Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection

by Scarlett Scott

  It was deliberate. She raised her chin.

  The man who examined her stopped and addressed the sheik in a matter-of-fact tone as though he were a vet giving his professional verdict to a client on a prospective livestock purchase. Selim said a few words in reply and waved the man away before he addressed her in English.

  “You have been pronounced disease-free and in good health,” he said.

  “Did you expect anything less?”

  That was the wrong thing to say. She knew it the moment it left her mouth. Selim flew from his seat and gripped her jaw tight.

  “You forget, my dear, I own you now. That was our bargain. Your life is in my hands and subject to my whim. I expect to see your gratitude at all times.”

  “You can have my gratitude when I see my cousin is safe and well,” she said, keeping her voice even. “That was our bargain. You don’t own me until then.”

  She took in a deep breath, preparing for a beating, or worse. Instead, he laughed close to her face.

  “You amuse me, azizety, so you have the benefit of my benevolence for now, but do not get accustomed to it.”

  Selim shoved her and she stumbled back a few steps. He raked his eyes over her nakedness again; this time disgust filled his features.

  “Get dressed and cover your head, woman. We leave the ship shortly.”

  The door closed behind him and, a moment later, she heard the rasp of a bolt thrown home. She dressed swiftly into the long, green, shapeless dress she had been given. The only items of her own she that remained were her practical walking boots.

  No sooner had she laced them than Selim’s attendant, a soft-faced, middle-aged man with light brown hair and the most startling blue eyes, returned. He chatted, heedless of her ability to understand him.

  He picked up the long, grey scarf she had discarded and wrapped it over her head and around her shoulders until only her eyes were exposed. He stood back, as though admiring his handiwork.

  “Ta’ala.”

  Sophia frowned and shook her head.

  “Ta’ala, ta’ala,” The man gestured with his hand. Apparently, she was to follow him.

  After so long confined to the small cabin – days at least, a week perhaps – the daylight above was blinding. She accepted the eunuch’s aid up the steps to the deck and stayed close to him while she blinked rapidly, firstly to accustom her eyes and then to accustom her ears to the sounds of a busy seaport. Horns blared, men yelled – but it was the smell that assailed her. Not the full, rich tang of the sea touched by the aromas of olives and lemons as she experienced in Sicily. No. This city, wherever she was, smelled like a sewer and rotting fish. She pulled the voluminous scarf over her nose to quell her immediate instinct to retch and, instead, concentrated on studying the view before her.

  Pale stone buildings huddled the harbor and followed the rise. Puncturing through the square, squat buildings were tall, skinny cylindrical towers in white, topped with conical roofs – some painted red, others green. She recognized them as minarets. She had seen something similar in Seville, a reminder of a time when the Mohammedan Empire stretched right across the Mediterranean Sea.

  Drawing her eye to the highest point of the hill, one building dominated the landscape. It glinted gold in the late afternoon, its large, curved dome sitting on the shoulders of the squared structure below it. Standing proud at right angles on each corner, like sentries at attention, were four more minarets.

  “Ta’ala, ta’ala,” her guard insisted, pulling her across the deck, down the gangway, and onto land. Before her was an ornately painted sedan chair. And from what Sophia could see, dominated by a seat of plush red. There was Selim Omar, dressed in the traditional robes of his country; white, wide-legged pants and tunic over which he wore a red, sleeveless vest. He entered the chair and, at the sound of his command, four large and muscular black men wearing matching livery squatted, raised the conveyance, and moved off, leaving Sophia and the rest of the retinue to follow behind on foot as though this were some kind of a triumphal march through ancient Rome.

  Men on the street stopped and looked at them. Although she was covered head to foot, she saw the leering stares and felt them leach through her clothing. The women, those few who were on the streets, clustered in small groups of three or more, surrounded by equal numbers of men. Like her, their bodies and features were obscured by fabric.

  She listened, trying to associate sounds with words and their meanings. If there was to be any help for her and Laura at all, she would need to know how to make herself understood. That would be her first task, once she was reunited with Laura.

  The party made its way up the hill away from the bay. Up here, the breeze moved through and over the walled gardens, making the air sweeter. A surge of servants moved ahead and opened enormous timber gates. Sophia couldn’t help but gasp. Inside the imposing rendered walls was an oasis. Lush green lawns studded with date palms, raised garden beds featured magnificent plants in bloom. Very few of them she knew by sight. But the gardens were only the setting for the jewel at its center – a compound which seemed to comprise a series of interconnected buildings with gardens and fountains wending their way among them. The buildings were rendered a sandy yellow and decorated by jewel-like mosaic tiles of blues, reds, gold and green in geometric patterns.

  Another gate, ornately carved in the Moorish style, opened into the inner courtyard. She heard birds and then saw them splashing about in the fountain.

  The retinue started to disperse to various parts of the palace. Her eunuch escort looked back occasionally to make sure she still followed. They went through another set of elaborate gates into what Sophia supposed was the center of the complex. She heard the gate lock and glanced behind to see two black eunuchs with scimitars at their waists.

  Here, she saw the first women since entering the external gates. They lounged on cushions by marble pools and fountains, and glanced up with various degrees of interest as she and the eunuch alone entered.

  It was beautiful.

  It was a prison.

  She pushed back her scarf. Her escort stopped and called out to the lounging women. Slowly, two of them rose. She recognized one of them immediately, her light brown hair, soft pale shoulders bared in the diaphanous pink gown she wore. Sophia raised her skirts and started running towards her.

  “Laura!”

  At hearing her name, color filled the young woman’s face. Laura ran and threw herself into Sophia arms, sobbing incoherently. Sophia felt a stream of tears fall down her own face and she let them do so unabashed.

  No sooner had they embraced than the guards pulled them apart. Laura screamed and Sophia put all of her strength into the struggle, useless though it was against a man double her size. The terror on Laura’s face was nearly more than she could bear. What ordeals had she endured in the nearly two months since she had been taken? Stories told in Kit’s journals, testimonies of women captured, came back to her. She shuddered at the recollection and quaked in body-shaking paroxysms now, knowing the horror was about to be hers to experience firsthand.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Sophia stared at the lacquered screens of pierced geometric shapes. Flowers took shape and changed as the sun moved across the floor outside the alcove where she lay. Her body ached, and her limbs itched from the rough scrubbing she had endured as her skin was buffed and scraped with pumice. Even the effort to breathe required conscious thought. The itching was driving her mad, but at least it was a distraction from the pain between her legs, where fingers had touched and probed. A thick mixture that smelled of lemon and honey was poured on her most private places while fingers threaded with cotton plucked away hair until she was left as bare as she had been as a girl.

  The fact two women had done this to her, ignoring her cries of pain and distress, made it seem a double violation.

  The screen before her shimmered, and she blinked back tears. Enough! Feeling sorry for herself would do no good here. She knew she had not been uniquely s
ingled out for this treatment. How did these women survive? How did sweet, gently-born Laura cope?

  “It was bad the first time.”

  Sophia heard the whisper-soft rustling of Laura’s gown as she approached. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her cousin gracefully lower herself to a large cushion on the floor, gold bangles at her wrist jangling.

  “How do you stand it?” Sophia asked, her voice only loud enough to be heard over the spill of water into a pool somewhere nearby.

  “I would have borne this nightmare better had you not been here. Why did you come?” At the harshness in Laura’s tone, Sophia turned to learn its cause.

  She forced herself to sit up. The temptation to draw a small cushion in front of herself was great. The seafoam green gown she wore was nearly transparent and made her feel near naked. She set the cushion down. They could have no secrets here. Perhaps it was only right they bare their souls as well.

  “You and Samuel always had a low opinion of me. ‘Silly Laura, naive Laura, dear little thing needs protecting’. Yes, I was flattered when Selim Omar took notice of my paintings, but I knew from the moment he took me the life I knew was over. There would be no rescue. When he…,” Laura paused for a moment and blinked away tears. “I would go away in my mind. I would imagine Samuel and Victoria planning their wedding, you and Captain Hardacre, ever so much in love. It made it… him… tolerable. I might have even found the courage to refuse him, but not now.”

  “You still could, together we…”

  Laura shook her head as much in sorrow as it would appear in pain. “You don’t understand, do you? It makes it worse! Knowing the family I loved was safe was the only thing that could give me courage. Alone, I might have learned to make the best of things. It didn’t matter because you and Samuel were safe, living the lives you ought to live. Now I’m in torment. How can I refuse him anything now? All he needs to do is threaten to harm you, and he knows I will bend to his every dictate, every filthy, degrading act. Why? Why did you come? Why are you here?”

  Sophia opened her mouth but words refused to come out. If she did explain that Samuel thought he was paying a ransom and she had been kidnapped, too, it would sound like Samuel was solely to blame. But he wasn’t, the fault was equally hers. She had underestimated Selim Omar and as good as offered herself up to be taken. She took a deep breath and answered.

  “You’re not the only one who was naive.”

  She next opened her eyes to the sound of a birdcall outside. Through the grate she could see it, a wren of some kind, its chest puffed up in song. It was free, and its song proclaimed its liberty. She shifted to sit up and discovered she was alone. She felt momentary panic. Where was Laura?

  “Sophia! You’re awake.”

  She became aware of the sound of laughter somewhere else in the building.

  “I thought I’d let you sleep, but you have to wake up now. There is someone I want you to meet.”

  Her voice sounded as bright and chirpy as the bird outside; only the set of her mouth, that once would have smiled, betrayed her.

  Behind Laura was another woman, tall and willowy, dark skinned. When she stepped out of the shadows, Sophia recognized her.

  “This is Yasmeen, she played the harp for us in Palermo, remember?”

  Sophia stood on unsteady feet. “You spoke English,” she said, clasping Yasmeen’s arm. The woman, a couple of years older than herself, smiled.

  “There used to be another English girl here, but she was sold on,” said Laura with a matter-of-factness that was shocking. “She taught Yasmeen some English, and now she’s teaching me some Arabic.”

  “I will be happy to teach you, too.” Yasmeen’s voice was low and rich. “But you must come with me.”

  “Yes, breakfast first,” said Laura and insisted on taking Sophia’s arm in hers. “There’s a lot to learn. Remember when we were girls, and we spent entire summers with the daughters of the bon ton?”

  Oh yes, Sophia did remember. Laura saw her shudder and that was answer enough.

  Cliques and clubs, snide remarks, direct cuts – and worse if you weren’t part of the right group… To someone already the outsider, a girl living on the charity of relations, Sophia was beneath the notice of many of these girls. Not that it mattered, their interests weren’t hers, but it was worse for Laura who actually cared for the good opinion of these daughters of aristocrats.

  “Rabia is Selim Omar’s favorite wife, a kadin…” Laura turned to Yasmeen who nodded at the correct use of the word. “She is the third of his four wives, but the mother of his heir. She jealously guards her position. We are officially a part of her household. There are other girls serving other wives. Rabia prides herself on having the most beautiful women subservient to her. There are different hierarchies within the harem. There are the odalisques who are servants. If they are especially beautiful and talented, they are trained to be concubines.”

  Laura’s voice hardened on the last word, leaving Sophia in no doubt about how she felt about her status.

  “And, of course, there are rivalries between the concubines for favor and privilege.”

  “Your sister,” said Yasmeen. “They are jealous of her skin, her hair, and because she is new.”

  Sophia accepted the warning implicit in the statement. It wasn’t just the sheik Laura needed protection from.

  “All the men here are eunuchs. That means…,” Laura waved her hand downwards and her voice trailed off. Sophia nodded, saving her from an uncomfortable explanation. She knew what they were and how they became that way. The Roman Emperors Deocletian and Constantine both had them as important court officials.

  “Apart from Selim Omar and his guests, they will be the only men we’ll see again until the day we die.”

  *

  The outer garden gate opened and one of the black eunuchs entered. Sophia watched him cautiously from over her art board where she had started a watercolor of three odalisques, lounging in stages of undress by a pool. She wasn’t sure whether he was one of the men who had separated her from Laura on the first day.

  “That’s good,” murmured Laura, looking over her shoulder. “You have the advantage of having the techniques of drawing already. I’ve had to start at the beginning with the other two girls. They have no talent.” Laura raised her voice for the benefit of anyone overhearing. “Just be sure to water down the black and go back over the blue to add depth to Dymphnia’s gown.”

  The harem appeared to be some kind of perverse finishing school. Laura insisted on painting lessons in the morning while the day was fresh. After lunch, it would be embroidery for several hours – again a drawing room skill that was second nature to her. Sophia feigned interest in her artwork but still kept her eye on the eunuch.

  “What’s he doing here?” she said softly, so as not to be overheard.

  “Yasmeen calls him Malik. I’ve never heard him utter a sound. It’s plain they like one another. They’re careful not to show it, but you just watch them. Whenever he enters the harem, he will look for her first of all.”

  Sophia did watch Malik, a man easily six-and-a-half feet tall with a physique like a wrestler. He was built to intimidate, and he would do it easily even without the scimitar he kept at his side, shining bright against the red pantaloons he wore.

  He and Yasmeen conferred over a document he had brought into the harem with him. When they had finished, she briefly laid a hand on his arm before he walked away to replace the guard who had been on duty all morning.

  Yasmeen rolled up the note and tucked it in the belt of her robe. She clapped her hands and called all the women’s attention. There were twelve in total, some of whom looked to be no older than thirteen. She addressed the group in Arabic. Sophia stood at the back of the group with Laura who provided a halting translation.

  “The Lady Rabia has been instructed to provide entertainment for a delegation of important… emissaries from… I can’t make out from where… we’ve been ordered to play music and dance for th
e men.”

  Yasmeen’s animated expression dimmed as she continued to speak. Laura’s eyes were narrowed, her forehead puckered in concentration, listening as Yasmeen delivered her message.

  “What?” Sophia whispered. “What’s she saying?”

  “We may be expected to service His Excellency’s guests.”

  Bile rose up her throat as her mind processed the full meaning behind the word. She swallowed her revulsion but allowed the shudder. Sophia waited to see from the other girls an equal measure of the horror and shock she felt. She did not. If there was any discernible expression at all from these young women, it would be best described as resignation.

  Dymphnia pulled the hands of the two girls next to her and dragged them away from the others for a huddled conference. Clearly, the three were the more dominant of the odalisques. A moment later, Dymphnia called to the other girls who were quickly marshaled and made to pose, apparently a starting point for choreography.

  Yasmeen approached them and, for Sophia’s benefit, spoke in English. “None of the girls plays an instrument. Rabia says we must teach them, but it is too late for this performance, so they will dance. We will play. Come, we will get the musical instruments.”

  Sophia trailed behind Yasmeen and Laura, taking in the layout of the harem complex. They passed corridors along which she could hear the sound of other women, presumably the odalisques and concubines assigned to the other wives to administer.

  Another eunuch, not as large as Malik, opened large twin doors to a room nearly as big as the ballroom in Brentwood House. In fact, it seemed to be a throne room of sorts, with two chairs on a raised dais. In the corner of the room were musical instruments – guitars, mandolins, violins, flutes, psalters, timbrels, lyres, tambourines, and small drums.

  Laura picked up a lyre and fingered the strings. It needed tuning. “How long do we have to rehearse?”

  Yasmeen answered. “Five days.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine