Sophia saw a flare of interest in his eyes at her defiance. Her pulse quickened. She knew his game now. He did not want her body – he could have it and still not have her. Selim Omar wanted to break what he could not own – her mind and her spirit.
She went and took the paper. It was crisp. It had not passed through many hands before hers. The text before her was soft and it took a moment for the words to make themselves known to her. They were French. Sophia adjusted the document so the words were readable without her glasses.
“Aloud.”
Sophia somehow understood that he already knew the contents of the document. Why would he want her to read them? She began.
“‘A special message to the envoy of France from the ship Marie-Claude. On the 18th instance, on a trading mission from Crete to Tunisia, the crew caught sight of smoke on the horizon. We sailed southwest at eight knots for thirty minutes and saw two ships, a galiot and a schooner both badly damaged. The galiot was well ablaze and was nearly burnt to the waterline. We later learned a second galiot had already sunk.
“‘The Marie-Claude picked up three survivors from the galiot Akbar; otherwise the crew of seventy including forty at oars, all lost. The body of the captain, a man identified as the pirate K–,’” Sophia briefly hesitated over the name, “‘—Kaddouri Al Zuebi, was buried at sea’.”
She scanned the few remaining lines silently and, in them, her world shattered. Her stomach plummeted, and she felt her body flush red hot before turning cold, as though she had been plunged into an icy pool. She raised her head.
Selim Omar exuded mirth. “By all means, continue.”
“I cannot.” Her voice was nothing but a hoarse whisper. It pained her to speak.
“Read it. Or I’ll have you flogged.”
Sophia drew in a breath and continued. “‘The schooner was identified as the English merchant vessel the Calliope. She was afloat but her damage extensive. Her crew had survived the battle although some with grievous injuries. The Calliope’s captain, Christopher Hardacre, is missing, presumed dead…’” The words swam before her eyes, so she spoke them from memory. The missive shook in her hand. “‘The Marie-Claude rendered assistance to make the Calliope seaworthy and escorted her to the nearest friendly port’.”
“You were the captain’s woman, were you not?” Selim Omar’s tone was smug, condescending.
Sophia watched the paper drop from nerveless fingers and drift back to the table. She felt her nakedness now, her heart stripped bare as well as her body.
“You know I was.”
“Are you not sad at his loss? My women would be prostrate and weeping at my death.”
Bastard! How dare he! And, for a brief moment, she didn’t know who the epithet was for – Kit or the man in front of her. She had cried for Kit the day he left port, knowing his obsession with Kaddouri could kill him. And now this vile, arrogant, pandering rapist wanted to humiliate her? Every mote of anger and grief she turned from the dead to the living. She would not give Selim Omar the satisfaction of seeing her heart break.
When she raised her head, she made sure her face was a frigid mask. She even found the presence of mind to shrug her shoulders.
“Those who live by the sword, die by the sword, Your Excellency.”
She watched Selim Omar hide momentary surprise. Then he raked his eyes over her body, once again, a predatory gleam in his eyes.
“As the French say, touché, Miss Sophia Green. But your body speaks as eloquently as you do and perhaps more truthfully. Get dressed and remember your place here.”
Sophia did as he instructed without hesitation. Even wearing the scarf over her head was less hateful when it meant he could not see her features. She did not wait for his dismissal. She bowed and backed away from him.
“Never forget I own you,” he cautioned. “I own your body and your mind, and I will take both whenever I please.”
Chapter Forty-One
JUNE, 1816
When Rabia had informed them through Yasmeen that Selim Omar’s palace was moving, Sophia couldn’t muster any enthusiasm.
The younger girls, however, seemed thrilled. They squealed and splashed one another with water from the fountain, ruining the composition of her painting. She gave up and put the paintbrush down. Aside from her grief, she was bored. What she wouldn’t give for something to read. A life of indolence was not her choice. If she closed her eyes, she would often see Kit, but other times she could see the ruins of Syracuse and almost feel the ancient antiquities in her hands, smell the scent of the books from the library of Palermo’s university.
She abandoned her painting and went over to her cousin who was just finishing a portrait of Malik. It was more than just a study of a physically imposing man. Laura had also managed to capture the gravity of his expression as he stared out across the courtyard, alert but relaxed, mindful of his duty but somehow lost within his own thoughts.
Her cousin brought out his humanity – he was less a gaoler than a man in his own prison. Over his shoulder, cleverly framed in the composition, was a concubine, near nude but her back to him. Sophia recognized the figure as Yasmeen. Woven into the painting was the story of a man who yearned for the woman never far from his mind, but always out of reach. It was arguably Laura’s finest work and Sophia told her so.
“I do this to keep my sanity,” she said, adding a few finishing details to a caged bird which, Sophia had noticed, now featured in all of Laura’s works. “If I didn’t have my paints, I would go mad. When he uses me, I think of my watercolors and new scenes I can paint. He can’t touch my mind, he can’t steal my thoughts. And at least with our move, there will be new scenes to paint. I don’t think I can stand it in here much longer.”
Sophia squeezed Laura’s shoulder in sympathy. She would never tell her cousin that whenever Selim Omar called for her, he never touched her. He would order her to strip for him then make her just stand before him silently, or make her read from his books the most luridly graphic, sexual encounters, hateful, degrading things that, by the time he eventually dismissed her, it was as though he had actually done those things to her.
The man was adept at keeping his promise of assaulting her mind. She shook her head to clear it of the thoughts that would terrify her cousin. They had already begun to terrify her.
“Do you know where we’re going?”
The tension broke. Laura’s face softened and gave a little conspiratorial smile. She had always been so much better at ferreting out gossip than she was. It was a talent she’d honed for years now, and there seemed to be some kind of contrary pleasure in using it here.
“Two of the odalisques from the house of wife number two told me Selim Omar had acquired a new residence by the sea. I overheard one of the eunuchs say we leave for somewhere in Tunisia. Apparently. a large number of servants have been sent on ahead and those who remain are unhappy – particularly Selim Omar’s first wife who, if the rumors are true, has sent her most talented concubines to try to persuade him to give her the lion’s share of the remaining servants for the journey. You can imagine what Rabia said to that.”
“So what is Rabia offering in return?” Sophia asked, trying to keep the tension from her voice.
Laura bit out a short laugh. “She knows where her power lies. She’s making sure her son spends a lot of time with his father.”
Sophia took her cousin by the hand and led her to one of the fountains which fed into one of the pools. The sound of the running water would help mask their conversation which she kept low and urgent.
“Anything you learn about this journey, tell me. Tell me immediately.”
She held Laura’s blue eyes for some moments and watched them widen. Her face, which had been so pale and drawn, was now animated.
“You’re thinking of escape? How? Do you really think we could?”
“I don’t know, but if there is ever the chance, we should take it and not look back.”
Her nascent plans were shattered only two
days later when Rabia accused Selim Omar’s first wife, Amal, of trying to poison her. According to breathless updates from Laura, Rabia insisted her family was not safe and begged the sheik to allow her and her household to travel ahead with him, instead of a month later with the others.
For the sake of his son, the sheik agreed and, within two days, Sophia and Laura left the walled palace for the first time since their enslavement to start a hellish one month journey overland. En route, Laura learned their destination was a place called Al-Min. Sophia found the name vaguely familiar but couldn’t place it. She had probably simply heard it mentioned in passing, she surmised. Anyway, who could think in these conditions?
Oppressive heat sapped the energy of everyone in the party. Even Selim Omar’s rapacious libido was dampened. Only once on the journey did he demand a female.
The women were directed to stay within a makeshift compound of tents. Sophia used every opportunity to stay outside, feasting on the view. It almost felt like freedom. The scenery was unlike anything she had ever seen. Sunlight reflecting off the desert sands cast everything with gold. The sunsets seemed more spectacular, and she savored them as much for the heralding of cool nighttime air as for the beautiful colors of purples, reds, pinks and golds. She could never do the sight justice, but Laura could.
She watched her cousin enthusiastically make detailed paintings – the eroded hills exposing stripes of ochre, black and brown; a passing camel train; the date palms that lined their route; and the remains of olive groves planted by the Romans. Then there were the people – a Bedouin trader whose bearing was majestic from his brown leather sandals to the jeweled dagger at his waist, and the pristine white of his masa turban. Later, she painted a cluster of small children under the shadow of a date palm throwing small, rounded stones, much like English children would play knucklebones.
Their longest stop was at an oasis where they rested their animals – camels for transportation, goats for fresh milk, and for eating. Chickens were released from their cramped cages for a short time to scratch around a pen.
Ten watercolors of landscapes and character studies – works good enough in Sophia’s opinion to submit to the Royal Academy or grace the salons of the finest homes in London – were carelessly handed off by Selim Omar as a gift to a passing trader in exchange for exotic spices and perfumes.
Sophia fumed. Laura didn’t muster a peep in protest.
By the time the fortified casbah of Al-Min came into view a few days later, Laura lost any enthusiasm for their destination. Sophia spent as much time in the sun as she could, but Laura remained in the shade reclining on cushions, listless and pale. Not sick, exactly, but most certainly out of sorts. Sophia’s solicitations were rebuffed. Perhaps it had something to do with all of her paintings being taken away from her.
Sophia never considered herself the claustrophobic type. She had often spent hours alone in small rooms with her books and Uncle Jonas’ antiquities, but the narrow, winding streets with buildings towering above were unlike anything she had experienced. As they walked, she noted the outer ring of buildings built into the defensive walls.
The route had been cleared for their procession that seemed to coil right into the heart of the citadel itself where the largest structure stood. Part palace, part fortress, it was square in shape with wide, jagged castellations along its walls and flat roof.
Twin iron gates opened wide and then closed. It was a prison within a prison.
Plaintive cries echoed through the pre-dawn empty streets, the prayers that made up the Salat al-Fajr called out, waking her from a restless doze. She glanced across to the pallet on which Laura lay. She slept heavily. Sophia rose and sluiced her face, gently setting the ewer down so as to not wake the other women.
Through the narrow balconet window closest to her, soft rose-pink light, filtered by the ever-present dust, lit the terracotta tiled floors. Competing against the cries of prayers was the sound of newly woken birds. They drew her to the aperture, and she cautiously opened the fretted shutter to look out. In the courtyard below, framed by the pillars either side of the window, the birds fluttered about the leafy canopy, but they didn’t hold her interest for long.
Before her was the Mediterranean Sea, a tenuous connection with the outside world. She tried hard not to think of Kit. Did they ever recover his body? If so, where was he buried? Probably at sea, though Palermo was an obvious choice, of course, or perhaps on Catallus? Did he have any other family apart from his crew? Apart from her?
She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift through cherished memories – their first kiss, the flamenco he danced for her, the first time they made love. The sadistic Selim Omar wanted to take the beautiful memory of even that from her.
She took a deep, shuddering breath and opened her eyes to stare on the azure blue of the sea before her. The ships at anchor outside the citadel’s harbor walls bobbed gently while the rising sun kissed each small wave with silver.
Her eyes fell to one vessel in particular, its lines unmistakably European – the beautiful sweep of the hull tapering to its foremast and one, two, three masts thrusting high into the sky. It might have been out of focus due to her nearsightedness, but it was unmistakably a schooner – just like the Calliope. The Calliope, her heart whispered. Her head told it to shut up – there must be hundreds of schooners in the Mediterranean. She refused to take hope in it.
Behind her, the rest of the harem stirred. She reluctantly closed the shutter and turned away from her view, putting it behind her as she prepared to face the day ahead. There was to be a performance tonight for some important potentate. She had been paraded in front of so many sultans, emirs, sheiks and princes over the past months she could no longer remember who belonged to which noble family. No wonder they needed slaves, she thought bitterly, none of them did any work for themselves.
New costumes were required for the performance, and there was plenty more sewing to be done. They were parodies of their outdoor clothes – full and voluminous robes but made from the sheerest fabric that even three layers of it didn’t obscure the flesh beneath. The veil made of a single layer of the fabric added to the mockery.
Yasmeen clapped her hands sharply, calling the women to order. Sophia looked at the instruments longingly. She would much rather have hidden herself behind an instrument, but Rabia had watched the early rehearsals and decided, since Sophia and Yasmeen were the same height, they would lead the dance.
Laura sat at the upright harp, her face pinched, but the moment she noticed Sophia’s observation, she rallied and forced a smile. After several hours of rehearsals, Sophia collapsed on the cushions and closed her eyes. Many of the girls were still in their mid-to-late teens. She was one of the older women – and today she felt it. A moment later, the pillow dipped beside her.
“Here, I’ve brought you a plate.”
She opened her eyes and saw a plate of nuts, pomegranate, figs and grapes on a pewter platter before her. Laura picked out a fig for herself and ate it with enthusiasm. At least there was color back in her cheeks.
“Are you feeling better?” Sophia asked.
“Just fine. It’s just I’ve not been sleeping well,” Laura answered. Too swiftly in Sophia’s opinion. Still, she knew better than to press her cousin when she was in a mood. Push too far and she would simply clam up. So Sophia stood, took the plate, and wandered towards the shutters, now open wide to accept the breeze coming in from the sea.
The gates across the harbor walls that protected the citadel at night were flung open, offering welcome to smaller sailing vessels and lighters from trading ships standing at anchor. She cast her eye over the sea traffic.
The schooner was gone.
Even though she had told herself it wasn’t the Calliope, disappointment hit hard. Tears welled. The pain in her chest was so heavy, she gasped for air, which caught in her throat. The only way she could make the pain stop was to close her eyes, but it wasn’t enough to stop her stomach rebelling. Heedless o
f the other women in the room, she ran to the latrine and vomited.
“Are you pregnant?”
She felt Laura’s cool hand at her forehead. She shook her head in answer to the question, scooped water from a fountain and rinsed her mouth, spitting out the vile taste.
“I thought I saw the Calliope,” she whispered.
“When? Just now?” Laura shook with urgency.
“No. Just at dawn, I couldn’t sleep and looked out the window. I saw a ship.”
“How do you know it was the Calliope?”
“I don’t. You know my eyes aren’t good, but it was a schooner, and it had three masts, not two. And it just reminded me…” She embraced her cousin who led her out of the room and into one of the nearly deserted garden courtyards. They sat by one of the fountains. She dipped her hand in the water and wet her face. It still felt hot. “I’m sorry, it was silly of me to react like that.”
“You never speak of him.”
“I can’t.” Tears welled once more. “It is the only thing of myself which remains. I’ve locked my memories of him in my heart. I daren’t even speak his name aloud because I’m afraid if I do I will somehow lose him, and Selim Omar knows it.”
Sophia felt her hands squeezed. Are you pregnant? She looked into Laura’s eyes and discovered the truth behind her cousin’s question of her. Her heart broke all over again.
“How long?”
Laura swallowed and answered her hoarsely. “I’m pretty sure it’s three months. I didn’t want to admit it to myself. I kept making excuses, but now I’m sure.”
“Have you told Yasmeen?”
Tears rolled down Laura’s face. “I’m afraid to. If I have my baby here, I’m trapped… Oh, Sophia, what can I do? I can’t stay here anymore. Whenever Malik or one of the other eunuchs enter the harem quarters, I panic. I’m afraid when either you or I are taken away, it might be for the last time. I can’t take it. I want to die. I think about it all the time.”
Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection Page 168
