Sultana (29 page)

“Welcome home, Fatima.”

A surge of elation filled her. Tucking her arm under his, Faraj led her forward.

They dined with Marzuq and Fatima’s twin servants attending them. Niranjan stood at the entryway with his back to them, scanning the shadowy patio. Faraj eyed her quizzically but she shook her head.

“My eunuch is ever vigilant. He does not doubt that you can protect me in our home. I have learned to trust and rely upon him, as my mother once did.”

Niranjan glanced over his shoulder briefly. She nodded to him.

At the end of the meal, Faraj went to the
hammam
, while Marzuq led Fatima to her room. He opened the door to a spacious chamber with a carved wooden bed at the center, draped in a silken coverlet. Two windows, covered by lavender damask curtains, faced east and opened on to a garden of fragrant bougainvillea. Between the windows, an inlaid stool stood on legs carved in the shape of a lion’s feet. Fatima’s chests and wooden jewelry boxes occupied the southern wall. Small torches glowed in brackets at the corners.

A shadow fell over her shoulder. “A message has arrived from the Marinid Sultan for your father. Sultan Abu Yusuf Ya’qub must return home. One of his sons has rebelled against him. We cannot continue without the Marinids.”

Fatima turned to Faraj. The frustration at further delay gave an edge of impatience to his voice. His lower half wrapped in a long linen towel, he stood with a parchment crumpled in his hand. It must have been the message about the Marinids. The obvious tension inside him stirred other emotions within her.

Soft wisps of dark hair curled on his chest and forearms. His lean muscled form glistened with water and smelled of rosemary. Though unprepared for the sight of him, she admired his form. Her heart pulsed in a steady rhythm.

Behind him, Amoda asked, “Will you also bathe, Sultana Fatima?”

Dragging her gaze from Faraj, Fatima said, “After we’ve talked. You may go.”

Amoda nodded, and she and Marzuq left.

Faraj said, “I have dismissed your eunuch. He stood stationed at the door. I shall not have him listening while we…are together tonight.”

His words made her imaginings run rampant, already stirred by the sight of him undressed except for the towel. Her fingers itched to remove it and reveal him for her appreciation.

He closed the door behind them. “Fatima, we must talk about something else. I need to tell you about the night my parents died.”

 New tension twisted in her belly. She breathed in a rippling sigh and gestured to the bed. He sank on it, while she sat beside him.

“I’ve never spoken of this night to another. None of my sisters or half-brother knows the full truth of what I must tell you. I ask that you keep it a secret, for now.”

She touched his chest, just above his heart. “Trust me, Faraj.”

He grasped her hand for a moment and pressed it against his heated skin. “I do.”

One of her satchels rested against the southern wall. She crossed the room, grabbed a towel and a vial, clambered onto the bed and patted his skin dry. He leaned back against her while she smoothed argan oil on his flesh.

He said, “On that last night at Malaka, my mother came to my room after I had a bad dream. Before she left, she kissed me goodbye. At the door, she turned to favor me with another beautiful smile. I shall never forget how resplendent she looked in her
jubba
, the black and red silk robe trailing gracefully at her feet. A diadem of garnet stones held her
hijab
in place. Gleaming gold and garnet jewels completed her finery. This was how I always wanted to remember the Princess Leila of Ashqilula.

“After my mother closed the door behind her, I listened for the tinkling melody of her bracelets as she left the harem to join my father in the dining hall. Eventually, weariness overcame me and I drifted again, only to experience another nightmare. Rough hands tugged me from my pallet. Bleary-eyed, I watched without comprehending, while my mother helped my younger sisters to dress. My half-brother stood at the side of his mother, the
kadin
Butayna. The sheer terror in her ice-blue eyes drew me to full understanding. The citadel was under attack.

“My mother herded us before her, the
kadin,
and her son following, to an upper floor where the steward kept provisions. My mother and Butayna hid us carefully between the crates. Then the women took each other’s hands and moved to the door. Their sudden cries frightened us, but I cautioned my siblings to remain silent. We heard the women scream again. I peeked out behind the crates where we hid. Two men held my mother down, while another man rutted between her legs. One of the marauders entered the room. He said the Hud paid them to kill my father and his children, not rape a woman. They let my mother go and left with Butayna, whom they had also ravaged. When my mother was certain they were gone, she called to me.

“I hesitated before taking her hand. She rose, commanding my siblings to remain where they were. I walked in silence behind our mother, stepping over the lifeless bodies of faithful servants; our steward, the cook, even our aged governess. My mother had been quiet while we moved through our ruined home, but she cried out when she entered the dining hall. I followed her gaze, to where they had slit my father’s throat. She killed herself after that. I vowed I would never be like her or my father, never surrender to the will and whim of fate. That is why I always tried to control my destiny afterward.”

He bowed his head with a shudder. Her heart cleaved for him. She could only guess at how difficult it must have been for him to unburden himself. His naked pain and sadness overwhelmed her. He reached for her, pulled her onto his lap. She could hardly breathe. His arm snaked around her waist. Fatima kissed his brow, his cheek.

He continued, “I needed to tell you this, so you might understand the sort of man you married. My lust for revenge has ruled me. For so long, I have lived only regain everything I lost that night, though I know I cannot. Not truly. Yet, for the first time, I want something more than vengeance. I want a life with you, to be always at your side. I want you to bear my children, to raise them in love and comfort. They must never know the pain I endured as a boy. Give me sons and daughters, Fatima, to heal my wounded heart. Love me and be my wife, always.”

The first touch of his lips against her forehead made the breath catch in her throat. The second made her sigh. He trailed light kisses on her brow, his hand caressing the curve of her cheek. She closed her eyes. Their breaths melded together. She met the demand of his lips with fervent desire of her own, returning each kiss and caress with the same eagerness. Urgent hands smoothed down the column of her throat and went to the strings of her
qamis
, setting her blood aflame everywhere he touched. Her shirt slid down. She shrugged her arms free of it.

Cool air stung her skin, before the warm wetness of Faraj’s kisses replaced the sharp tingle. A deep ache coursed through her belly. Her hands drifted between their bodies.

“Oh, my Sultana! Oh, a thousand pardons, I beg you.”

Fatima opened her eyes, glimpsing the edge of Leeta’s skirt, before she darted outside.

Forehead against Faraj’s shoulder, she breathed a rippling sigh. She raised her head and looked at him. His gaze held steady. Desire fired his stare. Her body shook in response. He kissed her brow and held her close.

“It’s your first night in our house. I’m sorry I ruined it with talk of death and betrayal.”

She stroked his skin. “Don’t be. I know now how much you trust me, to have spoken with such candor about the past. My heart grieves for you, beloved.”

He exhaled a harsh breath. “There’s something more I must tell you about the night my parents died. You heard what I said about the Hud?”

She nodded. “Yes, they killed your parents. I know why. They were Grandfather’s enemies. He rebelled against them and seized power.”

“They aren’t the only ones responsible. Others bear the guilt of my parents’ deaths.” He set her aside and stood, wrapping the loose towel around his waist. “When the Castillan rebels came to Gharnatah eight years ago, I met with Doñ Nuño Gonzalez de Lara in private. He wanted me to press your grandfather’s support of his rebellion. He claimed to know something of my parents’ deaths.”

He paused and turned away. “He told me his father brokered an alliance between the Hud and Abu Muhammad of Malaka, who took the governorship when my father died. The Hud had reason to hate your grandfather. They lost Ishbiliya to the Castillans because of his help and saw their capital city reborn as Christian Sevilla. The Ashqilula wanted my father dead, because he was the governor of the richest territory in the Sultanate by virtue of the Sultan’s love for his brother. The Hud and the Ashqilula conspired to kill my family.”

Fatima gasped and covered her mouth. “By the Prophet’s beard! Then it is true.”

Faraj whirled toward her. “What are you talking about?”

“After my mother died, I heard the chieftains Ibrahim and Abu Muhammad talking. Ibrahim said that if he had not helped Abu Muhammad, the old governor of Malaka would still have been alive. I realized later he meant your father.”

When he reddened, she rushed on, “Forgive me, I should have told you, but I did not remember it until you spoke now.”

“I understand. You had just lost your mother. You had your pain and loss to accept. What could you have known of mine?”

She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him, her cheek against him. “I know it now and it hurts me as much as my own loss. Your pains are my pains to bear. Your heart has been so burdened.”

“It still cries out for vengeance. I have had no one with whom I could share this pain. I’ve buried it inside me.” He grasped her chin and raised it until their gazes met. “Now, you’re here.”

“And I’ll always be by your side, loving you as you are.”

His fingers trailed through the mass of curls spilling free down her back. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him again. She sought only to soothe him with caresses, soft and lingering. He returned her embrace with a silent plea, but she pulled back.

“Fatima….”

Her slim fingers trembled slightly, while she loosened the cord belting her trousers. Stepping out of them and her leather kid slippers, she interlaced her fingers with his. His eyes glowed in the lamplight, his expression candid.

He cupped her cheek. “Are you ready?”

In answer, she removed his towel and drew him to her bed.

In his arms, her heart thrummed with so many emotions. Though inexperienced, she became the aggressor. Her tiny hands roamed over his skin, sharp nails scoring his back while he trailed a line of kisses down the column of her throat. She pushed him on his back, draped her fleshy thigh over his hip and sought his lips again. He stayed her eager hands.

“You understand because you are a virgin, this first time may be…difficult for you. I would be gentle with you…but I do not think I can be.”

“Then do not. I won’t turn from you.”

His eyes raked over her form, possessive. He kissed her again, as if he could not bear to be apart. His heart thumped steadily beneath hers while he caressed her pale breast. A ragged sigh escaped her throat. His fingers palmed her belly, taut with her burgeoning desire. When his dark, olive-skinned hand settled against her pale flesh, she marveled at the beautiful contrast in their complexions.

“I want to have many beautiful sons and daughters with you, to see your belly filled with our children.”

She drew him to her again.

“Touch me,” he whispered against her mouth. “Do not be afraid.”

Her hands skimmed the bunching muscles of his shoulders and torso, and trailed lower, then up to his arms again. He repeated the motion along the silken smoothness of her pale body. She trembled against him. She scored her nails across the planes of his chest. His fingers swept again to her breast, lingering there when she gasped. They caressed each other in kind. With each slow stroke of his hand, she grew feverish with yearning, marveling at the instinctive passion she possessed. She raised her leg higher along his hip. Her name was a whisper of pleasure on his lips.

Her senses amplified, Fatima became aware of many things all at once – the erratic beating of her heart, Faraj’s short panting breaths. Beads of moisture glided down her back. The silken feel of Faraj’s lips as they shared long, drugging kisses that seemed to flow together, one after another. The hair on his forearms tickled her thighs.

His brow deeply furrowed, he rolled with her on the bed. She surged against him but he soothed her with light kisses on her neck and shoulders. Her arms wound about his neck. When he joined their bodies at last, her eyes widened. He stared down at her, her image reflected in his eyes, which glowed like liquid pools of amber. Pleasure-pain filled her when he buried his face in her neck, teeth nipping at her skin. In his throes of their mutual desire, she surrendered.

Chapter 22

A Warrior’s Death

Prince Faraj

Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Rabi al-Awwal 674 AH (Granada, Andalusia: September AD 1275)

The Marinid Sultan returned to Gharnatah at the end of summer, the rebellion against him quelled after five months. He declared the
jihad
against Castilla-Leon with renewed fervor.

On the evening before Faraj left to join the army, he stood alone at the center of the indoor courtyard of his house. A luminous, full, moon shimmered between wispy cloud cover. In a small antechamber just off the courtyard, Fatima busied herself helping Amoda and Leeta make bandages and poultices.

In the week since Fatima’s father had announced his army would join the ensuing battle at Istija, she had become subdued. She hardly spoke unless addressed. Faraj woke every morning to find her eyes puffy and swollen. He understood her sentiments and shared them. He did not wish to leave her behind either, but he did not speak of it.

Through the arched entryway of the antechamber, he watched the twins washing their hands in a basin. They also whispered to each other, casting poorly concealed frowns of concern at his wife. Faraj approached and dismissed them with a wave. Fatima averted her gaze as she reached for the basin. He grabbed her but she smacked his hands away. “Would you prefer to smell like saffron and mint?”