Bertrice Small

by Unconquered

  “Kit!” she screamed in English. “Kit, help me!” Then she switched to French, and turned to her captor. “Stop, Prince Arik! The British naval officer is a personal friend of my husband’s. He knows me! He will pay your ransom.”

  The prince whirled Miranda around to face him, and slapped her across the face. “Bitch! Understand me well. I can get more for you on the block, and I damned well intend to! Buri, block their pursuit!” He yanked her down the street, but Miranda struggled fiercely, managing to escape his grip by shedding her cloak, and ducking past Buri and his startled men. She ran as if pursued by the devil himself, flying through the embassy gates, now open, which Achmet quickly slammed shut and rechained.

  The Tatars howled their outrage, shaking their weapons. “The woman is a lawful captive,” cried out Prince Arik. “I will go to the sultan’s magistrate!”

  It was then that a tall, dark-haired man in a flowing white cloak stepped forward and, undoing the gates, moved out into the street.

  The Tatars surrounded him. “This woman is a noblewoman of England,” he said quietly. “You could have obtained her only by dishonest means.”

  “There is no shame in raiding the Russians, and we found her among the Russians,” Prince Arik shot back.

  The tall man smiled, his blue eyes flashing. “There is no shame whatsoever, my friend, in raiding the Russians. I sometimes think that Allah created the Russians solely for the purpose of being our victims. Nonetheless, the lady is not a Russian, she is English.”

  “I can sell her for a fortune,” whined Prince Arik. “If I let you simply take her I have lost money. It is not fair!” The prince was ready to bargain.

  The tall man laughed pleasantly. “Hold out both your hands, Tatar. I will pay you a king’s ransom. It will be more than you could get for her on the block, I promise, and no greedy slave merchant to take her commission, eh?”

  Prince Arik held out his hands. The tall man pulled a chamois bag from his white robes. Loosening the ties on it, he tipped the bag and a stream of brightly colored gemstones poured into the startled hetman’s hands. There were diamonds, rubies, amethysts, sapphires, emeralds, topazes, and pearls. The tall man poured until the treasure overflowed the Tatar’s hands. Some of the jewels spilled onto the street and the other Tatars scrambled for them.

  The tall man retied his bag, which was still quite full. “There, Tatar! I imagine you won’t get as much for all your other captives as you have gotten for this one woman. Are you content now?”

  “More than content, sire. Who are you?”

  “I am Prince Mirza Eddin Khan,” came the reply.

  “The sultan’s cousin?”

  “Yes. Now begone, Tatar, before these misguided infidels misunderstand and set their dogs on you!”

  The Tatars backed down the street and, mounting their ponies, galloped off. The tall man turned around and said, “Kit, send my palanquin down here. I will take Lady Dunham to my home. I think she will be better able to answer questions after she has bathed, and is dressed properly.”

  Kit Edmund saluted neatly and ran back up the driveway.

  The large palanquin came down the drive, and was set down by its slave bearers. Mirza Khan helped Miranda into it, and then settling himself opposite her gave the signal to depart. He drew the vehicle’s curtains.

  “You don’t think the Tatars will be waiting to ambush us, do you?” she said worriedly.

  “No,” he answered. “They were more than content. You are safe now.”

  After a silence she said, “I imagine this sounds woefully indelicate of me, but, oh lord, how I long for hot water and soap!”

  “Sweet stock,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Your scent is sweet stock, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she answered slowly, amazed. How could he remember such a trifle from their very brief previous acquaintance? She fell silent, a little embarrassed, and finally he said quietly. “The child? Is it yours?”

  For a moment her sea-green eyes were wet. “Yes, she is my child.”

  “Perhaps if you would tell me about it I might help. You were reported murdered in a robbery, your body tossed into the Neva River. That was a year ago. Believe me, Lady Dunham, you may trust me.”

  She looked into his dark blue eyes and knew with a deep certainty that she could indeed trust him. She needed someone to help her through what she knew was going to be a very difficult period. “Do you know who Prince Alexei Cherkessky is?” she asked.

  “I never met him, but I know of him. His money comes from a famous slave-breeding farm in the Crimean area. The slaves from the Cherkessky estate are quite sought after here in Istanbul.” The blue eyes suddenly widened. “Allah! Do you mean to tell me—?” he stopped as her level gaze met his, and she nodded solemnly. “The swine!” said Mirza Khan.

  Miranda told him her story, finishing “The child was born before its time on the journey to Istanbul. She is beautiful, but probably blind and even deaf.”

  In the awkward silence, he asked, “What gate did you enter through?”

  “Charisius.”

  He looked at her with open admiration. “You walked across the city! You are an amazing woman, Lady Dunham.”

  “Walking across the city was a mere stretch of the legs, my lord. You must not forget that I walked all the way from Prince Cherkessky’s farm in the Crimea.”

  “You walked?”

  “Of course. We all did. I did ride in a cart for several days after the child was born,” she said, “but mostly I walked.”

  “You are amazing,” he said softly.

  “No,” she said softly. “I am not amazing. I have survived. I vowed I would return to my husband and son, and I will! Jared, of course, may choose to divorce me. I have borne someone else’s child, and he will have every right to rid himself of me.”

  “You love him deeply, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “I love him.” Then she fell silent, lost in her thoughts.

  He studied her discreetly. A year ago in imperial St. Petersburg he had been overwhelmed by the exquisitely beautiful woman in the shimmering gold gown that he had met at the English ambassador’s soirée. She had surprised him with her sharp mind, her quick wit.

  Occasionally, after being told of her death he had dreamed of that evening, seeing her beautiful face again. Awakening suddenly, he was filled with a deep, terrible sadness. He wondered now if death wouldn’t have been a better fate for her than the bleak, loveless future she was expecting. She was much too young and far too beautiful and sensitive to live without love. The horrors she had seen had, of course, changed her. They had not broken her magnificent spirit, but something was not right. First things first, however. She needed to be made comfortable, to be free of fear, to sleep and to eat. She was quite thin and there were purple shadows beneath her eyes.

  “I live in the Eastern manner, Lady Dunham. I hope you will not be shocked by the fact that I possess a harem.”

  She shook her head. “It is your way,” she said. “Do you have any children?”

  “No,” he said, and she heard the sadness in his voice.

  “Have I offended you, Mirza Khan?”

  “No,” he said hastily. “There is no reason you should not know what everyone else does. When I was a young boy I spent some time in the palace of the late sultan, Abdulhamit, who was my maternal grandfather. In the Ottoman family the eldest living male inherits the throne, not necessarily the eldest son. I was not, praise Allah, the eldest! I have several cousins in line for the throne. There was Selim, who was my best friend and nearest to me in age, and then there was Mustafa, and finally little Mahmud.

  “Mustafa’s mother was a very ambitious woman, and not just for her son, but for herself. She managed to poison Selim and me, but we were saved by Selim’s marvelous mother, the baskadin, Mihrichan. Unfortunately the poison rendered my seed lifeless. Poor Selim only managed to produce two daughters before his death.

  “My father was
, of course, very angry, for I was his heir, but then my own mother is an admirable wife. I have four younger brothers, the eldest of whom is now our father’s heir, and I, thank heavens, do not have to live in the Georgian mountains, but can instead live here in the civilized and beautiful city. There are compensations for everything, Lady Dunham.”

  “I think I would like it if you called me Miranda, Mirza Khan,” and she smiled the first real smile she had smiled since he had rescued her.

  “Miranda,” he smiled back, “from the Greek, meaning admirable, and by Allah, you are! What you have suffered would have broken most women.”

  “I am not like most women, Mirza Khan,” she said, and her sea-green eyes flashed. “I will not be beaten!”

  Chapter 14

  MIRZA KHAN’S SMALL PALACE WAS OUTSIDE THE CITY ON THE shores of the Bosphorus, with a stunning view of both Asia across the waters and of the minarets of Istanbul. The orginal foundations of the building dated back several hundred years to when the Greeks ruled the city, and it was said that a Byzantine princess and her husband had once lived there. The house had been rebuilt several times, the last time being when Mirza Khan bought it fifteen years before.

  The three buildings that comprised the current villa were a cream-colored marble, with red-tile roofs. Across the front of the center building facing the sea, ran a classic portico, its creamy pillars veined in dark red. Standing on this porch and looking toward the sea, the haremlik, or women’s quarters, was to the right. The building housing the public rooms of the villa was to the left. Mirza Khan’s apartments were in the center building.

  The three buildings were separated by lovely large gardens. The main entry to the estate was through a gate in the garden wall outside the public rooms, thereby preserving the privacy of the rest of the household, for Mirza Khan was an easy, though firm master and his women were allowed the freedom of the villa provided they preserved their modesty.

  When they arrived Mirza Khan had taken Miranda directly to the women’s quarters and introduced her to a small, plump brown man with eyes like two black raisins. “Miranda, this is Ali-Ali, my chief eunuch. He will see that you have all you desire.”

  Mirza Khan then switched to rapid Turkish and swiftly explained Miranda’s history to the eunuch.

  “The child’s existence is not to be known, Ali-Ali, even to Captain Edmund. In this lady’s land it is considered immoral for a woman to bear a child not her husband’s, even if it is not the woman’s fault.”

  “But she is not responsible for the fate that befell her,” protested Ali-Ali.

  “Nevertheless she will be blamed,” was the reply.

  “Westerners,” mused the eunuch, “are a strange and confused people. Their men are openly wanton with other men’s wives and women of questionable morals. Yet let a virtuous woman be taken forcibly, and they scorn her. I do not understand them at all.”

  “Neither do I, old friend.”

  “You like this woman,” stated the eunuch.

  “Yes,” smiled Mirza Khan, “I like her.” He turned back to Miranda and spoke to her in English. “I have explained everything to Ali-Ali. I think your daughter’s existence should be kept from Captain Edmund, Miranda. The gossips in London will have a field day when you turn up alive. We will think what to do. But for now, only the harem women and Ali-Ali must know of the baby. Captain Edmund did not notice her, I believe, and we will not tell him.”

  “What shall I say to Kit then?”

  “Merely that you were kidnaped by Prince Cherkessky, and sent to his villa in the Crimea to await his pleasure. Fortunately he never came, and the Tatars who raided his villa brought you to Istanbul to sell you, but you escaped them. It is simple, and it is reasonable. Go now with Ali-Ali, and I will see you later when Kit arrives.”

  Miranda followed the eunuch across the peaceful garden to the women’s quarters, and into a light and lovely salon. The walls of the room were covered in silk fabric with a multicolored floral silk on a pearl gray background. The walnut parquet floors were covered with thick blue, rose, and gold carpets, and in the very center of the room a three-tiered shell fountain tinkled merrily in a refreshing glazed light blue tile pool.

  There were several women in the room, all stunningly beautiful. Two were working at embroidery frames, one was strumming on a musical instrument, one was reading, and another was painting her toenails. As Miranda entered the room with Ali-Ali they gave her friendly though curious looks.

  “Ladies, ladies,” called the eunuch in his high-pitched voice.

  The woman reading looked up, rose, and came forward smiling.

  “What have we here, Ali-Ali?” she asked in a cultured voice.

  Miranda almost gaped foolishly, she was so surprised by the woman’s incredible beauty. Her long blue-black hair floated about her like a storm cloud, her skin was the color of a creamy gardenia, her eyes were emerald green. She had to be at least thirty, thought Miranda, and yet she was absolutely stunning. Not only was her face flawless, but her figure was perfect, too.

  The woman’s eyes twinkled. “I am Turkhan,” she said.

  “She is Mirza Khan’s favorite,” explained Ali-Ali. “She has been with him for many years. The others come and go, but Turkhan remains.”

  “I am like an old slipper to my lord,” laughed Turkhan. “Comfortable and predictable.”

  The old eunuch smiled fondly at the woman. “He loves you. You make him happy.” Then catching himself, Ali-Ali said, “This lady is to be Lord Mirza’s guest. She has suffered greatly. She is to remain with us until she can be safely transported back to her own people.”

  “How are you called?” asked Turkhan.

  “Miranda, and if it is possible, my lady, I should dearly love a bath. A hot, hot bath! I have not had one since the Tatars captured me six weeks ago.”

  Turkhan’s emerald eyes widened, and filled with sympathy. “Heavens, you poor child!” she said. “Safiye, Guzel. Help our guest, and take her to the baths.” She reached out for the cloak that Mirza Khan had placed about Miranda’s shoulders earlier. Whisking it off, she stared at the infant in its sling next to Miranda’s breasts. “A baby!” Her voice softened. “A baby,” she repeated.

  Suddenly the other women were all clustering around Miranda, chattering and smiling, reaching out to touch the baby, making soft cooing noises at her. “Oh, how beautiful she is!” cried one. “What is her name?”

  “She has none,” said Miranda quietly, and then her sea-green eyes met Turkhan’s, and the compassion she saw there almost made her cry. She hadn’t really cried through any of this.

  Turkhan lifted the baby from the sling and looked down at her.

  “Go and have your bath, Miranda. I will care for the little one.”

  “I had best nurse her first. She never complains, but she has not eaten since dawn.”

  Turkhan nodded in agreement, and waited until the baby had been fed. Then, taking the child from her mother, she hurried off with her while Miranda followed Safiye and Guzel to the baths.

  “Burn those clothes,” Miranda said as she stripped them off. “I should sooner be stark naked than ever wear them again. The boots, too. I have worn them thin.”

  She was bathed and then dressed in pale-green harem trousers with a matching slash-skirted, long-sleeved dress trimmed with narrow gold braid, its low neck made more modest by a delicately sheer cream-colored chemise beneath. A slave tied a finely embroidered shawl around her hips, and over all of this was a sleeveless forest-green robe edged in wide velvet ribbon and embroidered with seed pearls. Her beautiful pale gilt hair was brushed out until it gleamed with silvery-gold lights. It was banded by a dark green velvet ribbon with pearls, but otherwise left free.

  “How beautiful you are!” exclaimed Turkhan, coming into the room. “Captain Edmund is here, and I am to take you to the main salon.”

  The young Marquis of Wye was standing, elegant in his blue and gold naval uniform, talking with the white-robed Mirza Khan. He turn
ed as the women entered the room, his baby-blue eyes sweeping over the women. “Miranda! My God, Miranda, it really is you!”

  “Yes, Kit, it really is me.” She settled herself comfortably on a silk divan and they talked. Turkhan stayed in the background, not wishing to intrude.

  “Your sister kept insisting that you were alive. But your family believed the shock of your death was too much for her. They said she could not face it,” he explained.

  Miranda smiled. “Mandy and I have always known if the other was in trouble,” she said. “It is a difficult thing to explain to other people.” Then she grew more serious. “Jared? Our son? Are they all right?”

  “I don’t know a great deal about your little boy, Miranda, except that he is with your sister’s son at Swynford. Lord Dunham … is well.” Kit used every shred of his self-control to keep his voice neutral. How could he tell her that Jared Dunham had, in his grief, become a rake among the ton’s fastest set?

  How could he explain about Lady Belinda de Winter? Kit’s older sister, Augusta, the Countess of Dee, had a daughter who had made her debut this year and was in on all the latest gossip. Livia had told her mother that Belinda de Winter was already enjoying wifely favors from Jared Dunham. Good heavens, thought Kit, what a coil! Miranda’s voice brought him back.

  “Will you take me back to England on your ship, Kit?”

  “I cannot, Miranda. You see I am no longer a private citizen, but the captain of H.M.S. Notorious, and I am unable to take civilians aboard my vessel without official permission. We leave for England tonight. I will, of course, carry word of your rescue to Lord Dunham immediately.”

  “I must remain here?”

  “I think,” said Mirza Khan gently, “that it would be best after your great ordeal if you spent some time resting.”

  “Perhaps,” she said softly, looking from one to the other.

  “What happened, Miranda?” asked Kit. He blushed and looked embarrassed.