"It is far in the past," Daoud said. "Before you met me." He held her away from him and looked at her with laughter in his blue eyes. "Even the Prophet married a widow."
His gentle acceptance, his easy assumption that all was over between herself and Manfred, tore at her heart. If she even mentioned Simon, it would be different. That was not in the past. That was after she had met Daoud, after they became lovers. For the thousand-thousandth time she cursed herself for letting it happen.
God, I am a whore! As bad as the worst painted prostitute plying her trade under the arches by the Hippodrome.
No, worse than that, in a way. A prostitute had a clear reason for doing what she did with men. The more Sophia thought about the time she let Simon possess her, the less she understood it. And even a prostitute knew her occupation and her place in the world. From the night that Alexis cast her adrift, Sophia had, in a way, been lost.
But there came to her a glimmering of hope. Daoud had a place here with Manfred, and she had a place beside Daoud. Could it be that at last she had a home?
Then she should do nothing to endanger it. She should say nothing about Simon.
"Come to bed," he whispered, still holding her and taking a step in that direction.
The feel of his arms around her and his body pressing against her sent ripples of need for him through her. But now, with thoughts of Manfred and—much worse—of Simon, confusing her, she felt frightened, unready. She needed more time.
"I have had no proper bath in days, Daoud. I feel the grime of the road all over me."
"Of course." He smiled. "And now you can have a proper bath. Let me see to it."