This Heart of Mine (67 page)

She could feel his lingam growing large and hard beneath her, and the very thought that he would soon possess her excited her further. Unable to help herself, she began to squirm slightly upon him. Bending forward again, she brushed the nipple of one breast over his cheek, a softly taunting smile upon her face. He was ready for her, however, when she rubbed the other breast over his mouth. Capturing the nipple in his lips, he encircled it with his tongue, licking the sensitive flesh until it tingled, and she shivered. It was then that Velvet raised her lower body and impaled herself upon his staff.

“Little bitch,” he growled at her, loving the way her tight, sweet yoni encased his throbbing lingam.

At first her rhythm was excruciatingly slow and teasing, but gradually her pace quickened, and suddenly they were both lost in the fiery madness of their shared passion, flying together to that paradise known only to true lovers, never even remembering their descent from the heavens into blissful sleep.

In the days that followed, life took on an almost unreal happiness for Velvet. She could not remember ever having been so content, feeling so loved. Her parents had, of course, adored her, but even when she’d sat in one or the other’s lap, she could feel them loving each other with their eyes, oblivious to her, or to anything else for that matter. How often had she been told of the great love that had led to her very existence? The love she now experienced, however, was that same kind of love that her parents had for one another, and she finally understood their constant preoccupation with each other. She hoped that little Yasaman would not feel shut out by the love she and Akbar shared, but she vowed to herself it would not happen.

She smiled. Akbar was really determined to spoil their daughter, but then she thought how fortunate it was that he loved their child so very much.

She had to take him to task, however, the very next day for bringing the baby along with him in his howdah when he went on a tiger hunt. When she scolded her husband, he looked quite hurt and replied, “Yasaman was quite safe with
me.”

“Safe?”
Velvet cried. “Safe upon that rogue elephant you insist on riding?” She made a marvelous picture of outraged
motherhood standing before him and clutching her infant to her breast.

“The elephant simply cannot tolerate anyone but me,” he explained.

“Do not take
my
daughter from her nursery again without
my
permission,” Velvet said. Rugaiya Begum and Jodh Bai agreed with her, chattering at Akbar furiously, one in Persian, the other in Hindi.

Laughing, Akbar held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“I give up,” he said. “I cannot argue with you all. Very well, Candra, my darling, I shall not take Yasaman tiger hunting until she is at least five.”

It was at this point that Ramesh was granted entrance into the room by Adali. “My lord Akbar, so this is where you are hiding yourself. Have you forgotten the interview that you promised to give the traveling Christian father who has been brought to you by Father Xavier?”

With a sigh the emperor stood up, bid his wives farewell, and left them to return to the audience chamber of the main palace. It was a beautiful room, though not as grand as the great audience hall at Fatehpur-Sikri. The floors were made up of squares of red and gold marble, some areas of which were covered in magnificent red, blue, and gold rugs. The walls of the room were painted with scenes of triumphs in the emperor’s life. There were tall gold censers burning fragrant oils on either side of the wide aisle leading to the raised dais with its golden throne, which was studded with sapphires, diamonds, rubies, pearls, emeralds, beryls, and corals. Akbar had quickly dressed himself in the Persian fashion: white silk trousers, a matching coat embroidered with gold, diamonds, and pearls, and his usual turban with a huge pigeon’s-blood ruby in the center. Seated cross-legged upon his throne, he made an impressive picture.

Michael O’Malley could hardly keep himself from staring. It was the most incredible room he had ever seen, and he longed to be able to examine more closely the wonderful paintings upon the wall. How Skye would love the thick carpets! They made what she had in London seem poor stuff indeed. Forcing his eyes back to where they belonged, he glanced from beneath lowered eyelashes at the emperor himself. Akbar’s bearing is most regal, he thought. Put him at any civilized court in Europe, and no one would not recognize him for the king he is.

Father Xavier gave him a quick poke, and, realizing that
the Jesuit was bowing low before the enthroned figure, Michael O’Malley did the same.

Akbar hid a little smile. He had not missed the tall Christian priest’s overawed examination of the room. Languidly he raised his hand in signal to Father Xavier that he might speak.

“Most High Emperor, may I present to you Father Michael O’Malley, a bishop of the church. He brings with him a request from my superiors in Paris that he is to have a private audience with you. He is quite fluent in French.”

A private audience? Akbar was most curious. Usually the Christian priests loved to make quite public their attempts at his conversion. “Clear the room,” he commanded Ramesh. When only he and the tall man remained, he said, “Speak, priest. I am listening.”

“My name is Michael O’Malley, and I am the bishop of Mid-Connaught, in the country of Ireland.”

Akbar held up his hand. “What is a bishop?” he asked. “And where is this place you call Ireland? Why have I not heard of it before?”

Michael cudgeled his brain. Finally he said, “A bishop is a nobleman of the church, a man of some authority, usually responsible for a small territory.” Akbar nodded in understanding. “Ireland,” continued Michael, “is a captive country of the English, an island kingdom to the west of England.”

Again Akbar nodded his comprehension. “Continue,” he said.

“My lord, it has been brought to my attention that you are a Moslem.”

“No longer,” said Akbar. “I was raised in the faith of the prophet Mohammed but I was curious as to the other faiths of the world. I built in my former capital of Fatehpur-Sikri a place where I invited holy men of every faith to come and expound upon the virtues of their own way of worship. What I saw angered and saddened me. Men of religion, priests of every sect, squabbling and arguing amongst themselves as to which faith was best, which of them worshipped the true God, actually even coming to blows with one another. It was then I devised my own form of worship, taking from each what I deemed the best. It is my faith, and that of some of my closest friends. I do not expound my faith even among my own people, for I have decided that each person must find his own path to God’s salvation.”

“You say,” said Michael, “that you have taken the best from each faith. Do you still believe it is against God’s law to take the wife of a living man for your own?”

“Of course!” said Akbar without hesitation.

“Then, my gracious lord, I must continue. Some many months ago you received at your city of Fatehpur-Sikri a train of gifts from the Portuguese governor in Bombay. Among these gifts was a young Englishwoman, the Countess of BrocCairn, Velvet Gordon.”

Akbar stared at the priest, his face and his eyes expressionless, but his heart was beginning to pound nervously. Suddenly he knew that the man before him was going to bring him great unhappiness. He wanted to shout at the priest to stop, but he knew that he could not. His own strong conscience forbade it.

“Lady Gordon,” Michael continued, “is my niece, the youngest daughter of my sister. My lord, I beg you to tell me. Does she yet live?”

“Yes,” said Akbar in a toneless voice.

“Praise be to God and his blessed mother, Mary, who have heard my prayers!” Michael said joyfully. Then he went on, “My lord, I have come to bring my niece home to England. Her family will pay whatever ransom you deem necessary.”

“I am not holding your niece for ransom, Father O’Malley. Has it occurred to you that she might not want to return to England? Have you considered that perhaps she has found love and favor in my eyes?”

“My lord, her husband lives.”

“I am her husband,” said Akbar.

“No, my lord, I meant that her husband, the Earl of BrocCairn, is not dead as she believed, but alive and eager to have his wife returned to him. If you believe as you say you do, Most High, then you must release my niece to me so that I may bring her back to her rightful lord.”

It was as if a hammer blow had been dealt to Akbar’s heart. For what seemed like an eternity he could not draw his breath. His chest felt as if it were being crushed by several bands of iron. I am going to die, he thought, and it is better that I do so than to live without my beloved Candra. But then he found that he was breathing, and his head cleared, and he said, “First we must be sure that we speak of the same woman, priest. Come with me!”

Rising from his cross-legged position upon his throne, he led Michael O’Malley through a door hidden behind the throne. They were in a cool, well-lit but narrow stone corridor, and Michael had to hurry to keep up with the emperor though Akbar was much shorter than he was. Finally they stopped
and the Grand Mughal drew Michael forward. To the priest’s surprise he stood before a peephole.

“Tell me if you recognize anyone within the room, priest. Look carefully, for far more is involved than you know.”

There were three women in the room, but Michael recognized her almost instantly. His hesitation was only caused by the fact that he had carried in his mind a picture of Velvet as he had last seen her at eleven years of age. She had been tall and leggy with an unruly mass of auburn curls then. Her face had just been beginning to change from a child’s to a young girl’s, and her body had been basically still formless.

The woman in the room was probably one of the most beautiful he had ever seen. In a strange way she surpassed even her own mother in loveliness. She was slightly taller than Skye, and the auburn hair was now totally under control, parted in the middle and drawn smoothly back over her ears into a chignon at the nape of her graceful neck. Her face was serene, and her nose had grown, he noted, from the little bit of flesh that it had once been into a straight nose of elegant proportions. The formlessness, too, had given way to a feminine shape of delightful proportions. He considered her turquoise blue and gold clothing most immodest, showing her legs through the thinness of the flowing skirt and at least half of her breasts due to the shortness of her blouse. Still, it was Velvet. Without a doubt, it was his niece.

“It is she,” he said to Akbar. “The girl with the auburn hair.” He thought he heard a sound, almost the groan of an animal in pain, but when he turned to the emperor, Akbar’s face was an impassive one. Still, he could not help but ask, “Are you all right, my lord?”

“You have just told me that my favorite wife, the mother of my daughter, is another man’s wife, priest. Were I not a moral man, were I not a man of strict conscience, I would kill you here in this secret corridor where we now stand.”

Michael felt an icy chill run over him, for he saw the mixture of despair and anger that had suddenly appeared in the emperor’s eyes. “My lord, this is a tragedy, I will grant you, but what can I do? I, too, am a man of morals and strict conscience,” he said.

Akbar nodded. “Give me time to make certain arrangements, priest, and then I will have you brought to me again, and we will settle this matter.”

Michael O’Malley nodded. He instinctively knew that he could trust this man. Together they exited the corridor, and
then in the company of Father Xavier he left the palace. To his surprise he was recalled several hours later.

“They tell me you will not return to us,” said Father Xavier who brought Michael back to the palace gates. “Can you trust these people, my lord bishop? We are, after all, responsible for your safety.”

“Rest assured that I shall be safe, Father Xavier,” said Michael O’Malley. “I am most grateful to the Jesuits here in Lahore for all their aid. Remember, however, that my visit must go unrecorded in your journals. That is the wish of Paris and Rome.”

The Jesuit nodded. “Go with God,” he said, and turned back toward his house.

Michael O’Malley was not taken into the main buildings of the palace. Instead he was brought secretly through the gardens to a smaller building where Akbar awaited him. There his escort disappeared, leaving him with the emperor.

“This is Candra’s house,” said Akbar. “Candra is the name by which your niece is known here. It comes from the ancient Sanskrit language and means ‘Moonlight.’ I have told her only that I wish her to meet a visiting Christian priest. I have arranged that you will leave Lahore toward dawn. You will travel to the coast under my own personal protection as quickly as possible.”

“You said there was a child …” began Michael.

“Our daughter, Yasaman Kama Begum,” said Akbar.

“I am not sure about taking the baby, my lord. I do not know how Velvet’s husband will take the news of another man’s child.”

“Do you think I would expose my daughter to your European bigotry?” thundered Akbar.
“Never!
My child remains here with me.”

“How will my niece take such a plan?” Michael was worried.

“We will convince her, priest, you and I. Come now. Candra awaits us.”

Seeing her close up, Michael was once more astounded by Velvet’s beauty. Her creamy skin was flawless, and he could understand why the emperor had renamed her Candra.

“This is the priest I was telling you about, my Rose,” Akbar said.

She looked up at him with her emerald green eyes, and then as recognition dawned her eyes widened with disbelief.

“Uncle M-Michael?”

“Yes, Velvet, it is I.” Michael O’Malley held out his arms.

“Dearest uncle!” She flung herself at him. “I had never thought to see any of my family ever again! Oh, how wonderful that you are here!” She hugged him hard and then stood back to look up at him. “You are the answer to a prayer, Uncle! Now I can send my poor Pansy and her little son home! She has tried so hard to adjust, but she really misses her Dugald, and it isn’t at all fair that he not know his son.”