Lady Of Fire AKA Pagan Bride

by Tamara Leigh

  Alessandra caught her breath. This day, she had entertained the possibility he might not even be a eunuch, and now to be told he was one in every sense of the word…

  “I do not believe you.”

  He shrugged. “Though you claim to have no maidenly senses left to offend, I do not think your mother would like it if I offered proof.”

  Flushing toe to scalp, presenting the very real possibility she might be overcome by heat as Hayfa warned, Alessandra whirled and made as swift a retreat from the bathhouse as she could manage.

  Long after she had enclosed herself in her apartment, she still felt Seif’s laughter and heard that of Hayfa and the concubine.

  As Lucien exited the bathhouse, Sabine returned to the shadows where she had slipped upon witnessing Alessandra’s flight. Hand to her chest, she searched the Englishman’s profile as he strode past, certain he had the answers to the questions spinning through her mind.

  What had been the cause of Alessandra’s haste? Why the flush upon her skin that could not be solely attributed to heat? Why her trembling lips and the tears in her eyes?

  All manner of imaginings plagued Sabine, each tied to Lucien de Gautier and none without foundation. He had been in the bathhouse as Alessandra bathed and had undoubtedly seen what was denied Englishmen until they wed the lady.

  What had happened between them? Certainly nothing untoward with the others present, but something.

  The coughing came again, but she suppressed it until Lucien was out of sight. When she released it, wheezing and gasping breaths threatened to prostrate her. Desperate to muffle the terrible sounds, she lifted the skirt of her caftan, pressed it to her mouth, and lurched toward her apartment.

  Providing she could reach it without calling attention to herself, she could lie down and clear her mind enough to determine what to do.

  A moment later, Khalid’s concerned face swam before her and he lifted her high in his great arms. “Hush, mistress,” he soothed. “I am here. Give over to me.”

  Clenching fistfuls of his robe, coughing into his chest, she was mollified by the knowledge that, as always, he would take care of everything.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Enter!” Alessandra called. Without turning from the latticed window, she motioned her visitor forward. “Come see.”

  A moment later, she wished she had not, struck as she was by an awareness of the man she had left in the bathhouse an hour past. Had she known it was Seif, she would not have answered his knock.

  “What is it?” he asked, his arm brushing hers as he came alongside.

  She drew her arms nearer her body, nodded at the two romping in the garden. “There.”

  “Ah, gazelles.”

  “A mother and her baby. It is the first I have seen of the little one since its birth.”

  Seif made a sound of acknowledgment, then said, “I have come to apologize.”

  She kept her gaze fastened upon the gazelles. “For?”

  “I should not have been so forward with you.”

  “That is true.”

  “Then you accept my apology?”

  She sighed. “Mother says allowances must be made for you, so that I shall do.”

  “What sort of allowances?”

  As seemed to be becoming a habit regarding him, she wished she had said less. She shrugged. “You are English. Thus, you cannot know our ways.”

  “How are your ways different from mine?”

  She reflected a moment. “I do not know exactly, only that they are.”

  He chuckled, a sound made new by the fact it came from him. “The differences are great, mistress. For instance…” He gently pried her fingers from the lattice she gripped.

  Surprised that he would touch her again, and so soon after apologizing for being forward, she tried to pull free.

  “…it would not be mortally untoward for a man to kiss a woman’s hand in England.” He drew hers to his mouth and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist.

  A shiver raced up her arm. “Do not,” she breathed.

  He smiled. “Here, one could lose his head over so small a thing.”

  Providing he survived the loss of other parts of his anatomy, Alessandra reflected. “Which is what will happen if it is known what you do,” she said.

  His hold on her hand lightened, and though she could have pulled free, something inside her bade her remain still.

  He put his head to the side. “Will you reveal me?”

  She moistened her lips. “I would not wish to see you harmed for…” His eyes having lowered to her mouth, her next words were mostly breath. “…so small a thing.”

  His eyes returned to hers, the pupils of which had dilated, leaving only a narrow ring of violet. “And if it is no small thing?”

  She was sure she did not understand what he meant, and yet she longed to be nearer, for her first real kiss to be given by his mouth. She swallowed. “Let me go.”

  He opened his fingers.

  She did not retreat, and the hand he had kissed remained lifted toward him.

  “You are still here, Alessandra.”

  Perhaps it was her name on his lips, deeply spoken as if she were not the only one incapable of movement, but when she was able to move, she stepped nearer, slid her arms around his neck, and lifted her face to his.

  “Tell no one,” she said and pulled his head down.

  Seif’s mouth upon hers was nothing like the kiss with which she had surprised Rashid. It was more like that of which the women spoke—a thrill that went to her every edge, a longing for no end to it, an ache for more.

  “Seif,” she breathed.

  “I am Lucien,” he rasped and pulled her so near there was no space between them. Sliding his arms around her, he pressed a hand to the small of her back, the other to her nape, and threaded his fingers up through her hair.

  So very dangerous, and yet it was her voice that beseeched, “More, Lucien.”

  And Lucien’s voice that said, “That is enough.” He released her and stepped back.

  Alessandra put a hand to her lips and stared at the man she had kissed, a slave into whose arms she had gone without thought of consequences. Without thought of Rashid.

  Hurriedly, she crossed to her dressing table. “You should not have done that,” she said, though she knew it was more her doing.

  Seif—rather, Lucien as her mother had also revealed—moved behind her but did not touch her again. “If you would salve your conscience,” he said, “consider it but a demonstration of the differences between our cultures.”

  She picked up her comb and began tugging it through her hair. “Is that what you consider it? Merely a lesson?”

  “And desire for what is forbidden me. I can still feel such want.”

  Slowly, she looked around. “You desire me?” She did not mean her words to be whispered. They were. She did not mean to sound hopeful. She did. And it shamed her, for it made her seem like a child promised a toy long denied her, one she was afraid to believe was truly within her grasp.

  “I would not have touched you otherwise,” he said.

  More hopeful. More shameful. More dangerous. How she longed to return to his arms!

  End this now, Alessandra, she silently demanded. No good can come of wanting something you cannot—and should not!—have.

  She set the comb down, turned to face him. “I am promised to Rashid. There can be no more of…what we did.”

  His mouth bent upward. “It is you who controls what happens between us, mistress. I am but a slave.”

  Why was there no comfort in that? She slipped past him and crossed to the center of her apartment. “Then I have nothing over which to be concerned.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Naught,” he said and leaned back against the edge of her dressing table.

  “Is there something else you wish to discuss, Seif?”

  “Your mouth.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “I am curious about it—that it is u
ntried though you are no longer a maiden.”

  She had hoped the lie that she was not virtuous would remain where it had fallen in the bathhouse, but here it was. Inwardly cringing, she wondered why he believed her mouth was untried. After all, he had seen her kiss Rashid atop the roof. And though she had attempted to place the blame for this day’s intimacy at Seif’s feet, it was she who had initiated their kiss—one she had enjoyed. Did this mean that, though he claimed he desired her, the kiss had not been to his liking? Had the press of her lips been uncertain? Awkward? It was he who had ended the kiss.

  Hating how off balance he made her feel, she said, “We shall not speak of things that will not happen again, Seif.”

  He inclined his head. “As you would, mistress.”

  “Then we are done here.”

  He straightened from her dressing table. “I had thought we might begin my lessons.”

  She almost laughed. “It is obvious you have already acquired a sufficient grasp of our language.”

  He retrieved her comb. “I know not what this is called.”

  She hastened forward and took it from him. “A misht.” She returned it to the tabletop.

  “And this color?” He flicked the skirt of her yellow caftan.

  “Asfar. I—”

  “What is the name of that which lines your eyes?”

  Self-consciously, she ran a fingertip beneath her lower lid. “Mirwad.”

  He looked around as if for something else to inquire about.

  Alessandra sighed and crossed to her divan. “If you are determined to remain,” she said as she arranged the strewn pillows, “tell me how you became a slave.”

  Silence descended and did not lift once her pillows were in place. Seating herself on the edge of the divan, she raised her eyebrows.

  His face had darkened, creating a sharp contrast against the white of his turban, and the light in his eyes and smile upon his mouth were gone.

  “Have I asked something I should not?” A futile question, for it was obvious her inquiry was unwelcome.

  He turned, strode to the door, and was gone so completely it was as if he had not been here.

  But he had been. Alessandra ran fingertips across her mouth. Most definitely, Lucien de Gautier had been here.

  Lucien contained himself until he gained the privacy of the garden. Then he slammed his fists into the bark of a tree until, knuckles scraped raw, pain cast a shadow across his rage—one of sufficient length and breadth to allow him to begin to straighten out his thoughts.

  He put his back to the tree and stared at the scalable wall that stood between him and freedom.

  Since arriving at Jabbar’s home, he had not allowed himself to dwell on the horrors suffered during his captivity. However, Alessandra’s innocent question had freed memories best locked away.

  “Curse her! Curse all women!” he growled. They were a faithless lot, and Alessandra numbered among them. Though promised to another, she had touched and kissed him—

  After you set out to seduce her, spoke the voice of discernment he had often ignored this past year. Thus, are men not also a faithless lot?

  He ground his teeth. He had come to Alessandra’s apartment only to apologize, but seeing her sunlit hair tumbled about her shoulders, witnessing her delight over the gazelles, standing so near her…

  He had wanted to feel her tresses between his fingers and her curves beneath the shapeless caftan. He had wanted to understand the impetuous workings of her mind and to burn his fingers, if need be, to feel her fire. He had wanted her to wipe away this past year that had embittered and hardened him more than all the years spent battling the Brevilles. And so he had tempted her.

  He closed his eyes, murmured, “We are a faithless lot, indeed.”

  Though he would never trust a woman with his heart, this present anger had nothing to do with the fairer sex—all to do with the nightmare of slavery. That was where it belonged.

  CHAPTER NINE

  At the end of a sennight, Jabbar and Rashid returned bearing gifts of silk, jewelry, and gilded slippers.

  Amid the buzz of women flaunting their new finery, there was music and dancing in the hall. Trays laden with pastries and sweetmeats were borne by servant girls, though they were largely ignored by the women who were too elated to indulge.

  All were dressed for the occasion of the master’s visit, each hoping to catch his eye so she might be the one with whom he spent the night. As usual, there was little modesty about them. Their light, colorful trousers and vests allowed glimpses of breasts and buttocks, thighs and ankles. Their hands, feet, and hair were hennaed and faces heavily made up.

  Seated at the far end of the hall was Jabbar, who surveyed all with a faint smile. On his left sat Rashid, on his right, Sabine. Unlike the others, Alessandra’s mother wore a caftan. The garment was elaborate, its silver and gold threads catching light, but it revealed little of her figure, evidencing she remained Jabbar’s favorite. He did not need tantalizing glimpses of her body to desire her and, most likely, it was she with whom he would pass the night.

  Though Alessandra enjoyed such occasions, her pleasure this afternoon was overshadowed by the present Rashid had brought her.

  Removed from the others, she fingered the cloth that would be fashioned into a wedding gown. It was beautiful and would complement her hair and complexion, but she was disappointed that she had not been allowed to choose it herself.

  ’Tis a small thing, she told herself.

  But was it? It represented the day she would truly become a woman—the beginning of the rest of her life with Rashid as first wife.

  “First,” she whispered and determinedly turned her thoughts to the trip into the city that had been denied her. It would have been a break from the monotony of the harem, long hours spent in the marketplace haggling with vendors and seeing sights she had not laid eyes upon in two years. And then there was the freedom, of which she had so little and constantly dreamed.

  Perhaps her mother was right. Perhaps she was not fit for such a life. But would England be different?

  “You do not like the cloth?”

  She looked up at the man who was now Lucien to her, though only in her thoughts. Since he had walked out on her several days past, the air between them had been strained, and only this day had it begun to ease.

  “What, Seif?” she asked.

  Hands behind his back, he nodded at the fabric.

  “I do like it,” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “It is lovely.”

  “For your wedding?”

  “How did you know?”

  “A guess only.”

  Looking away, she pretended interest in the group of women to her right.

  “If it is not the cloth that makes you unhappy,” Lucien said, “what is it?”

  She eyed him. “You think me unhappy?”

  “Not even the music and dance interests you.”

  True. At the very least, her feet ought to be tapping. “Sometimes I feel as if…” She searched for English words to express herself. “As if I cannot get a full breath. As if a great weight is upon my chest.”

  He frowned. “You are ill?”

  “I do not speak of an ailment,” she said, and immediately thought of her mother and the reason Sabine had yet to shake off her cough. “This comes from my head, making me restless and impatient for…” She gave a short laugh. “…freedom, I suppose. Doubtless, you have experienced such yourself.”

  He smiled tightly. “You feel enslaved?”

  She pondered the word, shook her head. “It would be unfair to name it so harsh a thing.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “I do not know.”

  Lucien’s gaze shifted and, following it, Alessandra saw her mother approached.

  As the eunuch returned to his place against the wall, Sabine lowered to the divan alongside her daughter. “Are you not going to show me what Rashid brought you, Alessandra?”

  This was the
first time she had seen her mother in two days, for she had allowed none but Khalid within her apartment. Alessandra had not been overly worried, for she had grown accustomed to her mother locking herself away. She had been doing so for nearly two years now, offering only the excuse of needing time alone with God. Though it sometimes made Alessandra feel abandoned, she had learned to wait it out, as had Jabbar.

  Now, peering into Sabine’s pale, drawn face with its darkly shadowed eyes, she was not sure she should have stayed away. She pressed a hand over her mother’s. “You do not seem well.”

  Sabine grimaced, drew fingers through her hair. “Better?”

  “You know that is not what I mean. You look ill.”

  “It is always difficult when Jabbar goes away—worse, when Leila takes advantage of the situation and tries to harm you.”

  That might be some of it, but not all. “What of the cough? You still—”

  “I have yet to speak to Jabbar about what that woman did, but when I have him alone this eve, I shall.”

  “You yet suffer from a cough,” Alessandra pressed. “Has the physician nothing to rid you of it?”

  Sabine looked across the hall. “He says I need not worry, that it will pass.”

  “But he is old. Perhaps we should summon another physician.”

  Sabine sighed. “You weary me with your needless concern. Let us speak of other things.”

  From the set of her mother’s face, Alessandra knew she would get no further. Blowing out her breath, she settled into the abundance of pillows. “Of what would you rather speak?”

  “Khalid tells me you and the new eunuch are getting along better.” Her mother’s smile did not reach her eyes, further convincing Alessandra something was amiss. And Khalid likely knew what it was. Would he tell her if asked?

  No, he would never betray her mother’s confidence, not even to her daughter.

  “Did you not hear me, Alessandra?”

  She met Sabine’s gaze. “It is true. Seif and I are becoming accustomed to one another.”

  “I am pleased. He has guarded you well these past days.”