Seize the Fire (52 page)

Olympia glanced back, to find Mahmoud's eyes on her. He stroked his beard, the light flashing off three huge diamond rings. When he spoke, his voice was equally as soft as Sheridan's.

Olympia felt Sheridan go taut beside her. She had to pinch the trembling girl before she would interpret the Sultan's words. "The Sultan says—the Sultan says—" She ducked her head even farther down. "'I hold her in my hand…therefore your loyalty is ultimately to me.'"

The whisper of the English words died away into silence. Mahmoud tilted his head with another low comment.

"Is that not true?" the gift mumbled, hastily interpreting his words.

Sheridan answered, his voice slow and inflexible.

"As long as you hold her safe…it is true," came the quivering translation. "For that long only."

Mahmoud stared at Sheridan, his lips pressed in a faint, peculiar expression, petulant and wistful. For a moment he looked more like a small, sad, thwarted boy than the Sultan of All the World. The Greek girl was shaking visibly now, the only indication that this somber man had the power to take their heads with just the lift of one diamond-studded finger.

Mahmoud raised his hands and clapped. The girl made a tiny moan and Olympia sucked in her breath. There was a rustle behind them at the door of the tent.

Sheridan rose. Olympia turned her head.

On the carpet behind them, each person held strictly at the right elbow by a eunuch, stood a small European delegation. It was composed of a tall, elegantly dressed blond man, two shorter male strangers, Captain Francis Fitzhugh…and Mrs. Julia Plumb.

When Sheridan lay down, he was shaking inside. He stared into darkness, and all he could think was that they had taken her from him—and he'd let them: Julia and Fitzhugh and some beef-brained blond Prince of Somewhere; the British ambassador had been there, all the big guns, too much power, too much civilized muscle; there hadn't been a chance—not a chance, if Mahmoud wouldn't stop them. And he hadn't.

Now Sheridan was trapped, made by the wave of a hand into a Grand Admiral and a slave, because every one of Mahmoud's ministers, right up to the Grand Vizier, was the Sultan's slave in Ottoman eyes. They ran the country, but they were slaves, their lives circumscribed by the whims of absolute sovereignty. Not that it had ever been a whole devil of a lot different in the British navy. Here they just called a spade a spade.

His bloody big show of defiance with Mahmoud had got him nowhere. Sheridan hardly knew what he'd meant by it anyway. It was all so pointless—why hadn't he known they would be waiting, Julia and the ambassador, with a writ for Sheridan's arrest and their own schemes for his princess? Why hadn't he been planning for it, all those drifting days in the desert and mountains? Where the hell had he been?

He got up from the rich pile of bedding and paced out onto the terrace. The Bosporus gleamed faintly under the starlight, the lights of fishermen scattered like more stars on the surface.

Now they were going to marry her off to that great blond hulk, that was what Julia had announced. Prince of God-Knew-Where; the politics were all different; Sheridan was no longer the topping wonderful choice he'd appeared to be a year ago—this other chap was going to bring law and order to the entire European continent if only they could get him leg-shackled to Princess Olympia, and thank God there'd never been a Christian ceremony with Sheridan, how fortunate, no need to treat him to a knife between the ribs in order to free her up after all.

And Fitzhugh—Fitzhugh had called him out five times already, poor, hysterical bastard. The upright captain wasn't having any of Olympia herself now that he knew the truth, of course, but he was panting to avenge her honor. He seemed to have got it all mixed up with patriotism and public spirit and a whole barrel of other unrelated rot, carrying on like bejesus until Mahmoud got tired of it and had him removed.

Sheridan ran his palms down his face and sighed. It had been one deuce of a day.

But it all had a certain inevitability. He found balance in it. He stood there in the darkness, furious and miserable and alone—and strangely comfortable with himself. Things were just as they'd always been before his princess had come along: he was solitary, expecting nothing, giving nothing, no demands and no dreams and no contact. Just survive—one day at a time.

Angry as he was, at Julia and Mahmoud and the rest of those diplomatic snakes, he was in complete control. There was no chance he'd wake up and find he'd started some lunatic one-man battle with armed guards. Not now. Something had happened to him when he'd seen them whisk his princess away so fast that she hardly even had a chance to change expression before she was gone. Something had fallen back into place.

In that instant, he'd been brutally compelled to face life again as it really was and see his proper place in it. He despised himself for being a pawn, but it was a familiar spite. It fitted like a well-worn shoe.

He could quit trying, because there was no way he'd win. They were taking her away from him, and he could relinquish this haunting fantasy of love at last.

He was meant to be alone; he understood that now. It felt hard and real and right. It was bitter, yes, but solitude was an old, old friend. He was not meant to be close to another human being; that was the source of this mess inside him. She was the source. He'd been weak and a fool: wanting, wanting…believing in that dream, but it just made his feelings into mayhem, believing things like that.

He should have known better. But their time on the island had made him forget that some doors were shut and locked for damned good reasons. Where there were unicorns, there were tigers, too. He couldn't open to one without letting out the other.

He felt better, safer, now that he'd sealed it all away. He was himself again. In control. His future didn't look so bad. Mahmoud wanted a Grand Admiral—Sheridan was willing to do that. He could live like a king, keep a hareem, smoke a
narguile
and spend his days plotting for honors and riches and licking the Sultan's slippers.

Right in Sherry's line.

He stared into the shadows of the trees. The turmoil inside him was gone. He wasn't exactly at peace, but he was empty, at any rate. Better to be a desert than a maelstrom.

He thought of Olympia, of her round breasts beneath the gauzy fabric. It occurred to him suddenly that she would be gone tomorrow. They'd take her from this country palace down to Stamboul and put her and her new fiancé on a ship for the royal wedding in Upper Burgomeisterstein or wherever. Sheridan's one regret was that he'd gone through all that frustration to save her maidenhead just for some Teutonic bastard who walked around with his medal-laden chest stuck out like an oversexed rooster.

For a few moments, he brooded on that injustice. Behind him, the palace was silent and dark, just the constant whisper of fountains and the wind in the trees. Slowly, a hard, intent smile curved his lips. He turned back to the room. Armed with a slipper lamp and a satin robe trimmed with sable pulled on over his breeches, he began a midnight prowl of his new home.

Olympia dreamed she was running. The Sultan's eunuchs chased her with whips and scimitars, and she kept trying to find Sheridan, but she couldn't, not in all the halls and courtyards and gardens. Then as she despaired, he was there, whispering her name in the darkness, his arms pulling her close, hiding and protecting her…

She clung to him. It was his kiss that brought her to full awareness: deep and demanding; she opened to him with a cry of gladness as she realized he was really there.

She tried to say his name, but he pressed her back against the cushions. Dim lamplight touched the side of his face. "Don't talk." His breath was a heavy warmth at her throat. "Do you want me?"

"Are we—"

He stopped her question of escape with another kiss. There was something different about him, something purposeful. Instead of whispering a plan of evasion for spiriting them both to safety and freedom, he fingered the pearl buttons that held her caftan. They sprawled open, and he cupped her naked breast. His body moved over hers.

She felt his urgency. He was rough, spreading the silk away from her with primitive moves, capturing her hands and pinning them together above her head. The golden lamplight caught the hot intent in his face.

"Sheridan?" she whispered in confusion.

"Love me," he muttered, pressing a line of swift kisses down the side of her face to her lips. "Open for me."

Then he forced her to it without waiting, made her accept his tongue seeking deep in the kiss. He wore nothing; everywhere he'd bared her, his skin touched hers. His weight spread her legs, a burning warmth against her thighs.

Olympia whimpered a little under the aggressive power of his body. His maleness pressed her, sparking the eternal urge to arch upward into the demand even as he hurt her with his ruthless hold. Then shock and animal excitement flowed through her. She understood at last what he wanted: the stiff swell of his body pushed hard, seeking entry.

Of course—of course! She made a wordless sound of passionate accord. She'd wanted him this way forever; now she'd be his, utterly; protected from this crazy new marriage to a stranger that they'd planned for her. The humiliation of the doctor's examination she'd suffered that afternoon evaporated under Sheridan's possessive touch.

"Oh, yes," she whispered, and unfolded like a flower. "Oh, please…"

He responded, thrusting strongly into her warm invitation. She tilted her head back and drew a sharp breath, surrendering to his conquest, reveling in the pressing burn of his body forcing hers. It hurt a little, yes—but it felt so glorious. This prince would never want her now—she'd seen enough of his icy blond pride to know that. Sheridan's kiss was like a flame against her throat, his hands a brand around her wrists.

Soft moans escaped her. His invasion filled her. Her body tightened and moved beneath his. He seemed to fill up the whole world, the sounds in his throat filled her ears, the glistening curve of his neck and shoulder filled her sight—he was everything, every inch of her belonged to him, joined with him.

She buried her face in his shoulder as he thrust again and again, taking full possession of her in power and mindless passion. Something in her responded as it had not before: before, when he had always been in control; before, when he had put her pleasure ahead of his own, never forgetting himself, never losing himself to the ecstasy that drove them now—satin and silken rug at her back, his breath in her ear, heavy with the low sob of fervor as he pressed deep within her and held there. Her body was full of him, molten with him, rising beyond thought into pure sensation. It was so different, so vivid—this was real, and all that had gone before a dream.

She touched him, slid her hands downward and caressed him in places she had not dared. She felt his shuddering response; he groaned and whimpered and crushed her against him—and her soul laughed with joy at the freedom to give him that pleasure: so deep, so full and luxurious to feel him inside her, his body trembling as he took her, thrusting with potency instead of control.

Her own climax washed through her again and again, an endless miracle, waves and waves of singing consummation until she felt him burst within her and his body moved hard against hers in that explosive tremor that she loved. It was solace; it comforted her to feel his arms go taut around her and hear his breath rush in her ear. It felt good to taste the salt of desire and satisfaction on his skin.

As he relaxed heavily, she held him in a quivering grip. She ached everywhere they touched; she burned where his hard intrusion still pinned her. She thought of his body and seed within her…part of her. She was ruined. Ravished. Violated.

At last.

She closed her eyes and laughed.

For a long time, Sheridan was nowhere. Just breathing. Breathing was effort enough; it seemed his chest could not hold sufficient air to allow his brain to think or his body to move. So he simply let himself lie lost and euphoric, unconcerned about where he was or why.

Slowly, small realities intruded on his consciousness. His body was hot, but cool night air fanned across his skin. A light feather-touch moved up and down his back and shoulder. There was something wet beneath his cheek.

The sensations crystallized into a thought. Princess. He mumbled the word, turning his head. With an effort, he lifted himself onto his elbows and looked down at her.

So beautiful. So utterly beautiful. He put his hands on either side of her face and felt the wetness again.

"You're crying," he muttered.

She looked up at him in the lamplight. He wondered if there was another green in the world like the green of her eyes.

"It hurt a little," she whispered. Then she bit her lip and smiled, and fresh tears welled up and made silver swim with the green.

"Jesus," he said as comprehension dawned.

She shook her head vigorously. "It doesn't matter."

"I didn't realize; I never meant—"

"I know." She lifted her hand and tugged at his hair. "I know. Don't say you're sorry. Please."

He frowned down at her. "I am."

"Well, I'm not. Not at all. I'm glad, Sheridan." She pulled him down and kissed him, the softness of her lips mingling with the taste of tears. "I'm so glad."

He brushed away the moisture with his thumb, carefully finding each wet track. By the time he'd tenderly wiped them away, another drop was sliding down her temple. Something very raw and painful moved in his chest.

He shifted, lifting himself off her. His body was still firm; he saw her features tighten as he withdrew, though she bit her lip and smiled quickly to cover it. He looked down.

The satin robe beneath her showed a small, dark stain. He closed his eyes. It made him feel weak inside, as if he held something delicate and precious in hands that would be too clumsy to preserve it.

He concentrated on watching her as she levered herself into a sitting position with a series of winces. The smooth curve of her buttocks reflected pearly light. Her breasts bobbled a little as she moved, awakening instant and desperate heat in him. He hated himself, thinking of that again. Already. She sat with her legs drawn up.