The Harem Bride (8 page)

“
We will save the Grand Bazaar for
last,” Cassandra Pemberton pronounced. “If we visit its marvels too
soon, we might be tempted to forgo the remainder of Constantinople.
And, I dare say, if we go to the Bazaar too frequently, we will
need to hire an entire ship to take our purchases back to Pemberton
Priory. We might even be as desperate for shipping space as Lord
Elgin is for his marbles,” she added in a rare display of dry
humor. “So we will restrain ourselves, Penelope, my child. We will
exercise proper British equanimity and not be so vulgar as to rush
to purchase everything in sight.”

“
Yes, Aunt Cass.” Penny sighed and
dutifully turned her attention to yet another grand tomb or mosque
or garden or ancient ruin. They were
never
going to get to the Grand Bazaar. Or, if
they did, Aunt Cass would rush her through it so fast, the
treasures of modern Constantinople would be nothing but a
blur.

“
Aunt Cass?”

“
Yes, my dear?” Miss Pemberton
responded absently, intent upon the study of a Byzantine frieze
that had suddenly come into sight on the side of ruined
wall.

“
Have you noticed how everyone stares
at us?”

“
They are staring at you, child,”
Cassandra Pemberton returned, not at all disturbed by what was
scarcely a revelation. ‘Tis not often the people of this city look
upon a strange female’s face, let alone one of such youth, light
skin, and fair hair.”

“
I have heard that the Circassians in
the Sultan’s harem are fair.”

“
Wherever can you have heard such a
thing?” Miss Pemberton cried. “Who would dare speak to you of
harems?”

“
Ah . . .I do not remember, Aunt Cass,”
Penny lied. For only the night before she had shamelessly
eavesdropped on Viscount Lyndon and his friends, Mr. Yardley and
Mr. Timmons, as they had discussed some of their adventures at a
party given by the Dutch Ambassador and his wife. The young men
had, in fact, teased the viscount about his amorous adventures, for
it seemed the women of Constantinople were as enchanted by blonde
hair, fair skin, and blue eyes, as were the men. There had even
been one remark Penny did not quite understand, as it seemed to
imply that Jason Lisbourne had been thoroughly shocked to receive
amorous offers from men as well as women. Surely, she must have
misunderstood.

“
I have decided,” Aunt Cass pronounced.
“Tomorrow we will visit the Grand Bazaar.”

Penny threw her arms around her aunt and
hugged her.

Through the many years Penny had known her
Aunt Cass, there had been more than a few times when she had
questioned her aunt’s temerity. But reason had always prevailed.
She was a child. How could she doubt her aunt’s good judgment, the
decisions of a head far older, wiser, and more experienced than her
own? But within moments after Faik and Abdul had helped them down
from the carriage . . . in fact, the very moment they walked
through the ornately carved stone gateway into the Grand Bazaar and
were confronted by a teeming mass of people unlike anything she had
seen before, Penelope feared they had made a grave mistake.

She had wanted to come here—oh, quite
desperately she had wanted to come here—but the color, the noise,
the pungent odors confronted her like some great snarling beast out
of legend. Constantinople’s Grand Bazaar made London’s Covent
Garden market look like a quiet day at a village fair. Dutifully,
she followed in Aunt Cass’s wake, as Faik went before them,
clearing a way through the crowd, and Abdul brought up the rear,
making a valiant effort to keep the foreign ladies from being
jostled.

Penny attempted to take up as little space as
possible as she kept her eyes on Aunt Cass’s serviceable tan
gabardine walking dress and watched the determined swing of Miss
Pemberton’s equally plain parasol. Gradually, as they moved away
from the gate, the crowd thinned a bit, and Penny could see some of
the wares being offered along the alleyways of the Bazaar. She even
dared raise her eyes to the vaulted ceiling above, which protected
both vendors and customers from sun, wind, and rain. When Aunt Cass
paused to examine some jewelry, Penny took a deep breath and
allowed herself to enjoy the beauty of the intricate gold filagree
and the sparkling depths of the gemstones. Yet, in the back of her
mind, doubt clung. She would never be as intrepid as Aunt Cass. The
Grand Bazaar, despite all its marvels, was not at all like viewing
the wonders of Constantinople from the safety of their
carriage.

With a wave of Cassandra Pemberton’s parasol,
their party moved on. Penny’s fears disappeared in a welter of
sparkling brass and copper, of antiquities ranging from ancient
earthenware pots to plates, ewers, trays and goblets that might
once have been the property of a Byzantine Emperor. Suddenly, Penny
breathed in the familiar odor of leather. But the smell, they
discovered as they entered this next section of the Bazaar, was
almost the only thing that was familiar. There was no sign of
smooth English saddles, belts, and boots. Every bit of leather was
crafted into a work of art in designs so intricate Penny could only
gape. There were book bindings that took her breath away, and a
high-pommeled saddle, every inch embossed in an exotic pattern,
that she would have purchased on the instant, if only females were
allowed to ride astride. And if such a huge saddle were not so
difficult to transport. And if she had any money of her own.

Faik, after finally managing to pry his
charges loose from the leather crafts, ushered them into a
han
, one of several open courtyards
scattered about the Grand Bazaar. The two women indulged in tea and
pastries far sweeter than they were accustomed to, while listening
to the soft tinkling rush of a fountain.

“
Aunt Cass,” Penny inquired after
surreptitiously brushing crumbs from her lap, “what was that very
odd pipe I saw you examining?”

Penny recognized her aunt’s look. It
was the one she received every time she asked an awkward question,
the one Aunt Cass put on while she thought:
Oh, dear, what shall I tell the child?
Surely,
at sixteen, she should be past all that, Penny grumbled to
herself.

“
That,” Cassandra Pemberton responded
briskly, “is a hookah. It is for smoking.”

“
Smoking? How can someone smoke with a
device like that?” Penny demanded. Then added, more thoughtfully,
“And what do they smoke?”

“
I am sure I do not know.” Miss
Pemberton sniffed, recalling with some anguish the time she had
tried it in Morocco, back in the days of her youth and
foolishness.

Penny gave her aunt a sharp look and was wise
enough to say no more.

As the ladies finished their last cup of tea,
Faik and Abdul descended from the gallery above the courtyard, from
which vantage point they had been keeping watch. The ladies, after
lingering over ancient illuminated texts in the book bazaar,
indulged their senses in an orgy of sniffing and tasting as they
wandered through an area filled with open sacks of spices and teas.
By this time Faik had hired a boy to carry the ladies’ packages,
but when they arrived at the next section of the Grand Bazaar, it
was apparent one child of about twelve years would not be enough.
For spread before them were fabrics of every quality and
description, from the thinnest, most diaphanous white silk for
veils to brocaded silks, interwoven with gold and silver thread.
The piles of textiles seemed to go on forever, winding through the
labyrinthine corridors of the bazaar in an overwhelming array of
color. There were linens and muslins of every weight, velvets of
such deep pile Penny could not keep from petting them. Silk satins
so heavy they could only be for used for draperies, or perhaps an
empress’s long, flowing train.

Even Miss Cassandra Pemberton was awed. “We
will have to come back,” she pronounced. “Obviously, fabrics
require a day unto themselves.” She waved a hand, which might
almost have been described as agitated. “Faik, we will continue on
and ascertain what more must be reserved for a special
excursion.”

“
Jewelry?” Penny inquired
hopefully.

“
Possibly,” Miss Pemberton conceded. “I
have never cared for it particularly, but you are reaching the age
where you will need a few good pieces. And I pride myself that I am
knowledgeable enough to tell the genuine article from bazaar
fakery.” Once again, she waved her parasol, and their small
cavalcade moved on.

As they passed by more antiquities, they
caught glimpses, through arched colonnades, of sparkling gold,
silver, and gems. Yes, there was little doubt jewelry, both antique
and newly crafted, would require a separate trip. And then they
came to carpets, and Miss Pemberton realized it was quite possible
she would have to hire at least half the hold of a stout merchant
ship to take their treasures back to England. Although carpets,
too, would require yet another separate trip, neither Penny nor her
Aunt Cass could pass on by. The area was vast, rounded arches
dividing the space into smaller rooms, many with domed ceilings.
The ladies oo-ed and ah-ed and touched the heavy pile, the
incredibly tight weave of carpets of every shade from brilliant
burgundy and gold to soft pink, blue, and cream.

Penny ran her fingers over a small fringed
carpet of azure blue and biscuit and discovered that it was silk,
not wool. Her lips turned up in a whimsical smile. Perhaps this was
a magic carpet. If she were to sit upon it and make a wish, where
would it take her? Into Jason Lisbourne’s lap?

Shocked by such a wayward thought, Penny
dropped the carpet, blindly following the direction in which she
had been wandering. No pastels in this room. The carpets were dark
and masculine, in strong shades of black and red and gold. Carpets
for the floors of rooms where only men gathered. They were,
somehow, too harsh for female taste.

Penny wrinkled her nose, lifted her eyes from
the riotous display of color . . . and found herself alone. She
turned, gazing at the many arches lining this particular room.
Through which one had she come? Which led back to Aunt Cass, to
Faik and Abdul? To safety?

The nearest, of course, silly, she told
herself, and started toward the rounded arch.

Something descended over her head, over
her arms. Rough hands seized her, clamping tight over her mouth and
around her waist. The
something
tightened around her face. She couldn’t breathe. Her feet
lifted off the floor. Penny kicked out wildly and was rewarded with
an
oompf
from her captor. And
a blow to the back of her head. She knew no more.

~ * ~

“
Faster, man faster!” Viscount Lyndon
barked at his driver, hoping the urgency of his tone would convey
his meaning, even if the words themselves meant nothing. Jason
Lisbourne, usually engulfed in the mindless cloak of invincibility
common to youth everywhere, was unsure why the urgent tone of
Cassandra Pemberton’s note should have filled him with dread, but
the moment he read it, he had canceled his plans for the evening
and set out for Miss Pemberton’s villa, situated almost halfway up
the southeastern slope of the District of Pera.

The child. Young Penelope. She must be the
source of the problem. Nothing else would have reduced Miss
Pemberton to near incoherence. And he, of course, was the only
family connection available. It was only natural she should turn to
him, though what he could do—Jason pounded his fist against
carriage frame—he did not know. Surely Lord Elgin . . .

But a half hour later, as Miss Pemberton
finished pouring out the whole terrible tale, with wailed
interjections—primarily apologies—from Faik, Viscount Lyndon, for
the first time in his life, knew despair. He had heard many tales
in the last few weeks of the great value placed on beautiful
virgins with blonde hair and blue eyes. In a city the size of
Constantinople, where women were hidden away behind impenetrable
walls, the task of finding her was impossible. She was lost.

“
Nakshedil, wife of our former Sultan
Abdulhamid—may Allah give rest to his soul—is a Frenchwoman,” Faik
was saying as Jason’s attention returned to the conversation. “She
was taken by Barbarossa’s pirates and given as a gift to the
Sultan. He was so enchanted with her, he made her one of his
wives.”

“
Aimée de Rivery,” Cassandra Pemberton
murmured. “I have heard the story. She is still at the palace,
then?” she asked, her tone taking on slightly more
animation.

“
Ah, yes, Miss,” Faik replied. “She is
much respected by the Sultan, who has allowed her to teach him her
language and bring other ways of the French to the
palace.”

“
Is it possible,” Jason asked, “that
Miss Blayne might be considered a suitable gift for the
Sultan?”

Faik shrugged. “Only if she is bought by a
man who wishes to gain the Sultan’s favor.” Faik paused, lowered
his voice, speaking to the viscount alone. “Miss Blayne is most
beautiful, my lord. She would bring a great price. It is more
possible her buyer would wish to keep her.”

“
Should we go to the slave markets?”
Jason demanded.

Faik’s doleful voice dropped to whisper.
“Such beauty would never be sold on the open market.”

“
Speak up!” Cassandra Pemberton
demanded. “She is
my
niece. I
wish to know the worst of it.”