The Love Slave (12 page)

“What are we to do with her, master?” Erda complained to Donal Righ. “Morag has willingly accepted her new name of Oma, but this stubborn Zaynab will not answer to anything but her birth name. Even Oma cannot get around her, and she is usually good with her mistress. Should I beat her, master? I know not what else to do.”

“Do not beat her,” Donal Righ said expansively. “It would only bruise her fine white skin. Karim will handle the matter when he returns this evening. Take Zaynab to the special room that has been prepared for her. Karim has suggested that you use oil of gardenia in her bath today. He thinks that fragrance will suit her.” The slave merchant was in an excellent mood. Everything was proceeding exactly as he had hoped it would.

Regan was bathed that day as Donal Righ had requested. She sniffed suspiciously at the lush scent. “What is it?” she demanded. “It is neither rose nor lavender. I am not certain I like it”

“It is gardenia,” Erda told her.

“I do not know the flower,” Regan replied

“Of course ye do not,” Erda said “It is a beautiful creamy white flower that blooms in the pots and the gardens of al-Andalus.”

Regan said nothing more. Actually, she liked the new fragrance, but she would not give them the satisfaction of knowing it. It was an exotic aroma, and its heaviness suited her mood. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded of Erda as they left
the baths. They were not turned in the direction of the women’s quarters of the house.

“Ye have been given a new chamber to yerself, Zaynab,” the old lady said. “Oma will have her own little room nearby ye. She’s waiting for ye now, my chick. Come along, and do not be so sullen.”

The room to which she was escorted was not a large room, but it was light and airy. Located at the top of the house, and on a comer, it had two windows with heavy shutters, one facing the river, the other, Donal Righ’s garden. The walls were whitewashed, the furnishings simple. There was a brass brazier that could be used to heat the room, a chest for storage, a single chair with a slung leather seat, and a small oak table. Upon an almost-square raised dais lay a mattress covered in pale blue satin and stuffed with down and fresh herbs. Upon the mattress were several large pillows in striped fabrics and cloth-of-gold. Regan had never seen such a fine room, and as she walked about it, her mood began to lighten somewhat. “Where is Morag?” she asked.

“Oma has a small room next to this one. There is a connecting door, and ye have but to call her,” Erda said. “I will leave ye now to rest. Karim al Malina will be returning soon to begin yer tutelage.” The old lady then retreated with a speed that Regan would not have believed her capable of, locking the door loudly behind her as she went.

At first Regan was outraged, but then she laughed. Where did they think she would go? she wondered. “Morag!” she called.

The connecting door opened and the girl came through. She sniffed delicately. “What is that wonderful fragrance, mistress?”

“The new scent that hae been chosen for me,” Regan told her. “It is called gardenia. Erda says that they are white flowers that grow in al-Andalus. I must admit to liking it, but dinna tell them.”

“This is a fine chamber,” Oma said. “Come and see mine.”

Regan stepped through the door into a narrow little room with a single window. There was a storage chest and a well-stuffed
pallet. “Ye’ll need a brazier for heat,” she noted. “Is yer door locked too?”

Oma nodded. “Aye,” she said. “I suppose we’re nae to go anywhere, nae even the garden below. Well, ’tis almost dusk now. I love these long summer’s days!”

Erda brought them an evening meal of bread, hard-boiled eggs, cheese, and two round, greenish fruits. “They are called oranges,” she told them. “You peel the skin away and eat the sweet flesh inside. They are grown in al-Andalus. The captain brought them for Donal Righ.” She set a small decanter of watered wine on the table and left them, locking the door behind her again as she departed.

The two girls sat together on the edge of the dais and ate the food. Saving the oranges for last, they giggled as the juice from the tangy fruit ran down their chins and all over their hands. They agreed with each other that oranges were very good, if just a trifle messy. When they had finished, Oma poured some water in the washbasin and they bathed their hands and faces. The servant then gathered up the dishes and goblets, setting them neatly upon the tray. They had eaten everything. Only the orange peels remained as evidence that they had dined.

Outside the windows, the sky was pinkish-lavender with the long summer twilight. The air was cool but soft, and Regan decided to leave the windows unshuttered for the moment. A blackbird began to sing its sweet song in the garden below. The crescent moon shone down, while near it a bright blue star glittered.

Both girls turned as the door to the room was unlocked and Karim al Malina entered, closing and relocking the door behind him.

He looked to Oma. “You may go to your chamber now, Oma. Your mistress will not need you again until morning.”

“Yes, my lord,” Oma said softly, bowing, and then she went through the connecting door to her own room.

“How dare ye instruct my servant!” Regan said in a tight voice.

“If I have offended you, Zaynab, I ask your forgiveness, but the time has come for your lessons to begin. If you would like
Oma here to watch, I will call her back,” he said in a quiet voice.

“I am Regan MacDuff of Ben MacDui,” she said stonily. “I will nae answer to such an odd and foreign name as Zaynab.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she looked directly at him, eyes blazing defiantly.

She is marvelous, he thought What spirit! His calm return gaze, however, gave no indication of his admiration. “Regan MacDuff of Ben MacDui is foreign-sounding to my ears,” Karim al Malina told her. “What does Regan mean? MacDuff, I comprehend, is your family name.”

“It means
king
,” the girl replied proudly.

“You are no king, my beauty, but a lovely woman whom I shall teach to be magnificent. You may think of yourself however you wish, Zaynab, but you are no longer in your world. You are in mine, and you will answer to your new name very soon, if not today, then tomorrow or the next day.”

He began to remove his clothing: first his long white cape, then the wide belt about his narrow waist and his white shirt. Seating himself, he drew off his boots, then standing up again, he began to pull off his white pantaloons.

Regan gasped, shocked. “What are ye doing?” she squeaked.

“Is it not evident?” His azure eyes were twinkling, although his countenance was very grave. “Have you ever seen a man’s naked body, Zaynab?”

“I am no virgin,” she muttered, trying desperately to avoid looking directly at him, but it was just too tempting. He had a broad chest, lightly furred toward the top with a narrow band of dark hair sliding down directly in the middle of his navel, traveling to his groin. She stared at his manhood. It lay very white, and limp. His legs were long and, like his upper chest, were covered with dark down.

“Remove your chemise for me, Zaynab,” he told her.

“
No!
” she snapped sharply.

Eliminating the small distance between them, he grasped the round neck of her chemise and tore it to the hem. “When I tell you to do something, Zaynab, you must obey me,” he said as he pulled the ripped fabric off her and tossed it aside. Then
taking her by the hand, he led her to the dais, drawing her down upon the mattress. When he turned her face to his, he was shocked to see that her eyes had gone blank. There was absolutely no expression in them at all. It was as if her spirit had flown her body, leaving only the empty shell. “Why are you afraid of me?” he asked her gently, still holding her hand in his. “There is no need for you to fear me, Zaynab.”

She struggled within herself to find the words, and then finally said, “Ye will hurt me. I dinna want ye to hurt me!” She arose from the bed and stood nervously by it.

“I will not hurt you, Zaynab. Tell me of the two who hurt you, my beauty. Sometimes the retelling helps ease the pain,” he said.

“Ian Ferguson hurt me,” Regan whispered so low that he was forced to bend his head to hear her. “He stank of horses, and paraded himself before me, bragging of his attributes. He squeezed my breasts and pushed his hands between my legs, all the while wriggling against me and making strange noises. Then he ordered me to spread my legs, and he climbed atop me. Ohhh, it was so big, and it hurt me so. He dinna care.
He dinna care!
He kept pushing himself in and out of me, groaning and sweating. I hae nae known such pain. And after the first time, he did it to me twice more that night. I hated it! I hated him!” She began to weep.

“And Gunnar Bloodaxe?” he asked her. “Did he hurt you?”

“It did nae hurt when he pushed himself wi’in me,” she said softly, “but I hated it nonetheless. He bent me over a table and forced me to accept him, grunting like a hog until he spilled his seed.”

“I will never force you,” Karim al Malina promised her.

“Then ye will never hae me, my lord, for I shall never surrender my body willingly to any man,” Regan told him.

“You will surrender to me, Zaynab,” he told her gently. “Not tonight, and perhaps not for many nights, but in the end you will give yourself to me both body and soul. I shall not have to force you.” He tenderly brushed the tears from her cheeks with the fingers of one hand. “Do not cry. What is past
cannot be changed, but I will help to make you a fine future, I promise. You have but to trust me.”

“I trust nae man,” she answered, and he understood. Then she looked at him, her eyes once more alive. “What is it ye are supposed to do with me to make me presentable to this caliph?”

“Teach you the erotic arts,” he said with a small smile, “but you do not really know what I mean, do you?”

Regan shook her head.

“To make love is an art, Zaynab. The two men who so cruelly used you knew nothing of the real pleasure that can be attained between a man and a woman. They were rough, and selfish, and thoughtless. They couple with their women like dogs couple with bitches. They are little better than the animals they emulate. It does not have to be like that, my beauty.” He slipped an arm about her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “In time I will teach you all I know. You will go to your new master, the caliph, and ravish him with your beauty and skill.”

She did not look as if she believed him. Coupling, a pleasure? Frankly, she could not see how, but he had piqued her curiosity. “Where did you learn these arts of yers, my lord?” she asked him.

“In a city called Samarkand,” he told her.

“Why did ye learn them?”

“I am my father’s youngest son.” he began. “Like many second sons, I was, in my youth, a wild young fellow. After I had impregnated three of my father’s slave girls, he lost patience with me. My brother Ja’far interceded for me with our parent He told Father that since I seemed to be best at making the beast with two backs, perhaps I should go to the School of the Passion Masters in Samarkand. Then, at least, my desires would have a practical usage. The men who studied with the Passion Masters were few, for they accepted few, but those lucky enough to have learned from them are in great demand to train Love Slaves. I was received by them, tested for my prowess, and only then did they agree to take me into their school. When I had finished my course of study, I began to use my skills to earn my living. That is how I was able to purchase
I’timad
, my ship.” Karim al Malina smiled at Regan. “I am
very good at what I do,” he told her mischievously. “I have taken you into my charge as a favor to Donal Righ, but when I am finished with you, Zaynab, you will be my finest creation, I promise you.”

“Why must I be a Love Slave? Why canna Donal Righ be content to sell me for a servant? I dinna want to yield myself to a man.”

“You are too beautiful to be a servant,” he said. “You know it, Zaynab. Do not be coy for it does not suit you. You must always speak honestly. It is true that I will teach you how to yield yourself to a man, but I will also teach you how to make that same man yield himself to you.”

“ ’Tis nae possible!” she declared. “Nae man would ever yield to a woman. I dinna believe it for a minute, my lord.”

He laughed. “ ’Tis true, Zaynab. A beautiful woman has great power over the strongest man, and can defeat him in the battle of love.”

“I am cold,” she said, shivering.

He rose from the dais, and crossing the chamber, closed the wooden shutters. Then going to the storage chest, he drew forth a light woolen coverlet and brought it to her. “When you are beneath it, and next to me, you will regain your warmth,” he said. “Come, let us lie together.” He lay down, drawing the cover over him, then held his hand out to her.

“You mean to share my bed?” Regan’s eyes were filled with fear again, although her voice was strong.

“This is our chamber,” he told her calmly. “Come under the coverlet, Zaynab. I told you I would not force you. I do not lie.”

She could not help but remember Ian Ferguson and his braggadocio. Ian, who had ripped cruelly into her innocent flesh, taking his pleasure, wounding her spirit. Gunnar Bloodaxe had been little better, although at least she had not had to look at his leering face as he violated her. She turned to gaze at Karim al Malina. He lay on his back, his blue eyes closed, but he was not asleep, she sensed. Could she trust him? Dare she trust him? With trembling hands she reached for the coverlet, and lifting it, slipped beneath its soft warmth.

Almost immediately he put an arm about her, and Regan
jumped. “What are ye doing?” she demanded in a frightened voice.

“You’ll warm yourself faster,” he said calmly, “if you come closer to me, but if you would prefer not to, I will understand.”

She felt the arm about her shoulders. She felt the length of him against her body. His presence, to her surprise, was comforting. “Nae more than this,” she warned him in a hard voice.

She did not see his smile in the gloaming. “Not tonight,” he told her. “Good night, my sweet Zaynab. Good night.”

Cha
p
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