The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance)

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  Slowly the sultan lowered himself back into his golden throne, his chartreuse-and-gold velvet robe flowing about him, opening to reveal a bare, muscular chest. His dark eyes shone fiercely beneath a lilac silk turban, and his black beard accentuated chiseled features.

  Well, there is the little matter of your nickname—the “Red Assassin,” I believe you are called?

  Then there is the inescapable existence of the Seraglio—the nefarious pleasure dome—and your harem contained therein.

  Last but not least, there are the eunuchs whose ranks I do not wish to join.

  Sorely do not wish to join.

  “Of course not! This has nothing to do with your great country, Grand Seignior, or your illustrious reign, and everything to do with our culture,” Lord Ravensdale replied apologetically. “And she is my daughter. She is not a stage performer along for the purpose of entertaining our hosts, however revered. Just as you do not present your wives for our entertainment, nor do I present my family for yours. Surely you must understand this.”

  And he did. It was a well-known fact that the harem was for the sultan’s eyes only.

  Hence the eunichs. No uncastrated man was allowed to cast his eyes upon any member of the sultan’s harem.

  “I merely wish to hear her sing. Does she not sing for your fine English lords?” the sultan asked as he stroked his bearded chin.

  The Grand Seignior made no effort to conceal his displeasure, but in the end he was more strategist than tyrant. “Is it that she sings for gentlemen but not for barbarians? I have heard that English ladies sing in their parlors to dinner guests.”

  Lord Ravensdale swallowed hard. He made it a policy never to lie. “In the privacy of one’s home with close friends, yes,” he murmured softly. He reflected that the parlor generally did not contain a curtain behind which a harem of beautiful concubines listened.

  “So be it,” replied the sultan as his lips formed a devious smile. “Then she shall sing after dinner in the parlor of the palace.” He nodded with a finality that indicated the discussion was closed, clapping his hands as he smiled happily. “And we are all of us friends, are we not?”

  I wonder if the eunuchs would truthfully describe their feelings for you as those of friendship. Ah, well. Feelings are often difficult to put into words.

  Lord Ravensdale bit his lip as servants answered the sultan’s summons. If he had not been so incensed, he would have appreciated the sultan’s political prowess.

  “I am not personally afraid of the sultan’s wrath, but I am committed to preserving peace. Even more important to me is the safety of my family.” As he recounted the story to his wife, his eyes moved to her growing belly. She was small and had lost two babies since Nicolette was born, but she had assured him that she was well and that this child would live. “In order to protect you, Alita, I must avoid a perceived disrespect.

  “Besides, if anyone is to suffer, it will be you, Nicolette.” He turned to his daughter. “You have put us all in danger by singing in a locale where you could be heard. Was this done on purpose?” he demanded, furious.

  “Oh, no, Papa,” Nicolette pleaded, shaking her head, her eyes wide. She appeared to understand that he had never been so angry. And it was important that she did.

  “I–I spoke to no one, just as you told me. I was singing to amuse myself. And the morning was so beautiful. You should have seen the morning sun through the silk shades as it caressed the gold and snow-white marble. The sea before us was the most serene color of azure, and the mountains behind us were green. And I could hear—well, it sounded like a waterfall in the distance. Happiness welled up inside of me, and how could I have not sung? And I thought I was alone.”

  “And how is it that you were not with your mother?” He loved his wild child, but he would not raise a hellion who cared nothing for anyone but herself, so help him God.

  Nicolette stared at him with an expression only children who have grave doubts about the intelligence of their parents can aptly duplicate.

  * * * *

  “I have always awakened before you and Mama,” she replied slowly. “I was singing in one of the more deserted hallways so as not to disturb anyone, and I glanced into a room and I saw baths and silks and beautiful women all sitting around a pool of water with a waterfall.” She gulped.

  It was so unfair, all she was doing was singing, and she was being blamed. And for what, she didn’t know. How was she to know people were listening? She was too busy enjoying herself to worry about every little thing that people like to worry about.

  “But you are nonetheless delighted that you will be singing.” Her father seemed to be growing more agitated by the minute.

  “Do you expect me to be sad that I will be singing, Papa?” She stared at him, aghast. Had he lost his mind?

  “Darling, you would not be critical of a fish for liking the water. Nicolette is not at fault,” Lady Ravensdale intervened. “Nor should you be displeased that she anticipates the performance. Thank goodness she does, most young girls would lose their voice in this situation.”

  “Would that it were so. The day Nicolette loses her voice is the day trumpets sound, the heavens are on fire, and Jesus descends upon a cloud.”

  “We are depending on you to restore our favor, Nicolette.” Lady Ravensdale hugged her daughter.

  “But what if the sultan does not like my singing?” she asked in a whisper, suddenly feeling the enormity of the situation.

  Lady Ravensdale smiled warmly, and her confidence increased in the glow of that smile. Suddenly her mother giggled in the midst of all this tension, taking Nicolette by surprise.

  “What is it, Mama?”

  “Even if the sultan loathes the performance, he will not kill us,” she stated definitively.

  “That is a great comfort, my love. Perhaps he will only torture us or change our gender.” Lord Ravensdale frowned at his wife, but she only shrugged.

  “He will do no such thing!” Lady Ravensdale turned to her daughter. “His curiosity will be satisfied, and without question he will appreciate the gesture, which he knows has cost your father.”

  “Loathes, Mama? Do you really think…”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, darling.” She hugged her daughter again. “I merely wish to point out that only good can come of it. The very worst case scenario will yet be to our advantage. And, if he enjoys your concert, as he no doubt will, it is frosting on the cake! So you have positively nothing to worry about, Nicolette. You are free to do your best and enjoy yourself.”

  Nicolette sighed with relief even under her father’s hard stare. She knew that her mother believed in her.

  She would certainly do her very best. And, whatever foul mood her father was in, she would not lose one second of happiness on his account. Especially when she was here in her very first palace with a harem, no less.

  It was like something out of a glorious fairy tale! She tightened her lips determinedly. She refused to let anyone, not even the dearest person in the world, steal her joy from her.

  “Ah, yes. ‘The Red Sultan,’ he is called,” Lord Ravensdale considered gravely. “‘The Great Assassin.’ I would have wished my family to remain out of his notice.” Lord Ravensdale shook his head, his countenance sincerely upset.

  “Darling, please do not frighten her. It does not serve.”

  “Yes, by all means, enjoy yourself, Nicolette, because I shall personally put you in chains after this. I begin to feel that we exist for your pleasure and are all merely your playthings.”

  Her large, ominous father suddenly grew thoughtful and seemed to reconsider his words. His expression was even graver than usual, which was saying something. “Nicolette, possibly I have done you an injustice.”

  Well, that certainly went without saying.

  “You may very well be innocent in this, unusual as that is.”

  She stared at the earl, astonished, unable to make a sound for the first time since she left the womb.

  “And speakin
g of innocence,” he continued, “did you see anything other than what you described? Was there anything that…disturbed you?”

  “Why, yes, Papa, there was.” How could he have known?

  “What did you see, Nicolette?” Her father’s voice was shaky, though she could tell he was attempting to control it. Both of her parents beheld her with alarm.

  “There was a boy,” she answered with hesitation.

  “Go on.” Lord Ravensdale closed his eyes momentarily then reopened them, taking her hand. “What disturbed you, precisely, Nicolette?”

  “He was ill. I saw him through a cracked door. I wasn’t snooping, really I wasn’t, Papa. I was following these embroidered rugs on the marble floors—trying to decipher the story, which I never did—when I heard moaning, as if someone were in great pain. I came to the opening in the door. There was something so sad about him.”

  “Sad?” asked Lord Ravensdale. “What do you mean, Nicolette?”

  “He looked so alone, as if he had no one in the world. He tossed and turned fitfully.”

  “He was very sick.” Lady Ravensdale nodded. “Of course he would look sad, Nicolette.”

  “No, Mama, it was more than that,” she replied, shaking her head resolutely. “There was a room full of people waiting on him, and I don’t believe I ever saw anyone look so alone.”

  “This was all? A sick boy?” Lord Ravensdale asked gravely.

  She nodded. It sounded like such a minor incident when she said it out loud. And when she had looked in the room and seen that beautiful boy so close to manhood with a tender, pained expression, it seemed as if there was something of great relevance to her there.

  But she couldn’t explain what it was. He was an important dignitary, there was no doubt of that. He wouldn’t be in the palace otherwise. And she rarely came into contact with anyone who wasn’t important. But there was something far more significant about him than his rank or social standing.

  “Who is he, Mama?” she asked.

  Her mother was silent for a moment. “He is of royal blood.” She turned to Lord Ravensdale, who nodded. Suddenly a sadness overtook her expression. “And you are right, Nicolette. He is not at all well.”

  “Can we help him, Mama?” she asked anxiously.

  Lady Ravensdale appeared deep in thought before a slow smile came to her lips. “You can, Nicolette. We cannot.”

  “How, Mama?”

  “I don’t know, my sweet.” Lady Ravensdale shook her head, hugging her. “You may know when the time comes. But whether or not you will is up to you.”

  Chapter Six

  Love is offered.

  It was the night she had worked to create every day of her life. She looked into the audience to see thousands of people watching her. Was she nervous? No! Anxious? Impatient? Yes! She had waited all her life to live this moment.

  She was overcome with joy—and she knew that this was the reason for her being. There could be nothing else. Power, glory, adoration? They were circular endeavors that would never be realized.

  But to be in joy was an end unto itself. It was love and hope and life all wrapped into a gift from the Creator.

  A gift that she freely gave to her audience.

  It was the most extravagant feast she had ever attended—the smells more exotic, the courses more amazing, and the guests more pleased.

  And she ate nothing, drinking only water.

  Nicolette was very proud of her grown-up look. She wore her best dress, a white silk tied at the bodice with a maroon satin ribbon and a matching maroon velvet jacket. Her dress was a little tight since she had last worn it, but her mother had managed to let the seams out. And the velvet jacket was very slimming, Lady Ravensdale had said, adding that Nicolette’s “arresting eyes” and “captivating voice” would be everyone’s focus.

  Nicolette ran her fingers along the small pearl necklace that she was allowed to wear for the occasion. Her mother had arranged her shiny black hair atop her head and placed tiny white pearl droplets in the curls. To complete her ensemble, she carried a white lace handkerchief in the pocket of her velvet jacket, which her mother had sewn quite inexpertly but very charmingly. And, of course, she wore white gloves.

  When she stood, her dress and jacket reached between her knees and her ankles, revealing white stockings and maroon silk slippers. Lady Ravensdale did not allow her daughter to wear any heel on her shoe or makeup on her face, saying that she did not need it.

  That was silly because she did. She did not have her mother’s aristocratic features or high cheekbones—her face was almost round! But there was never any point in arguing with Lady Ravensdale once her mind was made up. How a person came to be so stubborn was a mystery to her.

  Even looking her best, Nicolette had to fight the inclination to feel dowdy in these opulent surroundings. Luxurious tapestries from Baghdad and Teheran lined the marble floors framed by huge fluted columns. There were candelabras of cut glass, frescoes by French artists, and the grandest mirrors she had ever seen. The tablecloth was velvet embroidered in genuine silver. The napkin rings were mother-of-pearl set with diamonds. Real diamonds!

  And the clothing put heaven’s angels to the pale! Vests adorned with precious stones, Bursa-silk trousers, velvet-tasseled caps embroidered with pearls, and sheer, luminous veils. It truly was as if they were living inside a magical fairy tale.

  “What is that scent, Mama?” She stared at the sherbet now being served as she felt her mouth watering. She took another sip of water.

  “Mango and pineapple, I believe.” Her mother took a bite and closed her eyes momentarily. “Oh, my. The sherbet is concocted of the essence of roses and fruit juices.”

  “Roses? In the sherbet?”

  “It is delicious, I assure you.”

  “You need to eat something, Nicolette,” Lord Ravensdale commanded.

  “Under no circumstances would I eat before singing!” She shook her head vehemently, taking a sip of water and staring at her father in disbelief. “It interferes with the purity of the voice.”

  “Do you see, Nicolette?” Lady Ravensdale asked as she inclined her chin. “It appears that there are other Europeans present.”

  “Oh, Mama, my heart is pounding!” She scanned the crowds for any signs of welcome. “I only pray that I will do my best.”

  “All performers are nervous. The trick is to channel your nervousness so as to enhance your performance. You may thus surprise yourself and do better than your best.”

  How was that possible? When the sultan motioned toward Lord Ravensdale, the earl rose, taking her hand, and they walked to the center of the room. Nicolette glanced at her mother, looking very fine in a whisper-thin, aqua-blue, soft silk as she glided toward a rosewood grand piano which the sultan had apparently purchased for the benefit of his European guests.

  Even with child, her mother was slimmer than her! Nicolette had begged her mother not to accompany her—maybe it was too much of a strain, and she couldn’t bear to see her mother’s heart broken again—but Lady Ravensdale had laughed at the notion and said she wouldn’t miss the fun for anything!

  Lady Ravensdale smiled confidently, solidifying Nicolette’s resolve. The young singer executed her prettiest curtsey, and she thought she managed it tolerably well despite her knees shaking. She forced herself to smile in a broad circle all about her.

  The sultan watched with undisguised scrutiny as a lion might watch a field mouse, deciding if the tiny creature was worth the trouble.

  Suddenly she relished the experience.

  She raised her chin in defiance. Nicolette supposed that the sultan of the Ottoman Empire expected her to be terrified, and that knowledge gave her more courage, determined to stand up to this fierce-looking man.

  The sultan is my audience, not my adversary. She would not wilt before him but also must she entertain him. She must hold his emotions in her hand. Though she was in this room of strangers in a strange city, it was her responsibility to delight her audience, to hold
their emotions in her hand. Were she to sing before convicts or angels, she was obligated to give the same performance.

  Nicolette stepped up to a small platform and awaited the attention that was her due. When it was not forthcoming, she swept the room with her eyes until silence ensued. Then and only then she nodded her approval and turned to face the sultan.

  “Begin,” the sultan commanded as he smiled for the first time, the hard lines of his face revealing a gleaming gold-tipped tooth.

  “Grand Seignior, I will be singing ‘Si, Mi Chiamano Mimi’ from La Bohème, written by Puccini.” She glanced around the room, ignoring his command once again for emphasis in what she hoped was a clear communication of her performance requirements.

  Nicolette looked to her father and saw a smile fighting a fierce battle with his frown, which momentarily amused her. One would never know how old her father was if it weren’t for his graying temples. In fact, with his coal-black hair and sapphire-blue eyes, he was far from ugly.

  After a long pause, she instructed her accompanist to begin with a slight nod of the chin. And she began to sing.

  I am called Mimi,

  My story is brief

  I make lilies and roses

  from silk and satin

  I am tranquil and happy…

  Nicolette felt herself to be Mimi as the beauty of the music overtook her. She longed to reveal Mimi’s open spirit to the audience through the music.

  I cherish all things

  that have gentle magic,

  Love and spring

  Dreams and fancies—

  The things called poetry…

  Everyone of breeding and taste knew that, in concerts, one was to stand immobile so as to place extra demands on the voice alone to impart the desired emotion. Anything else was both improper and unaccomplished. Above all, she must be accomplished.

  I imagine

  Silk and satin gardens