The Surrender of a Lady (2 page)

Every man who looked her over had torn more of the meager clothes she wore, all in an effort to see her in the flesh. She tried to cover the exposed parts, but it did her no good. Most of her nightclothes were shredded or gone. All that remained was her undershirt and drawers, soiled from the grime crusted on every surface. They’d even taken her slippers and stockings. Her left heel had blistered something fierce on the first day, when she’d tripped over the chain nailed into the floor.

At first, she’d begged and cried that they spare her some privacy. All to no avail. Having had enough of her antics, the guard had hit her so hard in the stomach she’d fallen over gasping for air. The pain still bothered her, a low persistent ache, but it lessened as the purplish bruises faded to an unsightly green. She had learned her lesson that night. Now she only cried out her misery when the slaves bedded down on the hard earth at night. She didn’t beg to be released after that, realizing they might do worse next time. If they did treat her any worse, she might never escape. Not that she knew
how
she would escape.

“Yes, but she’s used goods. They don’t like their women in
this
state in the high court.”

The other man said this and then grasped one of her engorged breasts, squeezing the areola and nipple until milk flowed down her torso. She let out a cry of distress and pain with the release of built-up fluid. Mostly it was a cry against the abject humiliation of being handled in such a fashion. That milk was for her child. Her child that she might never see again.

God, she did not belong here. She could not survive here much longer.

Her whimpers had the slave guard yanking the rope around her neck, forcing her to silence as she was pulled back a step. She wedged her fingers beneath the collar so she could breathe. Her neck probably sported the same bruising displayed on her abdomen. It ached and itched so much from the incessant tugging and sweating through the hot days.

She stood as tall and straight as she could and stared defiantly at the two men. Could they see the hatred in her eyes? The English one looked at her thoughtfully. Assessingly. She didn’t like the flicker in his gaze; it looked too much like desire. It repulsed her to be looked upon so lecherously. What did they think to do with her?

Then their words registered. High court. Did they mean to purchase her for the Sultan? She wouldn’t cooperate with any of them; she was English, not some slave they could do whatever they pleased with. Though if one were to look upon her now for the first time, they’d see nothing but a dirty, half-naked woman taking on the stink of a chamber pot. Her skin was crusted with dirt. She couldn’t even scrape the soil out from under her nails, as much as she tried. Even the beautiful curls of her hair hung limp, greasy and tangled around her like a banshee’s wild mane.

She’d been forced into something less honorable than her worth. Made worse because any attempt to stand up for herself would earn her another beating. She didn’t think they cared whether she lived or died. It made her want to fight, to scream, to hurt these men who treated a human so low. These men kept her away from her child. She despised them.

The Englishman called over the slave trader, whom she now knew was Ali Admen, the devil her husband had wagered all but his soul to. He sat at a great wooden table conducting a transaction with a Turk. When he rose, he strode toward them on light, silent steps. A trained warrior would walk in this manner, as if on the very air. Silly thought that, but her mind had taken some unusual turns these few days. Bound to happen, being deprived food, water, and any privacy to spare a scrap of her modesty, or her sanity for that matter.

The older man said something in Turkish. She only caught a few words:
private
and
goods.
And those two words were enough to frighten her. She shrank back a small step. The slave handler didn’t notice this time, so did not reprimand her with another tug.

She didn’t want to be under their scrutiny anymore.

The buyer wanted to look her over. In private. Others had left the main area under force and were taken to the door at the far end of the room—she heard their whimpering, crying, and sometimes their screams. All from no more than a dozen feet away. She didn’t want to know what happened in there.

Why didn’t one of her servants come and find her? Had her husband still not paid them? Surely one of them would be kind enough to spare her this evil, this life she didn’t belong to. Wouldn’t they help her for her child’s sake? Her husband wasn’t coming for her; it would be a servant. Otherwise, Robert would have been here days ago. He was probably lost in his cups watching the horse races, losing more money they didn’t have.

What was left to barter? Another human being? Their son? He wouldn’t dare.

She closed her eyes and made the slave handler drag her to the room. If she could have done it unscathed, she would have dropped to the ground and clawed her hands into the packed earth in pure defiance. But she didn’t. The guard would have no compunctions about strangling her to prove his supremacy, her worthlessness.

Once inside, a cursory glance told her the room was empty. Was this a good or a bad sign? She didn’t know. There were no windows to escape through should they leave her alone, just four stark walls with lit oil lamps set into them. The guard led her to a wooden bench and motioned her to sit with a jab of his finger. She did as ordered. The guard came around to her side and looped the rope through a metal ring at the end of the bench.

Was that to prevent her from defending herself? She wasn’t fool enough to think she could escape this place. She wasn’t strong enough. She saw other slaves held down and beaten for disobedience in their desperate attempts to flee.

There had to be another way to escape, someone she could bribe into releasing her. She was desperate. She’d been away from her baby too long. But she had nothing of value to offer for her freedom.

The Englishman stepped into the room, saying something commanding to the guard in Turkish. Then he looked her directly in the eye. “I’ve asked him to leave us in private. Will you behave if you’re left unchained?” He spoke English.

Elena swallowed hard and stared up at the Englishman’s unforgiving stance. She gave a small nod in agreement. She couldn’t run, but she would defend herself with her free hands if he took advantage of her vulnerability.

The guard turned and left. The Englishman came forward with no readable emotion on his face.

Fingers prodding into her neck, he looked over the blisters and scrapes made by the collar. Instinctually, she jerked away, not wanting to be touched. He moved gently. She guessed he didn’t want to hurt her more than necessary. Tilting her this way and that, he inspected her cuts and bruises with care. He had her open her mouth so he could check her teeth, his fingers pushing them to see if they were loose or rotted. Nothing was left untouched except the private area between her legs, a small thing to be thankful for. He palmed her dispassionately, kneading around her aching, heavy breasts, under her arms, over her stomach, looking closely at the bruising there and pressing into it. She couldn’t help but cry out in pain and hunched forward, protecting her belly.

“Bleeding seems to be on the surface,” he said. “That’s good.”

He lifted her bare feet next, almost toppling her from the bench, to examine them toe by toe. Then he stood to inspect her hair, picking through the knots, looking for lice. She held herself inert and closed her eyes against the degradation. She wanted to remain strong. If she fell apart now, what good was she to her son? But her body was sore, stiff, and hurt worse than anything she’d ever experienced.

Her tears fell anyhow.

When he finished, he shuffled back a step and tilted his head to the side in question. “How old are you?”

She didn’t answer. Just gave him her most incredulous look through flooded eyes. He had no right to question her, not after she’d begged for his help and made a fool of herself in the process. He had reduced her to an abject slave, throwing herself down at his feet. Begging for the safety of her son, only to be ignored and then punched in the stomach by the guards—who laughed as she cried out for them to stop.

“There are a number of ways we can go about this. So either answer my question, or I’ll have you chained to the wall in the slave quarters, where I will inspect you in the public room.”

She turned so she could look him in the eye; he was level with her face, one fist planted on the bench beside her thigh. “Four and twenty.”

“Old enough”—he pushed off the bench with his fist and walked away from her—“but not too old that this business will grow tiresome and wear your body down.”

He said it so bluntly she almost didn’t believe the words she heard.
This business
. She had a good estimation what
this business
entailed. And
this business
was not a safe place for her son, nor a place she wanted to be. “Why are you doing this to me? Why won’t you help me?”

“I’m not doing anything, dear child. I’ve looked into your claims. You are who you say. A surprise, really. It’s not the first time I’ve heard such a tale.”

“Then why am I still chained here like a wild dog?”

“Because you belong to the slave master of this establishment. And now, I wish to purchase you for my employer.”

“I belong to no one.”

Oh God, what had happened to her family? Her baby? Please, please let Jonathan be safe.

His lip lifted in an arrogant smirk. What wasn’t he telling her? The blood pounded in her ears so loudly she almost didn’t hear his next words . . .

“I’m sorry to inform you, madam, but your husband is dead, his properties seized.”

She gasped. Though she had never professed to love Robert, he
was
her husband. Helpless to stop fresh tears from flowing, she bowed her head into her hands, her tears washing away the dirt crusted there.
Dead?
How was that possible? He was part of the embassy here; how ludicrous that someone would harm him. No matter his flaws, he was an English gentleman.

But this wasn’t England.

He only mentioned her husband. Could her son still live? Every time she opened her mouth to ask, her voice caught on another sob. She swiped the tears away without success.

He went on. “It seems he didn’t make it through his negotiations. I know naught of all the gruesome details, nor do I care to. What I do know is his properties, including you, now belong to Ali Admen. You’re to be sold to pay off your late husband’s vowels.”

Was such a thing possible? Would this country trade in the enslavement of English women? She sucked in a breath and put a hand to her chest as she tried to calm herself. The air was hot and thin in this room, making it difficult to breathe. She needed to know about her child. “What of my son?” She was almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Let us discuss our business before the welfare of your babe.”

“How can you be so cruel!” She made to stand but the collar caught and jerked her back down to the bench. She clenched her fists in her lap to still the shaking from the rage and fear building throughout her body.

Was her son well? Was he hurt? She needed to know. She needed to be with him. She took a deep breath; it did nothing to calm her tattered nerves.

He ignored her questions. “I’m here to make you an offer. One which will not only better your future, but also save you from a fate far worse than the one you’ve lived this past week. I should hate to think what
will
happen should you choose to be difficult.”

“How could all this come to pass? How dare you do this!”

“Madam, I dare do nothing. Your husband is the sole person responsible for your current circumstance.”

Feeling more bravado than she ought, she said, “And why should I take your offer?”

“I daresay mine comes at a prettier and much more advantageous price than you’re likely to find in the bowels of this hovel. I can also offer you the safety of your child.” His lip tilted upward the minutest amount in a satisfied sneer.

So that was his bargaining chip. Her cooperation might guarantee her son’s safety. Could he really help her son? Did he even know the whereabouts of her child? She clenched her jaw and her fists as she stared up at her nemesis or her savior—one and the same at this point. Could she trust him? She was at a grave disadvantage. How was she to know if her son was even alive?

“How can I trust you?” Or anyone for that matter. Her own husband, sworn to protect her, had sold her to this fate.

This might be her last chance to see her son while they both lived. If she stayed here much longer, she wouldn’t survive the handling some of the other slaves endured. Not in the long run. It was only a matter of time before they treated her like a mongrel, good to no one but for beating out their frustrations.

“You can’t trust my words. Nor do I expect you to. I’ll make you a generous offer.”

“Feeling charitable to a white slave, are you?”

The heavy weight of despair constricted her—suffocated her. He didn’t even flinch at her words. She didn’t care. It was hard to hold her tongue when death stared her in the eye daily. Eventually, she knew she’d beg for the end staying here.

“I’m employed by a wealthy man, madam. His sole indulgence is his harem. I would ask you to become one of his harem girls . . . in exchange for the safety of your son.”

She stopped breathing alltogether and repeated the words in her head. Could she really be hearing this right? A harem girl? A harlot? Is this what her husband had managed to reduce her life to—to become the plaything of some strange man in the hopes of saving
their
child?

She dropped her head into her hands and cried from the hopelessness of the situation. For the life she once knew, knowing it was no longer for her. She cried for her son, who would grow up with a whore for a mother if she agreed to this madness.

Should she agree to this? How could she not? There was no other option. Her tears came harder and faster with every despairing thought.