of desire burned brighter, higher, yet he made no move. He wasn’t a boy at the mercy of his passions any longer, no matter how unfamiliar those passions might be these days. He was a man in complete control of himself. A man who could be patient when the situation demanded it.
A man who didn’t hide the scars that ravaged his face, a continual reminder of the dangers of pride.
He didn’t care what she thought of them. He didn’t care what anyone thought of them. They were no one’s business but his.
He stared back, letting her look. ‘You do not know?’
Her gaze never wavered. ‘No. I’m not told the names of our guests.’
Ares was due downstairs in five minutes, and it wasn’t appropriate to engage a servant in idle conversation, but Ivan, his father-in-law, could wait.
Ivan was a Russian oligarch with too many fingers in too many pies, and had never forgiven Ares for how his daughter had fallen in love with a lowly Greek shepherd boy while holidaying in Athens. Ivan had objected to the marriage, but Naya had always been a strong woman and she’d wanted Ares. She’d never cared that he lived in a hut in the mountains without a drachma to his name.
Over the years, Ares had increased in Ivan’s estimation after he’d left the hut behind and become who he was, the God of War, as he was known in some circles.
Ares didn’t like Ivan, though. Not that he was here for Ivan. He was here because Naya would have wanted him to be and so here he was.
‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked, deciding he wouldn’t give it to her yet. She was only a maid, though he had to admit, she didn’t much act like one.
She didn’t answer immediately, a small crease appearing between her golden brows. Then she dumped the shovel full of ash, and the brush, and turned around to face him. She stood up, ash dusting her uniform, but she didn’t brush it away. In fact, she didn’t seem to notice it at all.
Her expression had taken on a set look, as if she was steeling herself for something. ‘I...need your help,’ she said.
Ares stared at her, conscious of an unfamiliar feeling spreading through him. And it took him a couple of moments to realise that what he was feeling was surprise.
It had been a very long time since someone had surprised him, when these days he felt nothing at all. Not even a flicker of an emotion. So it was odd that one little maid should be able to coax it from him.
His legs were outstretched and crossed at the ankle, the black leather of his shoes—handmade by a shoemaker in Milan—glossy in the evening sun coming through the window. She was standing just shy of his feet. Close, even.
Close for a little maid with seemingly no fear of the man who was sitting bare inches away. A man worth billions who had governments in his pocket.
A man who was scarred, yet still physically powerful and who could crush her without effort.
A man she apparently thought could help her.
Ares was not accustomed to being asked for help and he was even less accustomed to giving it.
‘Help,’ he echoed, tasting the word. ‘You think I could help you.’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t seem to notice that he hadn’t made it a question. ‘I have no one else.’
If she was coming to him, then she must indeed have no one else.
He tilted his head back slightly, studying her.
She wasn’t tall. In fact, even standing while he was sitting, she was barely at eye level. But there was a determination to her, a stubbornness, he could see it in the cast of her chin. Her gaze met his unflinchingly, though he could see the hint of desperation to it.
Her black dress did her no favours, but it didn’t hide the lush promise of those curves either. She had a sweet, womanly figure, which was really all he required in a wife, though why he was thinking that this little maid shovelling ash could fit the bill he had no idea.
Then again, why not? It didn’t matter which woman he chose, she’d never be Naya, and that meant one pretty woman was as good as any other. She clearly wasn’t bothered by his scars, though, which was a considerable point in her favour. He didn’t care what people thought of them, yet he also didn’t want to be confronted by distaste or fear over the breakfast table every morning. Or in his bed every night.
‘Well?’ she asked. Her hands had curled into fists at her sides, though her small, delicate features were unreadable.
A woman used to hiding what she felt, he suspected.
‘Help with what?’ He really shouldn’t be continuing with this conversation, considering Ivan, but now he was curious and more than happy for his father-in-law to have to wait.
Rose stared with a direct, unblinking gaze. It might have been disconcerting for a lesser man, but Ares had never been, nor would he ever be, a lesser man.
Her lovely mouth compressed, and she shifted on her feet at last. Nervous, obviously. Then she darted a gaze at the door, as if she was worried about eavesdroppers. ‘They’re going to sell me,’ she said, the words falling over themselves in their efforts to escape. ‘Tomorrow, I think, or maybe the day after, I’m not sure. I don’t know where I’ll be going or to who, but I don’t want to stay to find out. I need to escape somehow, but I’ve got no money and I’ve never been out of this compound, and I can’t get out of here anyway, not without help, and I know because I’ve tried. Someone has to get me out and I have no one else to ask.’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘Please, sir. Please, help me.’
* * *
Rose knew she’d said too much the moment the words were out of her mouth. They’d escaped as if he’d somehow tripped a switch inside her, causing all her desperate fears to come cascading out.
She didn’t want to sound like a scared little girl. Scared little girls were victims and she was tired of being a victim. She’d been one for her entire life and that had to stop. Here. Now. Today.
The man said nothing, sprawled out in the seat in front of her as if he didn’t have one single care in the entire world. Because of course he didn’t. Men like him never did. The rich, the powerful, the infamous. All kinds stayed at the compound, and she’d seen them all. She was a house servant, and it was her job to make their beds and clean their fireplaces, scrub their baths and pick up their clothing.
Some were terrible, lashing out with a cuff for no reason at all, and others groped her because she was there, and they thought they had the right. Some shouted at her for some imagined slight, and some made disgusting insinuations, then laughed. Some ignored her like she wasn’t even there.
But this man... This man was different, and he always had been.
Rose stared fixedly at him.
He was immensely tall, immensely powerful. Built broad and muscular like the guards that kept watch over the doors of the compound. Except for all their physical strength, the guards seemed small and insubstantial next to this man. They thought they were wolves and maybe they were, but this man was a dragon.
He projected the strength of a giant, the arrogance of a king and the confidence of God himself, and she had no idea who he was that granted him such massive self-assurance, but one thing she was sure of: he could help her.
She’d been cleaning this room for five years and it was only the previous year that she’d risked punishment by looking at him. She already knew he was tall and that his voice was cracked and broken sounding. That he walked silently and with a grace that was almost shocking in a man built so broad.
His scars had been shocking too, but only because she hadn’t expected them.
She didn’t care about his scars. The only thing she cared about was that he was the only one who didn’t paw at her, who didn’t try to touch her, or say disgusting things and make crude jokes whenever she was in the room. He didn’t shout at her or even make conversation.
He wasn’t one of those men who ignored her either, though.
She’d sensed him watching her, and why he did so, she wasn’t sure, but it didn’t frighten her. His attention felt curious rather than threatening, though again, she wasn’t sure why that was. Perhaps it was her humming. Perhaps he liked it.
That was beside the point, though. What mattered was that he’d never made a single move towards her, not one. It didn’t mean he was any better than all the rest, but it was a sign that he was at least no worse, and that was as good as she could get in a place like this.
Not that she had a choice now. They were going to sell her tomorrow and he was her only chance of escape.
She stared at him without blinking, willing him to say something, her heart thudding uncomfortably loudly in her ears.
He stared back, in no hurry. As if he hadn’t even heard her little speech.
She swallowed, a feeling she didn’t understand flickering like a fire inside her.
He wore an exceptionally well-cut suit of dark grey wool; she knew a good tailor when she saw one, she was nothing if not observant. His shirt was snowy white and open at the neck—he hadn’t bothered with a tie.
She found herself uncomfortably mesmerised by the glimpse of his throat, though she couldn’t imagine why. His skin was dark bronze, the white of his shirt showing it off to good effect, and his hair was darkest black and cut close to his skull. His eyes were startling, a strange silvery green, like a tarnished sea.
