Authors: Johanna Lindsey
T
he hidden chamber was not unique by any means. One or two could be found in almost any large household in the Near East, many more than that in a royal palace. In the Dey’s palace, one could be found overlooking the audience chamber, the throne room, the schoolroom, the council chamber where the Divan met, even Jamil’s bedchamber.
As children, Derek and Jamil had often sensed eyes staring down at them from behind the fretted wooden screen high in the wall of the schoolroom, and had known that one of their parents had come to monitor their studies without disturbing the firm discipline of the class. Mustafa had often punished certain of his wives by forcing them to sit behind the screen in his bedroom while he cavorted with one or two of his other concubines. And attending a meeting of the Divan without the council members being aware of it had been a favorite pastime of many sultans.
Derek stood with one arm braced against the wooden screen that looked out over the large room where Jamil took his leisure. The concealed room was small and dark, without ornament, and extremely hot in the afternoon. Large cushions were piled on the floor to sit on, but Derek rarely used them.
Each morning he was escorted to a similar hidden chamber overlooking the throne room, where he would spend several hours watching Jamil con
duct daily business having to do with the palace, disputes among his officials, matters of discipline with the servants, judgments. Even his concubines could seek audience with him there over grievances.
One morning had been spent in another like room above the audience chamber, where Jamil received foreign dignitaries and dealt with matters of the city. Usually this was done four or five days a week, but lately Jamil had cut it down to once a week, attending to only the most important business, and now was not the time to change this recent habit.
In the afternoons, Derek suffered the heat in this tiny room, learning how Jamil dealt with his personal attendants, what amused him, what annoyed him. The early evenings were spent here, too, and Jamil spared himself nothing, concealed nothing; if anything, was extreme in his reactions for Derek’s benefit. Omar, who was nearly always at Derek’s side explaining things in whispers, insisted more than once that the harshness, the occasional cruelty Derek was seeing, was not the real Jamil.
“His patience is usually unlimited, his kindness renowned. He can be ruthless when the matter is warranted, but also merciful. Even as you see him now, he is still not the tyrant Mahmud was. But what you see is the result of his self-imprisonment. He is a man who worships the outdoors. He would ride for hours each day. When he had to give that up, it was only natural for him to become short-tempered. The situation has simply gone on too long. Since you came, he might have returned to his old self, but he cannot let anyone see it except you and me. Not even his
women must suspect that his frustration has nearly gone.”
Derek could understand that. He thought that he might react the same way under the same circumstances, and since he was going to be putting himself into those same circumstances, he could only hope it wouldn’t be for as long as Jamil had endured it.
To prepare for that time, day and night Derek was witness to his brother’s life without anyone being aware of it, even in the bedchamber.
Derek had at first balked at this. As children, he and Jamil might have sneaked into the hidden room to watch their father with his concubines, but that had been as a lark—exciting, dangerous. As a man, he had no desire to play the voyeur. Yet Omar insisted it was necessary for him to know how Jamil behaved toward his women, since they were a very active part of his life.
So far, he had watched Jamil make love to three of his favorites and one of his wives. Each time he was different in his behavior to show Derek the complexities of his nature—tender, forceful, abrupt, even violent. The violence had disgusted Derek, enough for him to get angry, but Omar had explained that this particular woman could not achieve pleasure without it, and so she was called for whenever Jamil needed to work off his frustrations, which had raised her to the status of favorite only recently. She had been whipped, not by Jamil, but by one of his mutes, and then Jamil had taken her brutally. And to Derek’s further disgust, she had seemed to enjoy it.
The night Jamil’s first wife, Sheelah, came to him was the only time Omar suggested Derek leave before
they actually made love. He was almost sorry to go, for she was a rare beauty, with soft sapphire eyes and red hair that reminded him of Caroline. And he noticed the difference in the way Jamil treated his number one
kadine
. He didn’t have to be told that this woman was special to his brother.
“He loves her, doesn’t he?” Derek had asked Omar as they walked toward the chamber that had been given him for sleeping, and where in total darkness each night he had been sent a slave girl to appease the long abstinence at sea.
“He loves them all, Kasim, but yes, he is
in
love with Lady Sheelah.”
“Then it was his idea that I leave?”
“No.” Omar chuckled. “Did you not notice his increased testiness today? He knew he would send for her tonight and that you would see her. He would not cut short your instruction for any reason, but he did not like it, that you would see her.”
“And I’m supposed to send for her myself later?” Derek asked incredulously. “How can I possibly, knowing how he feels about her?”
“You will have to, Kasim. He sends for her most often. He even goes to her after he has been with one of his other women. Most of them do not sleep with him, but return to the harem for the night. This is normal, because he would rather sleep with Sheelah beside him at night and does. Since you have come he has not, though. What excuse he has given her I do not know, but it would not be the truth. Even she is not to know that you are not him when you take his place.”
“So if he has prepared her to expect this change in their routine, I won’t have to sleep with her?”
“No, you will not. But you will have to summon
her to you, as I said. Of course, what you do with her when you are alone is up to you.”
Derek laughed at that. “You sly old fox. Her temporary hurt feelings come second to his peace of mind, correct? Then tell him tomorrow that I won’t touch her while he’s gone.”
“No.”
“Then I will.”
Omar shook his head. “His pride is at stake here. He hopes that you are a man such as he, that you would not touch another’s wife no matter the reason. But for what he asks you to do for him, he cannot deny you anything, even her. Giving you the choice is the risk he takes in leaving you here in his place. He must feel that he risks something, as you do. You cannot take that from him. Besides”—Omar grinned—“this is the incentive he needs to return quickly.”
But what agony would he suffer in the meantime? Derek wondered.
Tonight, a half-dozen
ikbals
and all three of Jamil’s wives had been invited to take dinner with him. For some, it was the first time they were seeing him with his newly shaved face, which had caused a considerable stir in the palace and did now among his women. Some were surprised, some delighted, which naturally annoyed Jamil, to Derek’s amusement. But he could not stay annoyed for long, not surrounded by the crème de la crème of his women.
The atmosphere of competition among the
ikbals
was fierce: who could hold Jamil’s attention the longest, find the choicest meat for him, make him laugh. His wives competed just among themselves, it seemed, and only Lady Sheelah had no need to,
she who sat next to Jamil and was herself fed by him.
One of the concubines got up and danced to the tune that two blind musicians were playing. It was a sight to delight the senses. These women were the most lovely in the harem, Jamil’s favorites. Here, with only his personal attendants on hand, they did not have to veil themselves. All were scantily attired except one, who wore a flowing caftan to conceal her advanced pregnancy. The others were adorned in bright silks, each a different color, and sheer gauzes. Jewels glittered and tinkled about their necks, their wrists, their ankles, some even about their waists, which glistened bare between the short vests and pantaloons.
“Do any take your fancy?” asked Omar, beside him.
“All take my fancy,” Derek answered, though with a degree of hesitation.
It was true, however. In beauty of features, in pure sensuality, they were incomparable. If they were each a bit more plump and curvaceous than he was used to, it didn’t matter. He had not forgotten the harem he was raised in, where half the women had gone to fat in their lazy existence and the other half would would join them eventually. It was a condition prevalent in harems and was no doubt why the Muslim male had acquired a taste for plumpness in his women.
Derek might have been raised to see beauty in the same light, but he had been awakened to manhood by the slim little bodies of overworked English maids, and his taste in women was now decidedly English. Not that each one of Jamil’s women couldn’t raise his libido, and no doubt many would in the
coming weeks. These favorites certainly did. It was just that his preferences were different from his brother’s, and he doubted he would find his ideal in Jamil’s harem.
Which was just as well. They were, after all, his brother’s women. He would not, could not, feel right about taking any of them to his bed, no matter how much Omar, and Jamil himself, insisted it was necessary.
“You will see all of the women tomorrow,” Omar told him, wishing he could see Kasim’s expression to know exactly what he was feeling, rather than depending on his tone of voice to tell him, difficult to judge when they had to speak in whispers. “They have been invited for an afternoon of games and entertainments in the garden. It will be your opportunity to choose those you favor.”
Derek grunted in response. Yes, he would have to learn their names if he was going to summon them to his bed, and it would not be Omar who handled such things later, but the Chief Black Eunuch, the man in control of all those who served the harem.
“What happens to those women I so favor after Jamil returns?” Derek suddenly wanted to know.
Omar did not answer immediately, and then not at all, as a servant entered to whisper a message to Jamil. With a single word from him, his women quickly left. A few moments later, the Chief Black Eunuch came into the room, followed by three of his minions, each dragging forward a woman who was immediately forced to her knees in the traditional prostration of respect before the Dey. One protested this, until her guard jabbed a knee into her back to keep her down.
The Chief Black Eunuch spoke softly to Jamil, bringing forth a chuckle from his master. “So my Grand Vizier was wrong for once.”
It was a statement, not a question, and Derek heard Omar stir beside him. “What were you wrong about, Omar, that he finds so amusing?” There was a mumble, and Derek almost laughed aloud, imagining the old man flushing in embarrassment. “Come now, I can’t hear you.”
“I said,” Omar bit out, “Jamil’s delighted that I was proved wrong in this instance.”
“About what?”
“There was a special slave offered to him before you arrived. He declined as usual. I assumed she would have been quickly sold, so I saw no reason to hurry Haji Agha to the slave markets when Jamil requested some new women, especially since the next slave caravan from the south wasn’t due until yesterday.”
“
He
requested new women? I was under the impression he feels he already possesses too many.”
“True. These women are for you.”
Derek did chuckle now, though softly in understanding. “I suppose the harem is to have some new favorites so that I don’t work my way through all of
his
.”
“It can safely be assumed that that is his hope, though he will not admit it. And obviously, the special one he previously declined was still available, proving me wrong. Fortunately, these few extra days did not see her sold, or he would not be so amused now.”
Which one was supposed to be special was anyone’s guess, for all three women were cloaked and heavily veiled, having just come from the city. But
Derek was not hopeful and could not dredge up even the slightest interest after having seen Jamil’s beauties. The Muslim’s idea of “special” was probably “already pleasingly plump,” with the fairness of coloring that was so prized here. Anything else would be considered ordinary.
C
hantelle had made a bad mistake, but she didn’t realize it until she was shoved to her knees to pay homage to the Grand Turk, or whatever he was, and she heard Haji Agha address him as “my gracious lord.” It was inconceivable that the man she had thought had bought her for himself would show her off to his own master. No, she was very much afraid she had been bought for this other fellow, whom she was at this moment being forced to bow down to.
That
went against the grain, and she had very nearly resisted being pushed to the floor until she saw what happened to the black girl beside her, who did resist. It was unfair that brute strength could so easily win the argument. What was the point of going through that when she would only lose in the end and her pride suffer even more? She had put up with enough indignities lately that one more seemed inconsequential.
It would have been nice, though, if she had been told what was going on instead of being left to draw her own wrong conclusions. When she had left Hamid Sharif’s, it had been to climb into one of four waiting litters, which had been her first disappointment. She had hoped that she would be walking through the city as she had done before and that there might somehow be an opportunity to slip away. But with all the litter bearers, not to mention a small contingent of mounted guards, that hope had become an impossibility.
She tried peeking out of the curtains that enclosed her in the litter, but was shouted at by one of the guards riding alongside her, so she gave up trying to see where they were going. It was uphill. She could determine that at least. But then the path leveled out, and there was the opening and closing of gate after gate, making her think she was leaving the city, until the litter was set down soon after.
It wasn’t until she stepped out of the litter that she saw another girl in one of the other litters, bringing their count to three. And she had only the briefest glance of a courtyard with gardens beyond before she was whisked inside a tall building and down several long corridors, past numerous guards standing at attention before tall doors, and finally brought into this large chamber filled with a half-dozen people. She saw them only in a blur as she was shoved to her knees so fast and forced to lower her head to the floor. She hadn’t even noticed the “gracious lord” whom Haji Agha addressed, but she heard him chuckle and mention something about his Grand Vizier being wrong.
Who was he to have a minister with that title? He couldn’t be the Dey of Barikah, for that high personage had declined to buy her. Some pasha then? Or some high official in the Dey’s court? Would she even be told? That was salt on the wound, that these arrogant Muslims considered women so inferior they didn’t have to explain anything to them.
Chantelle gasped when she was suddenly yanked to her feet, and she caught the tail end of the lord’s hand gesture that they should rise. What bloody inconsideration! “Don’t bother with “You may stand, ladies.” No, that would be too decent.
Her temper was simmering when her eyes moved
from his bejeweled hands to his face, and as instantly as her temper had arisen, it was forgotten. Dear God, one of her worst fears had come to pass. He looked like a European. Worse, with that high brow and sculpted cheekbones, that aggressive chin and aquiline nose, he looked like a bloody English aristocrat! The only thing Turkish about him was his dress—the loose trousers, the long-sleeved tunic of red-and-white printed silk falling just below his hips and sashed tightly to his waist with a large gold clasp. The sash was wide and white, as was his plumbed turban, centered with an enormous ruby. His slashing brows indicated black hair, but none was visible, not even a beard. That had been the one thing she had come to expect on all Muslims, a long, flowing beard, or at least a drooping mustache. He had neither, revealing a strong neck, a full, sensual mouth. His eyes were green, dark green, and thickly lashed. He was not short or fat, but just the opposite, as she saw when he rose gracefully to his feet and stepped down from the raised dais on which he had been sitting.
He gave another gesture of his hand and suddenly her double veils and robe were removed, along with those of the other two women. She felt self-conscious now in front of so many people. Besides Haji Agha and the three eunuch guards who stood directly behind each woman, there were three other men and an old woman kneeling near the dais, and two African giants wearing only trousers and short vests, with ugly-looking scimitars hanging from their hips. They stepped forward when the lord did, staying directly behind him on either side.
Chantelle nervously crossed her arms over her midriff. The white cotton of her pantaloons was thick enough and baggy enough to be concealing, but they
hung indecently low on her hips, leaving nearly a foot of bare skin between the upper line of the pantaloons and the lower edge of her short fringed vest. She began to relax somewhat when she realized no one was actually looking at her. Everyone’s attention was on the tall African girl on her right whom the lord had stopped in front of.
Haji Agha came closer to inform his master: “She claims to be a princess from the jungles to the far south but refuses to name her tribe. Unlike the other two, she is no virgin, and she still fights her captivity. Hamid Sharif had to keep her chained.”
Jamil’s eyes moved slowly over the girl, revealing nothing, though he found her magnificent. She was tall, nearly six feet, with large, upthrusting breasts, a thick, hard-muscled waist, and what he imagined would be strong legs, used to running through the bush. Her eyes were a light brown, fired with hate.
“I trust you can tame her?”
“With certainty,” Haji Agha assured him.
Jamil nodded, turning his head toward the silver-haired blonde. “I suppose this is the English girl?”
“Yes. She has proved docile, but then she is very intelligent, supposedly of the English nobility. Already she has learned the language well enough to understand most of what we say.”
A dark brow shot up. “So soon? From where was she captured?”
“From the English coast, my lord. One of Hamid Sharif’s corsairs was hired several months ago to take a passenger there. They had not intended to raid in those waters, but the girl apparently fell into their hands during the short time it took to drop their passenger off on the beach.”
Jamil glanced sharply back at his Chief Black Eunuch and suddenly laughed. “By Allah, what irony!”
It was not Haji Agha’s place to question his lord’s humor or what he found ironic. “Hamid Sharif had sent out word of her far and wide,” he continued. “Which is why she was still available. Her private sale was scheduled for two days hence, so naturally he was reluctant to let her go.”
“She came expensive, then?”
“Extremely.”
Jamil sighed. Next to the African wench, she did not seem tall, though she was taller than most of the women in his harem. And she was skinny, to the point where she looked as if she were starving. Her breasts did not fill out her vest; her stomach was concave, her hips pointy. If that was not bad enough, she was blond, and personally he did not favor blondes because his mother was one, though this girl’s hair was so light as to be almost white. But he could see why she would be considered special. Her features were the most exquisite he had ever seen. Not even the dark smudges beneath her eyes could detract from that beauty.
Even so, he was not attracted to her. But then he had not bought her for himself. Whether he kept her or returned her to the slave merchant in time for that special auction was up to Kasim.
“And the last one? Did Hamid Sharif make a fortune off me tonight?”
Haji Agha did not dare to grin, even though he sensed Jamil was not annoyed by the expense, which he could well afford. “No, my lord. One of your own captains brought her in earlier this week, so she cost you nothing. She’s Portuguese, of peasant stock, and
so quite accepting of her captivity considering her circumstances improved.”
Jamil nodded, still revealing nothing of his thoughts. The last girl wasn’t exceptionally pretty, but there was a lush sensuality about her that was hard to ignore, which was undoubtedly why Haji had picked her out. And there was the chestnut hair, which the Chief Black Eunuch knew he favored. But then Haji was not aware these women were not for him.
Three to choose from was more than he could have hoped for under such short notice. He was pleased. Whether his brother was pleased had yet to be determined. Jamil was not going to add three more women to his harem if Kasim wouldn’t make use of them. With that in mind, he turned his attention back to the African beauty.
Chantelle stole glances at him only when she was sure he was not looking at her. She was too humiliated to meet his eyes directly. To be talked about as if she weren’t even there, as if she couldn’t understand them, when Haji Agha had explained that she could, just proved further how insensitive were these men. And the lord sounded so indifferent, as if he couldn’t care less that he had just bought three new slaves. And he had bought them. His last question to Haji Agha proved that. But why would he buy women sight unseen? Or was the sale upon condition of his approval?
God, let it be so. Let him give her back to Hamid Sharif. She couldn’t bear being owned by someone who looked like one of her own countrymen. And he was handsome. Lord help her, she wanted to deny it, but couldn’t. She found him utterly attractive in both face and form. It was impossible. She could see herself giving in, accepting her enslavement, all because
of an unanticipated attraction that she had no business feeling. No! She had to do something to make him send her back before she was enclosed inside his harem and it was too late. But what?
She watched him now, praying an idea would come to her quickly. And then she realized the examination was not over yet. He stood before the African princess, dispassionately studying her face while she stared furiously back, unafraid to let him see her loathing. When he raised a hand and casually flicked open the single clasp on the girl’s vest, hot color flooded Chantelle’s cheeks, but the princess didn’t move, not even to keep the scanty material from falling open.
He stared at the large breasts for a long moment. Chantelle groaned inwardly. She had been proved wrong again. She had actually been relieved at being bought as she was, thinking she wouldn’t have to go through a public stripping, yet here it was happening, and in a room filled with people. And the one girl she had thought for certain would resist this debasement didn’t. The princess still hadn’t moved at all, standing proudly erect, apparently not in the least embarrassed or offended.
It was when the lord finally looked up at her to judge her reaction that she did react. She spat full in his face.
Chantelle gasped in surprise, but it went unheard because of the collective exclamations of shock and outrage in the room. The girl was immediately seized, not by her guard, but by his. The two Nubian giants forced her easily to her knees; then her guard withdrew a short whip from his belt and began to beat her across the back.
Chantelle watched this in utter horror. The lord
hadn’t ordered the girl whipped, but he didn’t stop it from happening either. He stood there totally unmoved, not angry, not anything. One of his servants had rushed to him with a cloth to wipe away the spittle, but he ignored him, choosing to use the back of his sleeve, slowly, while he watched the poor girl writhing on the floor. Not until her pride had finally succumbed and she screamed did he wave a hand to end it.
“A pity,” he said, though Chantelle could detect no actual regret in his tone. “Give her to my palace guard. If she survives a night with them, Hamid Sharif can have her back tomorrow.” And his attention went to Chantelle.
She turned cold, the blood leaving her face until it was deathly white. Just like that, he had condemned that girl to mass rape, then dismissed her from his mind. And as soon as he had said it, the girl was dragged out of the room. But even with her gone, Chantelle still saw the red welts in her mind, visible even against that dark skin, crisscrossing the area on her back that was bare.
Chantelle finally met his eyes, and knew in that instant of total fear that she despised him. The attraction had died for her in witnessing his cruelty. He was a cold, unfeeling man, no doubt capable of unspeakable acts of brutality.
“You’re despicable.”
The words came out before she could stop them, but he seemed not to hear her, or he didn’t understand English or care what she might say to him. She didn’t know the word for “despicable” in his language. More’s the pity, for there were more appropriate names to call him now that she thought of it.
He was still staring at her eyes, and there was fi
nally some emotion in his expression. It was surprise. Jamil had never before seen this violet color, hadn’t known eyes could be this color. He was purely fascinated. They were like glittering amethysts, fringed with long golden lashes that matched her gently sloping eyebrows, of a shade darker than her platinum hair.
What an unusual combination. No wonder she had been so highly prized. With rich food to fill out her curves, she had the potential to rival even Sheelah. And her hair could be dyed…
Jamil had to shake himself, remembering her purpose here. She was not for him. But if Kasim didn’t want her, he was tempted to break his own rules and keep her for himself after all. It was the thought of Sheelah that decided him against it. This girl might be a rare find, but he loved his first
kadine
. And ever since he had realized that love, he had added no new women to his harem. These two, if Kasim wanted them, Sheelah was not going to understand, at least not until he returned. But that couldn’t be helped. No one but Omar was to know about Kasim.
“Shahar,” he said suddenly. The moon. It was appropriate, with hair like moonbeams. He turned to his Chief Black Eunuch. “She will be known as Shahar, Haji.”
“No,” Chantelle said, drawing his attention back to her.
“No?”
“Don’t name me. Don’t keep me. Send me back to Hamid Sharif.”