A Touch of Sin (32 page)

Reaching down, Trixi quickly snatched up the cloak and slipped it around her shoulders before following the servant who waited for her, his gaze dispassionate. Her heart was beating in double time. She understood Hussein Djeritl wasn't a man who could be put off or cajoled or placated, and she had only a brief interval before she would be placed in his bed.

But much worse than what might transpire there was his threat to Pasha's life. Could she do anything to save him or thwart the execution of Djeritl's plans? With that stark horror prevalent in her mind, she followed the servant through an opening into an adjacent room as resplendent as the one she left.

"Please, madame," Jamil offered, showing her to a silk-covered chaise. "Your bath will be brought in. Would you like any refreshments?"

She shouldn't be hungry in a crisis like this. How could anyone of principle think of food at such a time? But a few dates and a drink of water hardly satisfied a day's hunger. "I'd appreciate something to eat, please," she replied. "Anything at all."

"The general's commissary is extensive. You have but to express your wishes."

"Then I would like beef and potatoes. With a cup of chocolate."

Jamil contained his astonishment with difficulty. The lady didn't have a ladylike appetite; Hussein's harem preferred sweetmeats and sorbets. Bowing himself out, he left to see to the lady's bath and odd menu.

Trixi surveyed the silken chamber from the chaise for a moment and then rose to more closely search the premises. It was an antechamber of some kind, luxurious but small, the furniture consisting of the chaise, a chair, and a low table. A hookah sat on the table, resplendent in gold. She'd once seen such an instrument in an illustrated book of travel in the East. Three covered doorways were draped with red silk. The first she'd come through, the second Jamil had exited through. She moved toward the third one and gently lifted one corner of the silk drape.

The back of an armed guard came into view at very close range, and past him an enormous divan strewn with pillows. Hussein's bedchamber, she surmised, dropping the drapery. Would the guard remain later, when she was scheduled to become Hussein's entertainment? If crying would have done the smallest bit of good, she would have readily broken into a torrent of tears.

This is too much, she dismally thought, falling onto the chaise in despair. How was she equipped to deal with this awful crisis? Worse, how was she ever going to find a way to warn Pasha or help him or save him from Hussein's ruthless plans? Would it be possible to actually kill Hussein, make her way past the armed guard, find a pathway through the labyrinth of the tented city, retrace the route back to Nauplia? How impossible each stage of that wishful scenario, the entirety beyond even a miracle.

But in the next second she reminded herself that she was alive. Pasha was still alive. And the very worst she had to consider at the moment was sharing Hussein's bed. She wouldn't die from having intercourse with Hussein. That was survivable. And if even a remote possibility existed that she could somehow warn Pasha of his danger, she must remain alert for that possibility.

So… a bath first. Or eat first. The need for food was more pressing than the bath, if she hoped to remain vital. She should have asked for more, she thought, deciding she needed all the strength she could muster to get through a night with the Turkish general.

It helped, she found, to silently discuss the alternatives as if another person were bolstering her nerve. Pushing herself upright, she straightened the cloak around her and looked about with a more resolute gaze. How long could she take to eat and bathe? she wondered. Would it be possible to linger over each activity for a lengthy time? She was of a mind to try, at least.

When the servant returned, he brought a tray of sweets and a bowl of sorbets. "Your beef will take some time to prepare," he politely explained. "In the interval, the chef thought you might like some savories. Your bath will be brought in shortly."

"I prefer eating first. Bring my bath after dinner." She wished she had a timepiece, but delay was delay even if she couldn't precisely define it. The sweets were tempting, small cakes and candies, glazed dates and figs, a small carafe of liquor in the center of the arrangement. A chased gold cup with which to drink the saffron-colored liquor. The colorful sorbets in delicate white porcelain dishes lay atop a mound of shaved ice. Ice in the heat of summer, in the midst of an armed camp. Hussein traveled in style.

With his harem as well, she recalled, or at least until recently. The comforts of home at the front. A role she was to single-handedly fill tonight. On that daunting note, she reached for the carafe of liquor. Perhaps a drink would blunt the harsh edges of her coming ordeal.

The scented liquor tasted of peaches, its fragrance augmented by a flower perfume she didn't recognize. But it was sweet to the palate, slightly chilled, and it almost instantly soothed her nerves. A small heat warmed her. The weight of the wool cloak on her skin suddenly pronounced, she unwrapped the doubled folds of material slightly to allow a modest circulation of air. The sorbet looked enticing, she decided, reaching for a dish filled with pink ice.

Jamil dropped the drapery back in place, his mission accomplished. The woman had drunk some of the nectar. The general would be pleased. Soon she'd need a lighter robe.

Her first impulse on seeing Jamil enter with the magenta silk robe was constraint. She was fine, she said, thank you, no, her cloak was adequate. He didn't argue; no servant of Hussein's ever contemplated such a breach of etiquette.

But he left the silk robe.

The sorbet was delicious, pomegranate ice, soothing and cool. She loosened the wool cloak slightly more and reached for a jellied sweet coated with sugar. Why wouldn't she be hungry after almost a day without food, she reflected, plucking a small iced cake from the platter. It was filled with almond paste, a favorite of hers. She ate two more. Which required another drink of the chilled liquor.

Shortly after the silky liquor slid down her throat, the magenta robe took on a more demanding presence in her consciousness. Light and diaphanous, with loose sleeves and delicate gem-encrusted closures, it lay beside her on the chaise—close enough to touch.

It wouldn't hurt to touch it—would it? Considering the very real peril she was in, a silk robe was the least of her worries. The fabric was lush, almost sensual, the word disturbing even as it came to her. She pushed the robe away.

But her appetite was acute, as was her thirst, and she continued to assuage them with the refreshments before her. Her anxiety dissipated, melted away, her surroundings no longer seemed ominous. Perhaps it was the succulent sweets, the lush richness of the interior that made her forget she was in an armed camp at war. Perhaps nourishment and drink were consoling comforts.

Whatever the reasons, she welcomed the tranquility. If she were to face the general soon, surely this prelude was more agreeable than terror. With each sweet consumed, images from her former world dimmed, and all memory of the past seemed to drift further away.

When Jamil brought in her dinner, she ate it all, her appetite undiminished. The chocolate was exquisite, silken dark splendor, and at the end, she drank another small cup of the chilled peach nectar.

She was visibly sweating at this point, the heavy cloak a burden, and when her bath was brought in, the water lured her senses. The servants carrying the filled cloisonne bath departed once the tub was placed in the center of the room, as did Jamil.

She glanced around and, finding herself alone, shed the heavy cloak with relief. She tested the water with her fingers, found it wonderfully tepid—perfect, as if someone understood how heated her body was. Feeling oddly dissolute that she should be so looking forward to a cooling bath under the grievous circumstances, she stepped into the tub and as if mesmerized slid into the water. Attar of roses wafted into her nostrils, the scented oil lying in droplets on the surface of the water. A single drop glistened on her upper arm and she rubbed the sleek oil with her fingertips.

Her skin tingled briefly and then felt blissfully warm, charged with sensation as if it were glowing inside. How curiously enticing that she could be cool and yet warm, serene yet infused with excitement, how the noise from outside had faded away and only the silk-hung tent, silent and perfumed, surrounded her.

Lying back against the resplendent cloisonné depiction of a desert hunting scene, she shut her eyes. The fragrant water enfolded her, and the boundary between reality and dream blurred.

She heard voices from a great distance, several, too many to decipher, and her lashes languidly lifted for a fraction of a second before they dropped shut once again. A new scent invaded her nostrils, faintly acrid, pungent, unfamiliar. But she felt too relaxed to force her mind into logical deduction; it was much easier to do nothing.

Hussein Djeritl, kneeling beside the bath, smiled. Without turning his head, he spoke in a low tone to Jamil; Jamil, in turn, spoke to the servants who had come in with Hussein. They placed the objects they held on the low table and left the chamber. "Stay," Hussein said to the slender young man who was more adjunct than servant. "I'll need your help."

"You'll find her pleasing, master. She's a woman of appetites."

"She drank the peach nectar?"

"As you see, master," Jamil answered with a faint smile. "The heat is coursing through her."

Hussein's dark gaze grew speculative as he surveyed Trixi. "How much did she drink?"

"The whole carafe, master."

Momentarily startled, Hussein glanced at Jamil. "All of it?"

Jamil smiled again. "In spite of that heavy wool cloak. The opium and mandrake will see that she's eager for three thousand thrusts, master."

"We must see that she's well used then." Hussein rose, his arousal blatant in the form-fitting cavalry breeches. "Cancel my meetings for two days."

"Should the Frank come for his woman during that interval?"

"Cage him until I'm done. I'll bring her out to see him before he dies."

"Gratifying sport, effendi."

"But not on a par with this," Hussein softly said, beginning to unbutton his breeches. "Bring me a robe."

When Jamil returned moments later, having left instructions with Hussein's staff, Hussein had already discarded his western uniform. He slipped his arms into the colorful silk caftan Jamil held for him. "Light my hookah," he ordered, moving toward the divan. "We can set a leisurely pace tonight, with no new campaigns until supplies reach us from Crete. Dry her and bring her over here." Dropping into a comfortable sprawl on the silk divan, he reached for his hookah, raised the gold-tipped tube to his mouth, and inhaled deeply.

Jamil lifted Trixi from the water and placed her on the plush carpet. As he toweled her dry, she stood docile, flushed, her mind operating within a warm, opalescent haze. And yet every tactile impression, every movement was taking on a sensual glow, a heated glory of wanting, and images of Pasha saturated her mind.

"She seems ready," Hussein observed.

"The poppy brings relaxation and dreams, the mandrake visions. She's feeling the bliss."

"Soon she'll be feeling something more," Hussein sportively murmured. "Do English women have orgasms, or are they too cold in that country with no sun?"

"With the amount of mandrake she ingested, this one will."

He reached for a jar from the silver tray. When he opened the container of ambergris and musk, the pungent fragrance seemed to color the air.

Trixi's nostrils flared, the aromatic vapors redolent of heated passion, and she inhaled deeply, recalling tantalizing memory, sweet desire, lush, torrid sex with Pasha.

When her legs were eased apart and the first dollop of perfumed unguent slid over her mons, the stroke was so light, Trixi felt only the mildest of sensations like a flutter of wings. The touch instantly transmuted the incipient throbbing within her to a new captivating level. But when those smooth, silken strokes invaded her vagina, fierce, uncurbed lust struck her like a blow, and she groaned deep in her throat. The coolness bathed her hot, pulsing tissue in a drenching decadence, the exquisite chill was piquant bewitchment to her heated body. Wanting more, she took a step forward as though reaching for the tempting pleasure, but unsteady under the influence of the drugs, she stumbled.

Jamil swiftly caught her, bracing his shoulder against the curve of her hip.

"She's roused to fever pitch, effendi," Jamil murmured.

"Then we must entertain her, must we not," Hussein softly replied. "Ease that burning hot cunt. Give her one of those." He gestured toward the sex toys on the tray and drew in another draught of hashish smoke. "Have you ever had an Englishwoman?" he casually asked.

"Once in a Paris brothel," Jamil replied, selecting an object from the tray.

The shocking words
Paris brothel
registered in Trixi's consciousness, but a second later they disappeared into the nebulous warm cloud that surrounded her. She made an effort to open her eyes but her lashes seemed extravagantly heavy and the transient impulse vanished into the same golden haze. Her feverish senses seethed and simmered, a frantic pulsing centered in the liquid core of her body, a wild driving need for consummation overwhelmed her brain. "Pasha," she whispered, needy, yearning, carnal passion synonymous with his name.

Jamil glanced at his master. "She speaks of him."

Hussein shrugged. "She'll accept anyone. Bring her here," he said, indicating the table before him.

Lifting her into his arms, Jamil carried Trixi the few steps to the table and placed her on its polished length.

"Can she hear me with so much liquor?"

"If you speak slowly."

"Spread… your… legs… my dear." Hussein gently nudged her thighs apart and obedient, she complied. She writhed at the feverish need coursing through her vagina, lifted her hips, searching for surcease, and the liquified ambergris undulated within her like a tidal wave, further goading her lascivious flesh. A cry of longing escaped her.