Authors: Johanna Lindsey
He was amused. Didn’t she realize the decision wasn’t up to her? “Why should I do that?”
“Because I don’t want to be owned by you.”
His eyes narrowed, making her pale. Good God,
had she just bought herself a whipping? Couldn’t she even state the obvious around here?
But Jamil was annoyed with himself, not with her. He realized it had been a mistake to allow the black girl’s whipping, whether it was deserved or not. It was meant as a lesson for the two remaining women, but mostly for Kasim, who had yet to witness such a situation and how quickly those around him would respond to it.
The English girl had been docile and accepting up to that point, and now she was not. He saw now that she was afraid of him, but even in her fear, she couldn’t mask the condemnation in her eyes. Kasim was not going to appreciate the fact that he had made her hate him by a simple act of punishment. And Jamil was almost certain that Kasim
was
going to want this girl.
His eyes remained locked on her while he asked the Chief Black Eunuch: “Does she know who I am, Haji?”
Chantelle answered first, insisting, “I don’t care if you’re the Dey of this whole bloody city.”
“You English have a quaint way with words, always using more than necessary.” There was a mocking slant to his mouth as he added, “If you don’t care, Shahar, then it will come as no surprise to you that I am in fact Jamil Reshid, Dey of this ‘whole bloody city.’”
It was a surprise, but only for one reason. “You declined to buy me when I first arrived, so why am I here?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. It was a trial of concentration to decipher her pronunciations and understand exactly what she was saying, though he had to admit her grasp of his language was far superior
than could be expected. But even so, he was arrested by the way her eyes and mouth had softened. In her temporary confusion, her fear and revulsion were forgotten.
He surprised her further by replying in perfect French, assuming that if she was of the English nobility as she claimed, then this was a language she would be more familiar with. “It is my prerogative to change my mind.”
“Then would you change your mind about that poor girl you had whipped?”
“Interesting that you do not ask me to change my mind about you again instead.”
“I would have gotten to that.”
He almost laughed. It was refreshing to be spoken to with such audacity by a woman. His women did not argue with him, no matter how much they would like to. He might pamper and indulge them outrageously, but their awareness of his power and total control over their lives was never forgotten.
“If I grant you one request, English, which will you ask for?”
Her eyes widened. Was he serious, or was the question only rhetorical? Either way, there was no choice, not one that her conscience would allow. The girl’s fate was already sealed; hers was not. And if he was the Dey, then his must be the largest harem in Barikah. He might have bought her, but there was the possibility that he would forget about her once she became lost among so many women. No, her fate was not sealed—yet.
“The girl,” she said.
“You want me to keep her instead of sending her back?”
“No, rescind the further punishment you ordered.”
He turned and did so, and Chantelle watched in amazement as the order was relayed to a guard outside the door. She glanced back at him, not knowing what to think of this gesture on his part.
“Where is your gratitude, English?”
Now she knew what to think, and it wasn’t pleasant. “Thank you,” she said, but her tone was clipped.
“What? I have not redeemed myself in your eyes?”
“Her offense was too minor to warrant a beating,” she replied in answer.
“In your opinion,” he stated. “But she insulted my person, and that is not allowed. You do wish to be aware of what is not allowed, don’t you?” It was a warning, and caused her eyes to narrow. “Ah, I see you have remembered that you find me not to your liking. But you will change your mind, Shahar, if I decide to keep you. Shall we determine that now? Will you open your vest, or do I?”
Her whole body stiffened, and there was again that mixture of fear and impotent rage in her expression. But was she cowed enough to heed his warning?
“Will you spit on me, too?” he demanded, his voice brusque now.
She wouldn’t. She had wanted to know what she could do to get sent back to Sharif and now she did know, but what came first was unacceptable.
She shook her head, lowering her eyes. And after her earlier resentment, he was surprised to hear her plead, “Please, must you do this in front of so many people?”
“They are only slaves, English, as you are—” he began. Yet what he was doing
was
unusual, and only
for Kasim’s benefit. “Very well,” he amended. “If you will step over here, no one need look at you but me.”
He walked over to the side of the room, waving his guard back. She thought it best to follow him, though this was still not what she had in mind. Her back might be to the room now, but others were still present, and she felt outraged that this could happen. He had no right. He believed he had every right. God, she hated this!
She stood with head bowed and fists clenched. He wouldn’t allow it, so reached under her chin to force her eyes to meet his.
“Again I do what you ask, English. I am waiting.”
“I can’t,” she said simply, miserably.
“Very well.”
It was not a reprieve. Chantelle itched to slap his hand away when it dropped to her vest. But if you could be whipped and condemned to an even worse punishment for spitting on him, what would happen if you slapped him? Would a scimitar be drawn and used instead of a whip?
She groaned as she felt the material drop to each side of her breasts. She looked away, staring at the screened wall in front of her but seeing nothing, feeling only the acute embarrassment that spread color down her chest and made her cheeks burn.
He stepped to her side, saying in a soft voice, “You may cover yourself, Shahar. You will go with Haji Agha. He will have questions about your background for his records.”
She turned her head toward him, asked miserably, “Then you won’t send me back?”
He didn’t answer. He had already lost interest in her, turning his attention to the Portuguese girl.
“W
ell?” Omar asked when the last girl was led away and Jamil retired to his bedchamber.
“The blonde,” Derek replied without hesitation.
“And the other two?”
“I thought the black wench was already dismissed.”
“Not if you care to have her.”
“And deal with that hostility? No, thank you. Just the blonde will do, and I’ll pay for her myself.”
“Jamil would not hear of it.”
“Then what happens to her when this is over? And the others I summon? You never did answer that.”
“They will be given handsome dowries and found good husbands.”
“Christ!” Derek swore softly. “Why wasn’t I told that before now?”
“Because it can make no difference. Believe me, Jamil will not mind if you use half his harem. He will probably thank you for this excuse to bring his total women down to a number that will not wear him out. You did not really think he would keep those women you favor?”
“I hadn’t thought that far ahead. But I’m sure he
wouldn’t
thank me if I go through all his favorites.”
Omar chuckled. “Why do you think he has provided you with one of your own?”
Derek grunted. “And his wives? Would he get rid of them, too?”
“They are still the mothers of his sons. They would remain in the harem.”
“Never to be favored by him again?” Derek guessed.
“That need not concern you—”
“For God’s sake, Omar, stop treating me with kid gloves. I’m not going to change my mind about the switch, but I want the truth.”
Omar wouldn’t look at him. “Then no, he would never again summon them to his bed.”
Derek let out his breath slowly. “I had forgotten how bloody possessive a Muslim can be about his women.”
“And you are not?” Omar asked with some skepticism.
Derek thought about it for a moment, but he had to admit, “No, I can’t say that I am.”
“Not even your fiancée?”
Derek chuckled at the reminder that he
had
a fiancée, for in truth he hadn’t thought of Caroline for days. “I adore her, Omar, but since I don’t intend to be the most faithful of husbands, I can’t really complain if she should eventually decide to take a lover or two. It won’t change the way I feel about her.”
“You have become more English than I thought.”
“I had ten years here and nineteen there, Omar. Did you really expect me to be exactly like Jamil?”
“No, but you
are
still like him, more than you realize,” Omar replied.
Derek wondered, after the whipping he had just witnessed. He had been appalled when Jamil had not stopped it immediately.
Omar hadn’t been affected one way or the other. “It is well you had this opportunity to see how quickly his Nubians respond to any threat,” he had told him.
“I wouldn’t exactly call what she did a threat,” Derek had gritted out. “How could he be so severe—?”
“I suppose you refer to her being given to the guards?” Omar inquired, not considering those few strokes of the lash anywhere near severe. “But that is nothing for concern. At most, there will be only a handful not on duty to receive her, and they know better than to abuse such a gift. They will tend her wounds and treat her with care.”
He hadn’t felt it necessary to add that because she was a nonvirgin slave who was unacceptable to her master, her use was mainly carnal, to be offered to anyone her master chose to give her to. “Besides, it was a lesson for the other two.”
A lesson that the blonde was revolted by, if her reaction to Jamil was any indication. She despised him, and not even the concessions he had made for her changed that.
Derek had to force the memory away. “About the whole harem being paraded before me tomorrow,” he said now. “It won’t be necessary. Just give me the names of the women Jamil won’t mind losing.”
“Jamil is not going to like it when he comes back and finds he has sacrificed nothing, while you—”
“Don’t worry, Omar,” Derek interrupted the warning. “I’ll be sure to summon at least one of his favorites. That ought to appease him.” And he knew exactly whom, for he was certain that one of the
women he had seen earlier tonight was the missing Miss Charity Woods.
“Thank you,” Omar said, surprising Derek.
“For what?”
“For loving your brother.”
Later, after Derek had retired for the night, he found he couldn’t sleep for still thinking of the blonde. Who was she? Would he recognize her name if he heard it?
Not that it mattered. Princesses, grand ladies, peasants, they were all the same here if they were unfortunate enough to be captured; slaves, without rights, capable of being used, misused, sold, resold, even killed, all at the whim of their owner. And after hearing Haji Agha’s explanation of how this girl had been captured, Derek knew he was indirectly responsible for her being here. How he felt about that he wasn’t at all sure. Ironic, as Jamil humorously thought, was putting it mildly, especially now that technically she belonged to him.
What was he going to do with her? He knew what he would like to do. Christ, from the moment her veils had been removed, he had been unable to take his eyes off her. Granted, she was too thin even for his taste. He liked at least a
little
flesh on his women. But that didn’t seem to matter when she stood before the screen, so close, and he experienced the most incredible excitement, knowing what Jamil was going to do and waiting for him to step away from her. And when her small, perfect breasts were in his view, his flesh reacted instantly, filling, swelling, aching for her touch.
But would he actually do anything about it? She was a virgin. She was not here willingly. She was
English, for God’s sake! And more to the point, she held Jamil in abhorrence after what he had done tonight, and he would be taking Jamil’s place. How could he in good conscience take advantage of her, knowing all that?
C
hantelle sat with her knees tucked under her, her hands gripped prayerlike in her lap, the whites of her knuckles revealing her inner tension. The dull white of her clothes was stark against the deep blue satin of the plump pillow beneath her. This served as her chair, for there were no ordinary chairs in the room, no chairs in all of Barikah, if what she had seen so far was any indication.
Across a low table, Haji Agha sipped his second cup of the thick, foam-topped brew that was Turkish coffee. Chantelle’s first cup was cold by now, untouched. Across the room, a clerk sat on another pillow, his hand poised over his writing tablet, waiting for the interrogation to continue. No one else was in the room. And it
was
an interrogation, a prying into her life from the day she was born until the night she was captured beneath the Dover cliffs.
Her name, family, home, position, even her birth date were demanded. Her education was picked apart, her accomplished skills, which included the piano, a fine stitch, excellent horsemanship, sailing, and a passable voice for singing. Only the sailing had drawn a note of interest from the Chief Black Eunuch, who did all the questioning while the clerk diligently recorded the answers.
If she weren’t in a state of nervous exhaustion after her ordeal in the Dey’s presence, she never would have been so cooperative, answering almost absently anything put to her, her mind still back in that other
room, still shuddering in embarrassed memory. When her mind did finally clear enough to wonder about the reason for this interrogation, there wasn’t much left to know about her. It was a particular question about her guardian, bringing back an old anger, that snapped her out of her lethargy.
“What is the point of all this? I thought it was encouraged to forget the past when you enter this hell!”
The old man smiled at her choice of words. It always amused him, the boldness and defiance these new slaves possessed on arrival, before they learned to fear him. He would give this one a week before her tone became respectful, her manner subservient. She wouldn’t dare to question him then.
“You are correct,” he deigned to answer her. “But before your past is forgotten, it must be recorded for our information in case inquiries are ever made of you.”
“For ransom, you mean, so you know how much to ask for?”
He nodded, but added deliberately, “That is not likely to happen in your case.”
“And why not?” she demanded. “I believe I told you I’m an heiress.”
“But who, unless Hamid Sharif’s ship was seen off your English coast and recognized as belonging to Barbary corsairs, will ever guess you are here?”
She had realized that herself, but to hear him state it so plainly was demoralizing indeed. She almost pointed out defensively that if Barikah’s English consul knew about her, then her release would be immediately demanded, but she didn’t want anyone knowing that she still harbored hopes of contacting the consul. Those hopes were not very high at the moment. In fact, her only hope at this particular mo
ment was that Jamil Reshid would decide not to keep her.
“Aren’t these questions a bit premature?” she pointed out testily. “It hasn’t even been determined yet—”
Chantelle broke off when a guard hurried into the room and bent down to whisper a few words to Haji Agha. The old man nodded, not in the least surprised, and stood up.
“Come, Shahar.”
He directed her with a wave of his arm toward the door. She didn’t move, her limbs feeling suddenly leaden.
“Don’t call me that.”
“It is all you will be known by henceforth. Chantelle Burke is dead.”
“Then—”
She couldn’t finish. She didn’t have to. The old eunuch nodded again, reading her mind.
“Did you really think it would be otherwise after he was so generous in his dealing with you?”
“Generous!” she burst out, gaining an immediate frown from him.
“Enough,” he said softly, but with the stern authority he was known for. “You will follow me, or you will be dragged along in my wake. I would think your pride would prefer to walk.”
He was correct. She was a Burke, after all, not a sniveling coward, and she was grateful for the reminder. It was bad enough that she had pleaded with his horrid master earlier, and for what? A little modesty? There would be worse things in store for her, she was sure. But, by God, she wouldn’t beg again, not for anything.
She followed him out of the room and didn’t even
blink when his personal bodyguards fell in behind her just beyond the door. She was led back outside the building into the large court where the litters had dropped her off, through an arched gate into yet another garden court, and toward a pair of iron-studded doors at least fifteen feet high.
Her step faltered as she saw the eight heavily armed eunuchs at guard outside these massive doors, intuition warning that this gateway was the last she would pass through. This was the entrance to the palace harem, and once she was beyond these doors, there would be no turning back. Chantelle Burke really would be dead to the rest of the world.
The panic that overwhelmed her had nothing to do with reason and her own wishes. She stopped dead, took a step backward, and would have run like hell if a hard chest hadn’t slammed into her back. She was surrounded closely now, two of Haji’s bodyguards having moved up on either side of her, and the one behind her shoving gently, but with enough force to get her moving again. Still, the panic was riding her hard and she would have struggled in earnest, screamed and disgraced herself utterly, if Haji hadn’t taken that moment to turn and raise a knowing brow at her, as if to remind her how futile were her efforts. There were a half-dozen hulking black men surrounding her, another eight in front of her, two at that moment opening those horrid doors.
Her backbone stiffened, but her knees felt like jelly. The eunuch behind her still had to help her along, and she realized he
was
helping her take those last few steps, his hand beneath her elbow supporting, rather than forcing. And then those heavy doors slammed shut, and there was an echo, an awful, deafening echo, like a death knell. Chantelle closed her
eyes, stopping, listening, aching with the knowledge that it was over. She had entered the Babylon of hell, and there was no way out.
“Does it feel easier now, Shahar?”
She opened her eyes and stared at Haji Agha. How did he know? But it was obvious, wasn’t it? She was inside. There was nothing left to fight against. She didn’t answer him. He represented the authority here. He had picked her out of a roomful of women when he could have picked any one of the others instead. Because of him she was here, owned by a man she found loathsome.
She turned around to look up into the eyes of the man who had helped her not make a complete fool of herself. He was a Nubian like the others, tall and muscular and dark as sin, but unlike the others, he had warm, amiable brown eyes; and when she smiled her thanks to him, he understood without having the words said, and flashed a dazzling white grin at her. It made her feel somehow stronger, more herself, and not quite so lost in this foreign world.
“What was his name?” she asked Haji as they moved away together, his guard dismissed now that they were inside the harem walls.
“He belongs to me, Shahar. His name is of no import to you.”
“Dammit, why can’t you just answer my question?” she replied without thinking. “You’ve got me in here. I’m not going anywhere. Is it too bloody much trouble to just answer a simple question?”
He stopped, making her plow into his back. She jumped back, realizing she might have sounded a bit impertinent. But what the hell. She was the Honorable Chantelle Burke, no matter what they called her. She might as well establish right up front that she
wasn’t going to be pushed around, ignored, or remain ignorant, as they seemed to prefer their women.
“Well, is it?” she asked in a more reasonable tone when Haji turned to glower at her.
For a long moment he said nothing, and then he resumed walking, expecting her to follow, and she heard a mumbled “Kadar is his name, if you
must
know.”
She grinned to herself. “Thank you,” she allowed, to which he grunted, picking up his pace.
They moved deeper and deeper into the harem, through countless doors that had to be unlocked and then locked again, through a labyrinth of corridors, alleyways, and richly tiled hallways, down narrow stairways leading to courtyards, along colonnaded torchlit walks, and gardens where small, domed pavilions called kiosks could be seen dimly in the moonlight.
Even at this late hour they passed people along the way, mostly women, and these mostly servants, or rather the harem slaves, recognizable by their white cotton trousers and tunics, which seemed to be the standard dress of the lower menials. But there were eunuchs, too, and young boys in bright-colored outfits who, Chantelle was horrified to later learn, were castrated pageboys.
Those women who were concubines stared at Chantelle in either curiosity, hostility, or plain surprise. The servants, however, fell into an attitude of deep obeisance as Haji Agha plodded by, ignoring one and all.
“Why do they all bow to you?” Chantelle wondered aloud.
“I am the Chief Black Eunuch.”
“Really? That would make you the third most powerful man in Barikah, wouldn’t it?”
He glanced at her with a degree of surprise. “Who told you that?”
“I had a very persistent teacher on the voyage. I think he hoped I would end up here, and so he drilled me on the heirarchy of the palace. I don’t usually forget what I learn, even when it’s learned under duress.”
“Did he also teach you the heirarchy of the harem?” Haji asked.
“If you mean the caste system, in which certain women stand higher up the ladder than others, yes.”
“Tell me.”
“I’d rather not,” she replied with distaste. “It’s degrading, if you ask me, the ways of aspiring to a higher caste—”
“Tell me,” he repeated stubbornly.
Chantelle gritted her teeth. “Very well. You have the concubines, or odalisques, on the bottom of the ladder, those women who have not caught their lord’s notice. On the next rung you have the
gozde
, a woman who has caught his notice but hasn’t been called to—” She blushed here, unable to finish.
“Summoned to his presence yet?” Haji suggested.
“Yes, an admirable way to put it,” Chantelle said in relief. “Next up the rung are the
ikbals
, those women who have been ‘summoned to his presence,’ past and present favorites. And at the top of the ladder are the
kadines
, his official wives.”
“And which do you want to be?”
“None of the above,” she stated emphatically.
Haji laughed, the first time she’d heard him do so. “You are already
gozde
, but not for long, I think. However, you will find that the caste system in Jamil
Reshid’s harem is quite different from what you were expecting, inasmuch as the first two lower orders have long since been eliminated.”
Chantelle’s mouth dropped open, and in her surprise, she didn’t quibble words. “Do you mean he beds them all?”
Haji nodded. “Some only a few times a year, some once or twice a month, but none are neglected indefinitely. He has his favorites, of course, whom he summons more often, but it is his wives he favors most.”
Chantelle was frowning when she commented, “Then he can’t possess that many women.”
Haji smiled at her reasoning. “You bring the total to forty-eight, Shahar. True, it is not very much. His father possessed more than two hundred.”
Not very much? Good God! Forty-seven women, and he had bedded them all. Talk about a rutting beast. But she was one woman who was not going to aspire to his bed.
“How do I go about getting myself
out
of his notice?” she dared to ask.
Now Haji was frowning again. “You do not. You are here to please him, and when you are finally summoned, you will strive with all you possess to do just that. But it will not be soon. You have much to learn first about the ways of the harem, the ways of a man. It will take many weeks, even though you appear to be a quick learner.”
Strive to please that barbarian? Ha! But was that all the reprieve she was to have? No; if many weeks passed, the Dey might forget about her, and it would be up to her to make sure he wasn’t reminded of her presence.
Through yet another door they reached a large open court of white marble with a bubbling fountain in its
center. Surrounding it were dozens and dozens of tiny apartments, rising three stories high, with wooden balconies running around all sides. Lights glowed from many of the rooms, spilling out into the marbled court. The doorways were hung with material, most open at the moment like curtains, to let in any wandering breeze.
There were dozens of women here, some standing out on the balconies, the sound of many more inside the apartments. One detached herself from a doorway on the ground floor and came forward to meet them, bowing low to Haji Agha. Chantelle’s first thought was that she was much too old for Jamil Reshid, though beneath her high turban was a face that still held much beauty. His mother possibly?
Haji introduced her as Lalla Safiye, mistress of this court, where the majority of the women lived. Chantelle later learned that Lady Safiye had been an
ikbal
of Jamil’s father and had chosen to remain in the harem upon his death, rather than find a husband at her age or go to the Palace of Tears, a term taken from Istanbul for the house of the widows of a deceased ruler.
Haji left her with Safiye, whose Turkish was much too rapid for Chantelle to understand, but fortunately, she spoke a passable French as well. Chantelle followed her up three flights of wooden stairs to the top floor, where Safiye held open the curtain on the first door they came to.
“You will stay on this floor until you become an
ikbal
,” Safiye told her. “Then I will move you down with the others. There would be too much grumbling if I let you join them now, you understand.”