The Harem Bride (12 page)

On a day a little over a month after Miss
Penelope Blayne’s kidnapping at the Grand Bazaar, events seemed to
be repeating themselves. Penny was bathed, oiled, massaged,
scented, and dressed in the fine garments she had worn at her
presentation to the Sultan. The Kislar Agha escorted her back down
the shaded passage that ran between the seraglio and the throne
room. Two eunuch guards brought up the rear.

Penny’s heartbeat quickened. She
was
out
. Though still in the
palace, she was out of the harem, which was very odd indeed, for
the Sultan came to his women, not the other way round. But there
was no time to think why. Their small procession entered the throne
room, Penny following demurely behind the Kislar Agha, eyes cast
down, as she had been painfully taught. She did not see the Sultan,
the Grand Vizier, the Grand Mufti, the Sultan’s Sword Bearer, the
Chief Executioner, the bodyguards, or the many other men
surrounding them. She kept her eyes fixed on the tips of her soft
kid slippers and wondered if she was to be given away yet again
because she had failed to live up to the standards demanded of an
odalisque in the royal palace.

Suddenly, the Kislar Agha gripped her arm and
drew her forward. “Is this the woman you seek, my lord?” the giant
black man inquired in French.

Penny’s eyes snapped up to follow the
Chief Black Eunuch’s gaze.
Jason! And Lord
Elgin!
And a third man in English garb. But a month’s
training was enough to keep her in her place. She did not cry out,
she did not attempt to run. But her heart soared, as did her
prayers.

“
I cannot know, Excellency,” the
viscount returned calmly, “unless I may see her face.”

The Kislar Agha turned to Penny. “You may not
remove your veil, but you may speak.”

“‘
Tis I, Lord Lyndon, Penelope Blayne.”
Dear heaven, she did not sound at all like herself! Her voice was
husky from disuse, strangled by a rush of emotion. In truth, she
could barely hear herself over the pounding of her heart. Penny
stumbled on, for this, she knew, was the moment, her only
opportunity to save herself. “The night we met you took Aunt Cass
and me to the roof of the Embassy, so we might view the city and
the waters below. You . . . you are related to my aunt, Cassandra
Pemberton of Pemberton Priory in Kent, England.”

“
Enough,” the viscount declared. “I
accept this woman is Miss Blayne.”

And there, in the throne room of Sultan
Selim, with the Reverend Philip Hunt, chaplain to the British
Embassy officiating and Lord Elgin and the Kislar Agha as
witnesses, Miss Penelope Blayne, age sixteen, became Lady Penelope
Blayne Lisbourne, Viscountess Lyndon.

The wedding feast went on for what seemed
like hours. Penny, attempting to recline gracefully, and patiently,
on a bank of tasseled cushions in a modest-sized private chamber
not far from the sounds of revelry, jumped to her feet and began to
pace the thick colorful carpet. She had had a month’s training in
humility, in effacing herself, in living only to serve. But to be
excluded from her own wedding feast—that was definitely the outside
of enough! She had peeked out the curtains and seen the trays pass
by, held aloft by a veritable stream of stalwart servants and piled
high with every sort of tempting morsel. She had heard the soft
whispers and giggles of the odalisques who excelled at dancing as
they rustled by and then the enticing drift of music as the girls
performed for the male wedding guests, who were undoubtedly
enjoying themselves hugely while she waited, alone and
forgotten.

Was she truly married? Or was all this just
another entertainment for the Sultan’s amusement? Would she and
Jason go home in the morning, or would they disappear, their bodies
joining the others who had displeased the Ottoman Sultans, resting
forever on the bottom of the Bosphorus?

Penny broke into a tremulous smile as the
heavy scarlet velvet curtains parted, and Ayshe and Leyla appeared,
bearing food and drink. As the girls released their veils, the
sight of these two familiar faces, brought tears to Penny’s eyes.
She allowed herself to be coaxed into eating, for, surely, the
girls would not appear so happy and excited if they did not believe
Gulbeyaz was well and truly married and on her way out of the
seraglio.

If only she had been able to learn more than
a few words of their language . . .

When all three girls had eaten as much as
they could hold, Ayshe and Leyla, eyes shining with excitement,
settled themselves more comfortably onto the cushions beside Penny
and proceeded with graphic gestures to remind her how a woman
treated her master, particularly on her wedding night. One month as
an odalisque in the harems of Mustafa Rasim and Sultan Selim the
Third had not made Miss Penelope Blayne immune to blushes.
Unshockable, perhaps, by what she might see, but the girls’
reminders of what was expected of her when face to face with Jason
Lisbourne was almost enough to send her scampering back to the
seraglio.

With sad smiles and soft kisses on her cheek,
the two young odalisques bade farewell. Tears fell. The girls
replaced their veils, picked up the tray and the ewer that had
contained fruit juice, and departed, leaving only the inevitable
eunuchs standing guard outside the curtained archway. Once again,
Penny was alone. Carefully avoiding so much as a glance at the huge
divan-style bed set against one wall, she slumped against the bank
of cushions and indulged in dire thoughts. She acquitted Ayshe and
Leyla of being part of any conspiracy. Undoubtedly, they were as
deluded as she herself. At the end of the wedding feast, attended
only by men, with dancing girls for entertainment, the Sultan’s
Chief Executioner would step forward and lop off Jason’s head.

And that unsatisfactory odalisque, Gulbeyaz,
would be next.

Penny shivered, crossed her arms over her
royal blue brocaded waistcoat, and waited for her fate.

Jason thought himself a man of the world,
though, truthfully, his experience with women was not great. In the
environs around Rockbourne Crest he had learned a thing or two from
a willing tavern wench and had expanded on these interludes of
exploration during his years at Oxford. Yet, although his rank kept
all but his best friends from mentioning it, Lord Lyndon tended
toward the bookish. Indeed, his friends frequently groaned as they
struggled to learn what Jason absorbed not only easily, but with
relish. The two who accompanied him on the Grand Tour had had
private, and somewhat crusty, instructions from the Earl of
Rocksley to make sure that his son enjoyed foreign attractions
other than all that demmed art and architecture. And they had
gleefully complied, until the young viscount’s attention was wholly
caught up in the rescue of Miss Penelope Blayne. If anyone had
thought to ask, each of Jason’s friends would have said the
viscount was the last man on earth to become a rake. That his
interest in women was appreciative, but bordered on the academic. A
fine piece of sculpture or an illuminated manuscript brought a far
greater gleam of interest than the most enticing female. His
friends shook their heads. Odd, very odd indeed.

So on the night the Sultan, the Grand Vizier,
and selected members of the court finally rose from their cushions
and indicated that the newly married man might go, Jason was
inclined to fancy he knew how Mary, Queen of Scots, felt while
walking toward the axeman. He had married a schoolgirl, a perfect
stranger. A hundred lascivious eyes would be watching, yet he could
not touch her. Bedding Penelope Blayne was not only against his own
inclinations but against every code of honor he had ever been
taught. She was little more than a child. A family connection under
his protection.

Yet they were married. The marriage lines
were tucked inside his jacket. The efficient Mr. Hunt had even
provided a register for them to sign.

Married
. A
life sentence.

Jason’s guide pushed velvet draperies aside,
motioned for him to enter. She was there, his schoolgirl bride,
kohl-rimmed blue eyes wide above her veil. She straightened
abruptly, then going to her knees, bowed low. Hell and damnation,
what was this nonsense? They were alone . . .

But, of course, they were not. He had never
thought they would be. Faik, the bundle woman, even Lord Elgin, had
warned him that a palace, particularly an Ottoman palace, had a
thousand eyes.

“
A salaam is not necessary. We are
alone,” Jason said carelessly, as if he truly believed it. He
folded himself down beside her, staring, tongue-tied, as he
realized even more fully that neither his knowledge of the
classics, his limited knowledge of women, nor his total lack of
knowledge about schoolroom misses was going to come to his aid.
They were trapped in a final bumblebroth, from which there might be
no escape.

She knew
. She
knew about the watching eyes and ears. Otherwise he was quite
certain she would have thrown herself into his arms and wept for
joy. Or did she, perhaps, know something he did not? Would neither
of them leave the palace alive?

Jason leaned forward, unfastened his bride’s
veil. And swore—a sharp exclamation he managed to swallow before it
left his lips. The female before him was not a child. From her high
forehead, plucked brows and kohl-enhanced eyes to her softly
painted cheeks and lips, she was a woman of infinite beauty. About
her clung the scent of roses, possibly cloves, and other mysterious
odors that enticed his senses and dizzied his mind.

Heaven help him!

“
They are watching,” he whispered, “I
am certain of it. The mosaic over the bed, the intricate designs on
the walls—all could hide peepholes.”

Gulbeyaz, the well-trained odalisque, merely
nodded, her eyes properly lowered to her lap.

“
The lanterns are deliberately placed
too high for me to reach,” Jason continued. “There will be no
darkness. Do you understand? We will have to pretend.” He paused,
silently cursing all Ottomans and foolish Englishwomen who dragged
innocent virgins into danger. “Penelope,” he sighed, “do you have
any idea what I’m talking about? Can you possibly know what it is
we must pretend?”

Penny’s chin came up and her eyes
flashed in a most un-odalisque temper. “You are so
English
,” she hissed. “So blind. I
have been in a harem for more than a month, and you think I
might
not
know! Do not be
absurd.”

He’d married a shrew, by God! All he had
sacrificed for this little chit, and she was mocking him.

“
There is no need to pretend,” she told
him grandly, if still very softly. “I have been well trained. I am
ready to do what is expected of me.”

Jason ducked his head, fist to his
mouth, finally remembering to cover his shock by a fit of
coughing.
Good God, what was she
saying?

Gulbeyaz removed her jeweled
kalpock
and long trailing veil,
tossing them aside. She ran her hands through her long silver
blonde hair, which shimmered like a waterfall in the torchlight.
Jason drew in his breath, even as his arousal, already quickened,
strengthened very much against his will. “You must go to the
divan,” she said. “I may not come to you until after you are
settled.”

“
Wha-at?” Lord Lyndon murmured, all too
aware the situation was slipping out of his control.

“
The woman enters the bed after the
man,” Penny stated patiently. “They will be watching to see that I
remember my training. Do you not understand? It is not only that
they wish to be sure we are together as man and wife. I fear if I
do not do everything in the manner in which I have been taught,
they may not let us go.”

Jason swallowed his protest. She might well
be right. Yet he must not touch her.

But he had never seen a woman so beautiful, a
woman with skin so soft, so sweetly smelling that he wanted only to
lose himself in her. And her eyes . . . he had seen many practiced
looks of enticement, but never anything like those of his bride.
Penelope’s eyes glowed with lustrous and inviting warmth. Was it
possible she cared for him, or was she merely grateful for her
rescue? Whatever the cause, there was no doubting her sincerity.
She was magnificently beautiful, warm, willing.

She was his wife.

And he was bloody well old enough to know
better! He was the elder by five years and would have to keep his
head, even if little Penny could not.

Penny, ha! This was not Penelope Blayne. The
Ottomans were right. This was—what did they call her—Gulbeyaz? This
was an odalisque bent on making a blithering idiot of him. He would
show the blasted little chit that he was a man of the world.
Somehow they would get through this night with Penny still a
virgin, yet with the Sultan and his court convinced that he had
properly consummated his marriage. Whether or not he could do this
and still have his wife’s eyes glow with adoration was another
matter entirely.

Abruptly, Jason stood and found his way to a
corner of the room, sheltered by an intricately carved wooden
screen. There he washed and relieved himself and abandoned his
English clothing, putting on the thin white linen robe that was
waiting for him and concealing in his hand the tiny vial of blood
Faik had procured for him at the bazaar. Lord Lyndon had not asked
what kind of blood; he did not wish to know.

Gulbeyaz, the White Rose, torn between the
knowledge she had become an actress on an Ottoman stage and the
thrill of thinking how surprised her new husband would be when he
discovered all she had learned in the art of pleasing a man, could
barely contain her excitement. While Jason, her dearest rescuer
Jason, her dream lover, was occupied behind the screen, the White
Rose sat in the welter of cushions with her legs crossed, eyes cast
down, hands folded demurely in her lap—all for the benefit of
watching eyes. But she could not help peeping from under her
lashes, waiting for the grand moment when Jason Lisbourne, her
husband, the most wonderful sight in all the world, would reappear.
When he did, golden head high and proud, her eyes followed him as
he crossed to the divan, clutching the beltless white linen robe,
turned nearly transparent beneath the flickering lantern light. He
whipped back the top of the sea-green duvet, dropped the linen robe
in a puddle at his feet, and settled himself on one side of the
great divan.