The Tiger Prince

by Iris Johansen

He threw back his head and laughed. “No, and I’ve always wanted to explore Cellini’s methods in the art. I think you’re beginning to know me too well. A man needs his little self-deceptions.”

  “Nothing pertaining to you is little.” She looked quickly down at the stone again. “Why the elephant?”

  “Since the second part of the elephant game won him the island from the maharajah, I thought it only appropriate.” He delved into one of the small clay pots on the table beside him and drew out a generous scoop of slightly hardened black wax.

  She watched in fascination as he fashioned a relief on the design on the stone. His big square hands were astonishingly deft and skillful, and she never tired of seeing him perform this magic of creating beauty from nothing but the materials provided by nature. There was something sensual, almost loving, about the way his hands moved on wax and stone.

  “Besides, I like elephants,” he said. “The maharajah permitted me to make dozens of statues of the beasts when I was at the palace.”

  “Did you not become bored?”

  “After a while, but the end was worth the labor. I made sure there was an elephant in every room of the palace.” He smiled slyly. “And Abdar hated every one. He detests the breed.”

  “Why?”

  “His father told me he fell from the back of one when he was a child and the elephant stepped on his arm and broke it. Unfortunately, a servant snatched him from beneath the elephant’s feet before he could finish the job.” He took a fine paintbrush, dipped it into the olive oil, and moistened the wax relief. “I’ve had a fondness for the creatures ever since I heard the tale.”

  “That is an unkind thought.”

  “Abdar is an unkind man. Like to like.” He dipped his fingers into another pot and fashioned a little wall of clean clay all around the seal. “Pray God you never find out how unkind.”

  “You said Ruel expects him to come here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why did you agree to come to Cinnidar?” “Many reasons.” “Such as?”

  He stood up and strolled to the stove across the room, where a small pot of liquid was boiling. “I have no time for questions. Fetch me that long-haired brush from the cabinet, apprentice.”

  She moved toward the cabinet. “You pose enough questions of your own when it suits you.”

  “But you have no dark secrets to hide. Everything about you is as clear as a mountain stream.”

  “You make me sound very shallow.”

  He carefully poured the boiling plaster of Paris over the wax, painstakingly guiding it into the interstices of the wax with the brush she handed him. “Not shallow. Just clear and unpolluted. I doubt if your depths have ever been plumbed.”

  She made a face. “You’ve done your share of plumbing.”

  He raised his head and looked at her. “I’ve tested the waters,” he said softly. “I’ve not even begun to go beyond the surface. I assure you that you would know it if I had. I’m very good at … plumbing.”

  She felt a strange heat, a breathlessness like the one she had first experienced in the stable at Glenclaren. She hurriedly looked down at the relief. “What do you …” Her voice was trembling and she paused to steady it. “What’s the next step?”

  He didn’t answer, and she forced herself to raise her gaze to his face and saw power, strength, intensity, and something else she couldn’t identify. “To which step are you referring?” he asked.

  She frowned. “Don’t play your word games with me. You know I’m talking about the seal.”

  “Ah yes, the seal.” He sat down on his stool. “After the plaster is set I will remove it from the wax, clean out the matrix with a knife, and polish it up.”

  “Then you’re ready to cast it?”

  “Yes, I’ll give it twelve hours to set and start the furnace heating tonight.” He raised his brow. “Your interest warms my heart. Tell me, apprentice, do you fancy making your own seal?”

  “Of course not,” she said curtly. “I have no such pretensions of grandeur.”

  “We all have our pretensions and self-deceptions. It just makes the ‘plumbing’ more interesting.”

  She quickly changed the subject. “To whom did you apprentice as a boy?”

  “My father. He was a fine artist, the best goldsmith in all Istanbul. He did much work for the members of the court and the sultan himself. He taught me well. But when I was thirteen he told me to leave his home and his shop.”

  “Why?”

  “Jealousy. Even as a lad I was showing great promise and a piece of my work had caught the eye of the sultan.”

  “And he cast you off for so little reason?” she asked, shocked.

  “It was not little to him.” He shrugged. “I knew it would happen sometime. He was a fine craftsman, but I had the spark.”

  “Spark?”

  “Genius,” he said simply. “Michelangelo had it and so did Cellini in lesser measure. I knew almost at once that it was mine also. I did not blame my father. It is not easy to live with such a gift if you do not have it yourself. It would have been torture for me under the same circumstances.”

  “But you would not have cast him off.”

  He smiled. “How do you know?”

  “I know.” She found, to her astonishment, that it was true. She had learned more of Kartauk than she had realized in these past weeks. Though, heaven knows, he was arrogant, he was not vain. He possessed an enormous confidence in his artistic abilities, but his mocking glorification of his other gifts was mere flamboyance. He had been amazingly patient with her clumsy presence in his domain and far kinder than she had thought he would be. She felt a sudden anger at his father, who had administered that first hurt that had caused him to hide his kindness beneath that veil of mockery. “He was wrong to treat you so badly.”

  “I told you I did not blame him.”

  But he had been hurt by the rejection. “What of your mother?”

  He shrugged. “She was beautiful and vain and loved the trinkets my father created for her. She would not endanger her position by arguing with him about such a small matter as a discarded son.” He studied her expression. “Why are you upset? It did not matter. I got on very well. I went to the sultan and persuaded him to give me a studio in the palace.”

  “You were only a young boy. Didn’t you miss them?”

  He did not answer directly. “You can forget anything if you work hard enough.”

  “Can you?”

  “Why do you ask? You know it’s true. No one works harder than you, madam. Are you not weary enough to forget everything when you finally go to your rest?”

  “I have no need of forgetting. I’m well satisfied with my lot.”

  He gazed at her without speaking.

  “Why should I not be?” she asked defiantly. “I have a good life, better than most. I have no material wants and a husband I love.” She took off the leather apron and tossed it on the worktable. “It’s time I went back to Ian. I have no time for such nonsensical—” She broke off as she met his gaze and was suddenly breathless again. “Stop looking at me.”

  “I enjoy looking at you.” He obediently lowered his gaze to the work in front of him. “You’re right, it is wise of you to leave. It would be wiser of you to not come back.”

  She strode toward the door. “Are you starting that folderol again? I thought you’d come to accept my presence here. Of course I’ll return. Thank God, you’re not always in such a strange mood. I’m sure you’ll be quite yourself tomorrow.”

  “I’m myself right now. That’s why I’m warning you.”

  “We’re getting along very well. Of late, I’ve even noticed a certain affinity.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t you know that that’s where the danger lies?” The sudden violence in his voice sent a flicker of apprehension through her.

  “What do you mean?” she whispered.

  “Think about it.” He looked down at the mold. “And don’t come back, Margaret.”


  Margaret. It was the first time he had used her given name. Such a little thing, and yet she experienced an odd shock of intimacy.

  “Kartauk.” She moistened her lips. He, too, had a given name and she wanted to use it, feel its cadence on her lips. “John …”

  He stiffened at the table, but his head did not lift. She felt another surge of panic as she realized she wanted him to raise his head, to look at her as he had a moment before. She instantly rejected the thought, her emotions swinging wildly in the opposite direction. She wanted him to close her out, to free her as he had a hundred times before. He did neither. He sat at the worktable, staring down at the seal she knew he did not see, holding her, chaining her.

  Then he started to lift his head and she felt her heart lurch. “No!”

  The next instant she was jerking open the door, running down the long, gleaming corridors toward her own chamber, running toward Ian.

  Lust.

  Dear God, she wanted him, desired him in that animal way she only pretended with Ian. She had given Kartauk the response she owed only to her husband.

  Betrayal.

  The flames curled around-the platform, at last consuming the silk-wrapped body of the maharajah. The fragrance of burning sandalwood lay heavy on the air as the funeral pyre set his father’s soul free by returning his body to air, fire, water, and earth.

  It was almost over, Abdar thought. The sorrowful wailing of the spectators rose, drowning out both the crackling of the flames and the screams of the bound concubines chosen to join his father in death on the pyre.

  Pachtal was a trifle pale, he thought as he gazed appraisingly at him through the thick haze of black smoke. Oh, well, it was of no consequence. No one would question such an appropriate physical response at this time of bereavement.

  He dared not smile, but he nodded slowly at Pachtal and then turned back to the flames. All was going well. He must just be patient.

  Kasanpore custom decreed three months of mourning before he could mount the throne.

  Three more months before he could turn his attention to Cinnidar.

  Perhaps.

  But was it not the right of Kali’s true son to destroy custom and create his own laws?

  “You’re very quiet tonight,” Ian said as he lifted his cup of tea to his lips. “Tired, Margaret?”

  “Perhaps a little.” She forced herself to smile as she settled herself more comfortably on the stool by his big chair. “But it will pass.”

  “What’s Kartauk creating these days. Another statue?”

  “No, a seal for his majesty, King Ruel of Cinnidar.” She pulled the plaid blanket higher over his legs. “I told him it was a mistake to pamper the rascal’s self-love to such an extent, but he won’t listen to me.”

  Ian chuckled. “I don’t agree. It will amuse Ruel, and he needs something to lighten his humor. He’s been working like a galley slave lately.”

  “He enjoys it.” She looked away from him into the fire. “But it could be you’re right about me being overtired. As a matter of fact, I’ve decided to end this foolishness of working with Kartauk. It takes too much of my time.”

  “No,” Ian said quietly. “I won’t have it.”

  She lifted her head, startled. “What?”

  “If you’re doing too much, spend less time with me. I won’t have you cheated of your pleasure.”

  “Pleasure? When Kartauk isn’t having me fetch and carry, he sets me to making unimportant trinkets or ignores me entirely. What pleasure could I derive from that?”

  “Enough to make your step lighter and your smile brighter when you come back to me.”

  “Truly?” If what Ian said was fact, then her decision to abandon her plan was wiser than she had thought. How blind she had been not to realize the subtle changes that had taken place within her in the past weeks.

  “You need such distractions.” Ian smiled wearily. “God knows, I give you nothing to lift your spirits.”

  “You lift my spirit just by being with you.”

  “You lie.” Ian smiled. “But it’s a kind lie. I give you nothing but worry and hardship.”

  “Oh no.” She lifted his hand to her cheek. It was thinner now, almost transparent in the firelight. “Worry yes, when you won’t help me fight. But not hardship. Love doesn’t recognize hardship.”

  His hand gently stroked her hair. “Well, I recognize it and I won’t have you cheated any more than you are already. You’ll go back to Kartauk’s studio tomorrow morning and fashion me a seal like the one he’s making for Ruel. It will make me feel quite grand to affix a seal to my letters to Glenclaren.”

  “No, I don’t want—”

  “I don’t need you,” he interrupted gently. “Don’t you see that, Margaret?”

  She could see it and the knowledge filled her with fear. He was growing further away from her every day. “If you love me, you will—” She stopped. She would not burden him with guilt when he carried so many other burdens. Besides, appeals would do no good at this point. He needed a motivation stronger than she could furnish him.

  The child.

  Was she giving herself excuses for the sin of adultery? she wondered desperately. At first she’d had no doubts as to the purity of her motives, but now she could not be sure. It could have been lust guiding her toward Kartauk all along. “I don’t want to go back,” she whispered.

  “Of course you do. If you won’t do it for yourself, go to please me.” He smiled teasingly. “I need that seal for Glenclaren.”

  And he needed a child for Glenclaren, a child to keep him alive. Even if being with Kartauk gave her a lustful pleasure, wouldn’t she be forgiven if she could save Ian? Oh, she did not know.

  “Margaret?”

  “Very well.” She buried her face in the soft cashmere of the throw across his lap. “You’ll have your seal.”

  Dear God, but what would she have when this was over?

  Margaret hesitated outside the door of the studio, then quickly opened it and sailed into the room. “Good morning, Kartauk. How are you today? I know I’m a little late, but I had to—”

  He was coming toward her, and his expression …

  She didn’t want to acknowledge what was revealed in that expression. She lowered her eyes to the gleaming white mosaic floor. He had stopped before her and she could see his broad, strong feet encased in brown leather sandals, smell the familiar scent of wax, wood, and plaster of Paris. She moistened her lips. “I suppose you’re going to lecture me on coming back here. It will do you no good. I thought long and hard about it. Ian is going on about my needing distraction, and I decided there was no reason why I shouldn’t when he—”

  “Hush.” His voice was thick, almost guttural. “I don’t want to hear his name.” His hands tangled in her hair and he jerked her head back to look into her eyes. “You should not have come back.”

  “I told you, I wasn’t going to, but …” She couldn’t take her gaze from his face. He was staring at her with the same consuming intensity she had seen on his face when he looked at one of his statues. “But Ian wanted—” She swallowed to ease the tightness of her throat. “A seal.”

  “The hell he did.”

  Then his lips were on hers, hard, warm, brutal with need. He was pulling the pins from her hair, muttering words in a language she didn’t understand as his lips moved from her mouth to her cheeks to her throat in hot, bruising caresses. She could feel the soft, silky texture of his beard as it brushed her flesh, and his big hands were now on her shoulders, kneading, learning, then on her throat, the swell of her breasts … She was wrong, they were not caresses. It was like being devoured, absorbed. He pulled her into the hollow of his hips, and she felt the shocking hardness of his arousal against her softness. Shocking and yet right. Mother of heaven, there must be something evil in her heart for this to feel so right.

  Her hair was tumbling about her shoulders in wild disarray; his fingers were combing through it. He lifted his head. “You want me.” His words
came fiercely. “Me.”

  “Aye.” Nothing seemed more clear at the moment. “Aye, Kartauk.”

  His arms crushed her back to him, robbed her of breath. Desire. Lust. Safety. How could she feel so safe while tottering on this precipice? It was going to happen. She had thought she was prepared, but now she was trembling, frightened as a child taking its first step. “What do I do?” she gasped. “Help me Do you want me to do the things you told me to do with Ian?”

  He stiffened against her, his hands halting in midmotion in the thickness of her hair. “I told you not to—” A shudder ran through him. “Christ, I wish you hadn’t said that.” He pushed her away from him.

  She immediately tried to move closer.

  “No.” He grated through set teeth as he kept her at bay. “No, Margaret.”

  “Why not?” She could not believe he was rejecting her. “I thought—”

  “So did I.” He drew a deep breath as his hands slowly unclasped her shoulders and dropped away from her. He took a step back. “I thought about it all night. I’ve been thinking about it since you started this lunacy weeks ago.” He turned and moved jerkily back to the worktable. “Sit down.”

  She stood there, staring at him, feeling more uncertain then ever before in her life. “Why? You find me pleasing. I know I’m no Ellen MacTavish, but you’re not unmoved by me.”

  “Unmoved? God in heaven, that’s true enough.” His voice was hoarse as he sat down at the worktable. “Yes, you could say that you move me.”

  She started toward him. “Then it seems unreasonable not to—”

  “Stop right there,” he said sharply. “Don’t come near me.”

  She halted and smiled tremulously, “If you don’t find me distasteful, then why do you not strike me with your divine lightning?”

  “Because you’re not like other women.”

  “I believe I have the required limbs, eyes, and breasts.”

  “You also have a tender heart, a priest’s conscience, and the softness of a feather mattress beneath that cool exterior.” He shook his head. “I cannot hurt you. I will not hurt you.”

  “But you want me.”

  “I love you.”