Lady Of Fire (8 page)

She set the comb down, turned to face him. “I am promised to Rashid. There can be no more of…what we did.”

His mouth bent upward. “It is you who controls what happens between us, mistress. I am but a slave.”

Why was there no comfort in that? She slipped past him and crossed to the center of her apartment. “Then I have nothing over which to be concerned.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Naught,” he said and leaned back against the edge of her dressing table.

“Is there something else you wish to discuss, Seif?”

“Your mouth.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I am curious about it—that it is untried though you are no longer a maiden.”

She had hoped the lie that she was not virtuous would remain where it had fallen in the bathhouse, but here it was. Inwardly cringing, she wondered why he believed her mouth was untried. After all, he had seen her kiss Rashid atop the roof. And though she had attempted to place the blame for this day’s intimacy at Seif’s feet, it was
she
who had initiated their kiss—one she had enjoyed. Did this mean that, though he claimed he desired her, the kiss had not been to his liking? Had the press of her lips been uncertain? Awkward? It
was
he who had ended the kiss.

Hating how off balance he made her feel, she said, “We shall not speak of things that will not happen again, Seif.”

He inclined his head. “As you would, mistress.”

“Then we are done here.”

He straightened from her dressing table. “I had thought we might begin my lessons.”

She almost laughed. “It is obvious you have already acquired a sufficient grasp of our language.”

He retrieved her comb. “I know not what this is called.”

She hastened forward and took it from him. “A
misht
.” She returned it to the tabletop.

“And this color?” He flicked the skirt of her yellow caftan.

“
Asfar.
I—”

“What is the name of that which lines your eyes?”

Self-consciously, she ran a fingertip beneath her lower lid. “
Mirwad.”

He looked around as if for something else to inquire about.

Alessandra sighed and crossed to her divan. “If you are determined to remain,” she said as she arranged the strewn pillows, “tell me how you became a slave.”

Silence descended and did not lift once her pillows were in place. Seating herself on the edge of the divan, she raised her eyebrows.

His face had darkened, creating a sharp contrast against the white of his turban, and the light in his eyes and smile upon his mouth were gone.

“Have I asked something I should not?” A futile question, for it was obvious her inquiry was unwelcome.

He turned, strode to the door, and was gone so completely it was as if he had not been here.

But he had been. Alessandra ran fingertips across her mouth. Most definitely, Lucien de Gautier had been here.

Lucien contained himself until he gained the privacy of the garden. Then he slammed his fists into the bark of a tree until, knuckles scraped raw, pain cast a shadow across his rage—one of sufficient length and breadth to allow him to begin to straighten out his thoughts.

He put his back to the tree and stared at the scalable wall that stood between him and freedom.

Since arriving at Jabbar’s home, he had not allowed himself to dwell on the horrors suffered during his captivity. However, Alessandra’s innocent question had freed memories best locked away.

“Curse her! Curse all women!” he growled. They were a faithless lot, and Alessandra numbered among them. Though promised to another, she had touched and kissed him—

After you set out to seduce her,
spoke the voice of discernment he had often ignored this past year.
Thus, are men not also a faithless lot?

He ground his teeth. He had come to Alessandra’s apartment only to apologize, but seeing her sunlit hair tumbled about her shoulders, witnessing her delight over the gazelles, standing so near her…

He had wanted to feel her tresses between his fingers and her curves beneath the shapeless caftan. He had wanted to understand the impetuous workings of her mind and to burn his fingers, if need be, to feel her fire. He had wanted her to wipe away this past year that had embittered and hardened him more than all the years spent battling the Brevilles. And so he had tempted her.

He closed his eyes, murmured, “We are a faithless lot, indeed.”

Though he would never trust a woman with his heart, this present anger had nothing to do with the fairer sex—all to do with the nightmare of slavery.
That
was where it belonged.

At the end of a sennight, Jabbar and Rashid returned bearing gifts of silk, jewelry, and gilded slippers.

Amid the buzz of women flaunting their new finery, there was music and dancing in the hall. Trays laden with pastries and sweetmeats were borne by servant girls, though they were largely ignored by the women who were too elated to indulge.

All were dressed for the occasion of the master’s visit, each hoping to catch his eye so she might be the one with whom he spent the night. As usual, there was little modesty about them. Their light, colorful trousers and vests allowed glimpses of breasts and buttocks, thighs and ankles. Their hands, feet, and hair were hennaed and faces heavily made up.

Seated at the far end of the hall was Jabbar, who surveyed all with a faint smile. On his left sat Rashid, on his right, Sabine. Unlike the others, Alessandra’s mother wore a caftan. The garment was elaborate, its silver and gold threads catching light, but it revealed little of her figure, evidencing she remained Jabbar’s favorite. He did not need tantalizing glimpses of her body to desire her and, most likely, it was she with whom he would pass the night.

Though Alessandra enjoyed such occasions, her pleasure this afternoon was overshadowed by the present Rashid had brought her.

Removed from the others, she fingered the cloth that would be fashioned into a wedding gown. It was beautiful and would complement her hair and complexion, but she was disappointed that she had not been allowed to choose it herself.

’Tis a small thing,
she told herself.

But was it? It represented the day she would truly become a woman—the beginning of the rest of her life with Rashid as first wife.

“First,” she whispered and determinedly turned her thoughts to the trip into the city that had been denied her. It would have been a break from the monotony of the harem, long hours spent in the marketplace haggling with vendors and seeing sights she had not laid eyes upon in two years. And then there was the freedom, of which she had so little and constantly dreamed.

Perhaps her mother was right. Perhaps she was not fit for such a life. But would England be different?

“You do not like the cloth?”

She looked up at the man who was now Lucien to her, though only in her thoughts. Since he had walked out on her several days past, the air between them had been strained, and only this day had it begun to ease.

“What, Seif?” she asked.

Hands behind his back, he nodded at the fabric.

“I do like it,” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “It is lovely.”

“For your wedding?”

“How did you know?”

“A guess only.”

Looking away, she pretended interest in the group of women to her right.

“If it is not the cloth that makes you unhappy,” Lucien said, “what is it?”

She eyed him. “You think me unhappy?”

“Not even the music and dance interests you.”

True. At the very least, her feet ought to be tapping. “Sometimes I feel as if…” She searched for English words to express herself. “As if I cannot get a full breath. As if a great weight is upon my chest.”

He frowned. “You are ill?”

“I do not speak of an ailment,” she said, and immediately thought of her mother and the reason Sabine had yet to shake off her cough. “This comes from my head, making me restless and impatient for…” She gave a short laugh. “…freedom, I suppose. Doubtless, you have experienced such yourself.”

He smiled tightly. “You feel enslaved?”

She pondered the word, shook her head. “It would be unfair to name it so harsh a thing.”

“What would you call it?”

“I do not know.”

Lucien’s gaze shifted and, following it, Alessandra saw her mother approached.

As the eunuch returned to his place against the wall, Sabine lowered to the divan alongside her daughter. “Are you not going to show me what Rashid brought you, Alessandra?”

This was the first time she had seen her mother in two days, for she had allowed none but Khalid within her apartment. Alessandra had not been overly worried, for she had grown accustomed to her mother locking herself away. She had been doing so for nearly two years now, offering only the excuse of needing time alone with God. Though it sometimes made Alessandra feel abandoned, she had learned to wait it out, as had Jabbar.

Now, peering into Sabine’s pale, drawn face with its darkly shadowed eyes, she was not sure she should have stayed away. She pressed a hand over her mother’s. “You do not seem well.”

Sabine grimaced, drew fingers through her hair. “Better?”

“You know that is not what I mean. You look ill.”

“It is always difficult when Jabbar goes away—worse, when Leila takes advantage of the situation and tries to harm you.”

That might be some of it, but not all. “What of the cough? You still—”

“I have yet to speak to Jabbar about what that woman did, but when I have him alone this eve, I shall.”

“You yet suffer from a cough,” Alessandra pressed. “Has the physician nothing to rid you of it?”

Sabine looked across the hall. “He says I need not worry, that it will pass.”

“But he is old. Perhaps we should summon another physician.”

Sabine sighed. “You weary me with your needless concern. Let us speak of other things.”

From the set of her mother’s face, Alessandra knew she would get no further. Blowing out her breath, she settled into the abundance of pillows. “Of what would you rather speak?”

“Khalid tells me you and the new eunuch are getting along better.” Her mother’s smile did not reach her eyes, further convincing Alessandra something was amiss. And Khalid likely knew what it was. Would he tell her if asked?

No, he would never betray her mother’s confidence, not even to her daughter.

“Did you not hear me, Alessandra?”

She met Sabine’s gaze. “It is true. Seif and I are becoming accustomed to one another.”

“I am pleased. He has guarded you well these past days.”

“There is something curious about him,” Alessandra mused.

Sabine stiffened, said tautly, “What is that?”

Even more curious was her mother’s reaction. Alessandra stole a glance at Lucien and saw he watched Jabbar and Rashid. “I do not know, but I intend to discover what it is.”

“He is an Englishman, Alessandra. It is his culture that makes him a curiosity. Accept it and leave it be.”

Had Sabine not been so desperate to impress that upon her, Alessandra might have allowed herself to be led down that path. But there was something here she was not meant to see, and it made her wonder if her suspicions about whether or not Lucien was, indeed, a eunuch were founded. “Mother—”

“The cloth is for your wedding gown?”

In the midst of Alessandra’s struggle over whether or not to continue to seek an answer, Leila boasted loudly, “It is me Jabbar desires.”

Alessandra followed her mother’s gaze across the room.

“I had but to press myself to him to know,” Leila continued. “I vow, this night he will come to me.”

The women with whom she surrounded herself tittered and glanced at Sabine.

Such taunting was not unusual, though Leila’s words often proved empty, but her posturing always angered Alessandra who knew it saddened her mother to share Jabbar.

Will I be as gracious once Rashid begins taking other wives and filling his harem with concubines?
she wondered.
Will I be able to subdue my restlessness? Quell the longing to know greater freedom? Overlook my faith that dictates marriage between one man and one woman?

Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she looked around and met Lucien’s amethyst gaze. And feared that four times she would fail.

What does my mother not mean me to see?

Over the next two days, the question so often nibbled at Alessandra that she struggled not to snap at annoyances and small offenses. And that it might relate to the question of whether or not Lucien was truly a eunuch further curdled her disposition. Thus, she determined she would have an answer.

It was bold—and dangerous—but she gathered the courage to do the task she had set herself. Clothed in the colors of night, she climbed out her window and lowered herself amid the garden’s fragrant bushes.

The moon was high and full, illuminating the path she must parallel to gain the eunuchs’ quarters and making it imperative she exercise caution lest a guard caught sight of her. Though it could not have taken more than a handful of minutes to cautiously traverse the garden, it felt tenfold that.

Upon reaching the gate, she eased it open and winced when its hinges creaked. Lest she needed to make a hasty retreat, she left it ajar.

Staying low, she hastened toward the low-lying building that housed the eunuchs. As she neared, excitement rippled through her. It was a long time since she had undertaken such an adventure, and the opportunity would have been denied her had Jabbar not dismissed Sabine’s accusations against Leila. After speaking with those present in the garden that day, he had pardoned his first wife of wrongdoing. Thus, Lucien had been excused from the duty of guarding Alessandra’s apartment and now slept in the eunuchs’ quarters where he would not be required to clothe himself head to toe.

Thankful she was slender, Alessandra squeezed behind the bushes that lined the back of the building and picked her way along the wall. At each window, she peered inside to determine which of the eunuchs slept there. Aided by the slant of moonlight, she eliminated one after another of those who most often passed the night unclothed, shoulders and backs bare above light coverings.