Authors: Doreen Owens Malek
“Promise me,” he said, bending to wrap his arms around her waist, his mouth traveling down her supine body, leaving a hot, moist trail. “Promise me.”
“I promise,” Amy whispered, and then gave herself up to pleasure.
* * *
Amy was lying in Malik’s arms, not sleeping, content to feel his body next to hers, when the sound of a carriage on the drive made her sit up and listen. She climbed out of bed, going to her dressing area where the window faced the front of the house.
“What is it?” Malik asked her, propping himself up on one elbow.
Amy saw James emerge from the Lamberts’ carriage, then hold up his arms to help Beatrice down to the ground.
“My aunt and uncle are back home,” Amy said, rejoining Malik. “We’ll have to be very quiet until they’re asleep.”
“Were we making a lot of noise?” Malik asked, smiling. He held out his arm to enfold her. “I thought I was very quiet when I dismembered your dress.”
“I’ll have to have that repaired before Beatrice sees it,” Amy replied. “She picked it out for me.”
“I liked you much better in my camp, with nothing under your gown but you,” he said.
Amy touched the scar left by the knife wound he got in the bazaar. “This healed nicely,” she said.
“I had a wonderful nurse,” he said.
“You have quite a few scars,” Amy observed.
“And you’re thin,” he answered, tracing her collarbone with his forefinger. “I noticed the last time I was here that you had lost weight.”
“I’m pining for you,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Are you pining for me?”
He looked at her, his dark eyes intent.
“Yes,” he admitted, and her heart turned over at his guileless tone as he said the word.
“I watched you for a long time through the window tonight,” he added. “I saw you dancing with that Brit.”
It took Amy a moment to register whom he meant. “Martin Fitzwater?”
Malik shrugged. “Sandy hair, long nose, weak chin.”
Amy giggled at his account of the soldier’s appearance. “That’s Martin.”
“You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”
She stared up at him, trying to determine if he were serious. It seemed he was.
“Malik, you have to be kidding. Martin Fitzwater is the biggest bore in the British army, he means well but all talks about is his family lineage. It’s a fascinating subject to him, maybe, but a little less so to the rest of the world.”
“You looked good with him. You looked right, you in that gorgeous dress and Fitzwilly in his scarlet uniform, sweeping around the floor together. I could tell he was interested in you.”
“Malik, don’t start this again. Are you going to ruin the time we have together with this nonsense? I was putting on a performance, for my aunt and all the people there, trying to fit the image they have of what Beatrice’s niece should be.”
He sat up, clenching his fists, his face dark. “Can you imagine what it’s like for me to be away from you, knowing that in my absence all the young bucks in both garrisons are chasing you down like hounds who are onto your scent? Knowing that your aunt is doing everything possible to encourage them? Knowing that with each passing day your memory of me fades and the pressure on you to conform to her expectations increases? Sometimes I think I’ll go mad just thinking about it.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“I trust you. I don’t trust your relatives, or your suitors, or anyone else who wants to separate you from me.”
“Give me some credit. If they haven’t influenced me so far, why should they in the future?”
“Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, as the deluded English like to say. It makes the heart forget. Each day that I’m gone makes you wonder if I will ever return. I know this, Amelia. You can’t help but feel that way–it’s human nature.”
“Then take me with you,” Amy said, pressing her body to his, winding her arms around his neck. “I can endure any hardship, whatever happens.”
“Are you certain, Amelia? Don’t make an impulsive decision that you will regret.”
“How can you say that to me?” Amy demanded. “Do you think I’m some two-year-old who doesn’t know her own mind?”
“I don’t think that,” he replied soothingly. “But you will be leaving your family and friends for a long time if you come with me, perhaps leaving them permanently. Can you stand that?”
“I can stand it, Malik. I can stand anything. I just want to be with you all the time.”
His arms came around her convulsively and he said into her ear, “Then you will. You have my word that you will.”
“But when?”
“I can’t say just yet. Soon. Pack a bag and hide it so you’ll be ready to go in an instant.”
“Do you really mean it? You’re not just saying this to appease me?”
“I mean it. The next time I come here it will be to take you away with me.”
Amy drew back to kiss him and he began to make love to her again.
* * *
Malik left before anyone else in the house was awake, and after Amy saw him out she returned to bed, slipping into the dreamless sleep of a happy and satisfied woman. She rose again after James and Bea had eaten breakfast; her aunt had given orders to Listak to let Amy sleep as long as she wanted.
The weather was bright and much warmer, inspiring Amy to undertake some fall cleaning. She spent the day in meaningless chores, reliving the past night in her mind as she organized drawers, put away summer clothes and stuffed tissue paper into shoes. She ate lunch from a tray and went back to work, finishing her tasks just as Beatrice returned from an afternoon of shopping.
Amy was humming under her breath when she joined James and Bea for dinner.
“You seem fully recovered from last night’s malaise,” Beatrice commented as Amy slipped into her chair.
“Oh, I feel so much better,” Amy said brightly. “I woke up this morning a different person.”
“A good night’s sleep will do wonders for almost anybody,” James commented.
Amy coughed delicately and let that pass.
James opened the evening paper and scanned the front page, looking up at Amy seconds later. He had a strange expression on his face.
“Please don’t read the paper at the dinner table, dear,” Beatrice said to him, unfolding her napkin.
“What is it?” Amy asked James, ignoring her aunt.
He turned the paper so that Amy could see the headline.
“MALIK BEY CAPTURED,” it read.
Chapter 11
Amy stared at the words, unable to respond, a falling sensation in the pit of her stomach.
“About time, too,” Beatrice said huffily, snapping her napkin into her lap. “That man has been the scourge of the country long enough.”
Amy opened her mouth, but nothing came out of it.
“I’m sure you’re relieved to know that he’s in custody, dear,” Bea added to Amy.
James looked at his wife and then back at Amy.
“Amelia?” he said gently. “Are you all right?”
Amy swallowed, nodding.
“You’ve gone quite pale,” Beatrice said to her. “I thought you said you were feeling better.”
“I am,” Amy replied, finally finding her voice. “It’s just a shock to know that... he... has been arrested.”
“He won’t last long in the Sultan’s bird cage,” Bea said with satisfaction. “I predict that he’ll be executed on the Feast of the Flowers.”
“May I be excused?” Amy said suddenly, shoving back her chair and standing.
“But you haven’t had a thing to eat!” Bea protested.
“I’ll get something later,” Amy said, turning and then almost running from the room.
“That’s peculiar,” Bea said, shaking her head. “But who can predict the behavior of adolescent girls?”
James, who had a little more insight than his wife, and whose cousin Sarah had married her erstwhile captor, said nothing. He followed Amy out of the room with his eyes.
Amy flew up the stairs, pausing on the landing to put her hand to her mouth and lean against the wall. She felt as if she were going to be ill, but managed to swallow her nausea and make it to her room. She sat on the edge of her bed and hugged herself, rocking, too stunned to cry.
It had finally happened. Malik had been caught and it was all her fault. She didn’t know the details yet, but for the news to make the evening paper he must have been apprehended soon after he left her house that morning.
If he hadn’t come into the city to see her he would still be a free man.
Amy wanted to do something, anything, but her mind refused to yield an idea. The Sultan was not going to release his most wanted criminal under any circumstances. Beatrice was right. He would hold Malik until the Feast of the Flowers and then execute him publicly on the national holiday. Hammid would delight in making an example of Malik, in showing his impressionable subjects what became of anyone who dared to oppose the Sultan’s rule.
Amy got up suddenly and went to her writing desk, pulling out the sheets of British foolscap James bought for his office and uncapping her inkwell. She would write to Sarah. It was almost a month before the feast would be celebrated, and perhaps Kalid could get Amy in to see Malik before then. It would take a week for the letter to reach Bursa, but it was worth a try. Anything was worth a try, and at the moment she couldn’t think of anything else.
Amy filled ten sheets of stationery with her fluid handwriting, pouring out her soul to Sarah.
When her fingers refused to function further she folded the paper into an envelope and hid the letter in a book. Then she looked up and saw that it was eight o’clock; she had been writing for over two hours.
She slipped into the hall and went downstairs, looking into the parlor. James and Bea were both reading by the fire, and she walked down the hall to James’ den, where the newspaper was lying discarded on his desk. She picked it up and took it into the foyer, reading the lead article by the gaslight of the brass fixture overhead.
Malik had been seized at the home of Yuri’s brother, who was described as a “known cohort of the rebel leader.” Amy thought that someone must have seen him on his previous visit and decided to collect the reward. Or maybe Malik had been spotted elsewhere and then followed. It didn’t matter now. He had been arrested because he had forsaken his safe haven in the hills in order to see her, and now she had to help him. Somehow.
The newspaper said that Malik had been taken to the imperial dungeon at Topkapi, there to await judgement.
Amy replaced the newspaper on James’ desk and went back upstairs.
Everyone knew what that judgement would be.
Amy spent a sleepless night plotting and planning, to no avail; she was as powerless as the lowliest peasant in the Ottoman Empire.
She appeared at breakfast, hollow eyed but determined to carry on as if nothing had happened. She even forced down some food as Beatrice chattered on about the wonderful turnout for the Victoria Mission Ball and how the committee was going to use the proceeds. Amy was pushing a fragment of muffin around on her plate when she realized that James had called her several times.
“Yes?” she said, looking up at him.
“You’re in a fog this morning,” he commented.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep very well.”
“Is anything wrong, dear?” Bea asked.
Amy looked at her aunt–at her kind, well meaning freckled face–and thought about the yawning gulf between them.
What choice did Amy have but to lie?
“I’m fine. Just a little tired. Maybe the ball was more exhausting than I realized,” Amy said.
“Speaking of the ball, I was about to tell you that Martin Fitzwater came to my office and asked for formal permission to call on you,” James said.
Amy almost groaned aloud; it was all she could do to keep back the despairing sound.
“When did you see him?” she finally managed to say.
“Yesterday. I saw you dancing with him and expected his visit. I planned to tell you about it last night at dinner, but you may recall that you didn’t stay.”
Amy said nothing.
“Your reaction is less than enthusiastic,” James observed.
“I’m just surprised.”
“How could you possibly be surprised?” James asked archly. “The man was following you around the Embassy ballroom like a spaniel puppy.”
Beatrice giggled delightedly. Martin was her idea of a dream husband for Amy: wealthy, British, and well connected. The Woolcott stock would soar in the Western colony of Constantinople if Amy landed Martin Fitzwater.
“I thought he was dancing with other girls,” Amy replied lamely.
“Only when he couldn’t find you. Now what shall I tell him? I have no objection to his suit but I don’t want to encourage this young man if you aren’t interested in him,” James said.