Looking back, he wondered what maggot had put it into his head that Merridyth St. John-Smythe would suit him nicely for a wife. He'd had some erroneous idea that she'd be properly grateful ... after all, she was much plumper than the current fashion, was older than most gels still on the social trot, and had failed to completely “take” her first season out. None of the three conditions were singly disastrous, but together they formed a formidable obstacle to a “desirable connection". While her family ties had helped him overlook Merridyth's lack of figure, fame and youth, it was her pending inheritance that the Viscount Worth had found so fatally attractive. She would come into over three-quarters of a million pounds upon her marriage, and contrary to appearances, the Viscount was in dire need of those funds.
He recalled the day St. John-Smythe had sent up his card requesting a business audience. Normally, he did not deign to entertain such social riffraff as St. John-Smythe, whom Society laughingly knew to be plain “Smith", but these days his straitened circumstances dictated his social contacts. He had found himself listening to a business proposal that would enable him to live—to flourish, really—in the style to which his family prominence and rank entitled him. He had readily agreed to St. John-Smythe's demand for one-fourth of the dowry for he had never intended that the old fool should see one pence of the money. But all this was before the gel had humiliated him in public.
Not even her money was worth the snickers that followed him about town. That demmed rackety Earl of Donchester'd had the audacity to laugh in his face at Whites. But he'd not be cheated. He was going to reap some benefit off the St. John-Smythe bitch and hurt her in the process. That was true justice. A fitting revenge.
He walked up boldly to the servants guarding the door he had been directed to. “I am here to see your master."
The two hulking guards did not betray by a flicker of an eyelash that a human had spoken to them.
Worth did not know what to make of this outlandish behavior. He drew himself up to his full height, speaking harshly. “Did you hear me? I said your master is expecting me."
The monster to the right turned his dark, burning eyes to the pale man before him. “You did not say, before, that the Bey was expecting you. Remain here."
Rapping a peculiar tattoo on the door panel before entering, the large guard waited until an answering rap sounded from inside the room. He disappeared shortly to return almost immediately. Bowing towards the Englishman, he gestured him into the room.
The man seated at the end of the room was small and dark with a neatly-trimmed, pointed beard that gave off the fragrance of sandalwood. His eyes were large and well shaped; their color a deep, dense obsidian that seemed to swallow light. If it was true that a person's eyes were windows through which their souls could be discerned, then the Bey's windows were closed, and his soul was hidden or missing. His probing, intense gaze seemed to reveal one's insecurities and foibles, while concealing his own.
His head was covered by a turban adorned with a ruby the size of a pigeon's egg. The stone glowed with the fires of a crimson sunset. His robes were stiff with gold embroidery and what looked to be genuine pearls. His feet rested against a cushion, which in turn rested on the back of a small, light-skinned page-boy, dressed in identical clothes as the Bey.
A hookah rested on an ornamental stand, and occasionally, the Turkish potentate pulled against the mouthpiece with a strong suction drawing the fumes of the powerful hashish deep into his lungs.
There were four other people in the room: two guards, who could have been the twins of the two outside the room, and a third individual who was, most likely, also a guard.
He was a giant of a man; his head coming to just inches below the eight-foot ceiling. His chest and shoulders were immense, his arms and thighs as thick as the trunks of young elm trees. His skin was the darkest black Worth had ever seen; his teeth and the whites of his eyes, the whitest white. He wore trousers of a sturdy striped material, loose and baggy, banded by a wide red sash that held a wicked-looking curved sword.
This behemoth stood to the left of the Bey's ornately decorated chair. The stony gaze of this man settled upon Worth, causing a frission of fear to slide down his spine and pool in a lump of discomfort in his innards. Worth knew that the mammoth would, with an order from the Bey, kill him and enjoy the doing of it. So great was his fear that he almost overlooked the last occupant of the room, and that surprised him more than his fear, for a beautiful woman was something the Viscount never overlooked.
Worth prided himself on being a man-about-town; one with enough polish to carry off any situation, but what he now witnessed was frankly shocking. A beautiful oriental girl, petite, with large black eyes, and thick black hair falling straight to the bend of her knees, moved from one side of the room to stand before the Bey. She was completely naked. The translucent tones of her skin and the fluidity of grace she exhibited with each movement of her small, compact body was spellbinding. Her figure was generously curved, her breasts luscious globes topped by coral nipples. Her eyes modestly lowered before her master's, she spoke two sentences. Her words, though beautiful in their liquid tones, were a foreign jumble to Worth. But through the supplicating gestures she made—arms uplifted, pleading—and the urgency of her requests, her voice sliding into a whine on the last words, he was able, somewhat, to understand the gist of the matter ... this woman had failed at some appointed task, and was seeking forgiveness—
Ignoring his slave for the moment, the Bey addressed Worth. His voice was soft and melodious. “The disciplining of a slave is a responsibility to be taken very seriously.” His eyes captured Worth's, his gaze piercing and direct. “Allah gives them into our keeping,” he continued quietly, “to instruct and train as if they were our children. A lesson well learned, a duty correctly performed, is rewarded. In contrast, a servant that refuses to perform an expected duty, or one so reckless as to refuse training...” The Bey shrugged his shoulders, “That servant must be corrected. To withhold punishment is to confuse the servant. Shirka.” His gaze whipped to the giant man behind his throne, his right hand indicated the frightened woman.
Stepping from his place by the wide chair, Shirka held out his left hand. One of the guards hurried to place a small, many-lashed whip in it. Gesturing to the girl, he indicated the floor before the Bey.
With a wild, frightened cry, the girl ran towards the throne, throwing her body across the knees of the Turk. A sharp word, a fierce frown drove her in terror back to where the hulking servant stood waiting impassively.
Slowly, lips trembling, the girl sank to her knees.
Gathering her hair in one large fist, Shirka applied an upward pressure until the girl's knees barely touched the floor, stringing out the pure lines of her body. With a sudden move Shirka brought down the whip, the sharp sounds loud in the room as it cracked again and again against the slave's back. Her body arched away from the blows, her lush breasts quivering as her body trembled under the pain of the lashing.
The voice of the Bey continued all the while the whip rose and fell in measured strokes. “You might notice that the lash is made of softly tanned leather. The body of my slave is precious to me, and I do not desire that she be permanently marked. The pain, however, is intense. She is to be given ten strokes and has been informed that the lashing will be doubled should she cry out.” He tilted his head to better observe the proceeding.
Shirka brought the lash down one final time. Hand still entwined in her hair, he drew the girl to her feet. Thrusting the whip in her face, he waited until she brought her lips to the handle submissively kissing the instrument of her punishment.
As she was turned to face the Bey, Worth noted that the girl's back was patterned with crisscrossing swollen red welts, her face wet with tears. Unbelievably, Worth felt a swelling of his own. He shifted uncomfortably. He shifted again, feeling the cold gaze of the foreign potentate trained upon him.
The Bey addressed the girl, his voice as gentle as a summer breeze. The g
irl answered voice thick with tears and fright.
A sharp question from the Bey.
The girl's body shook as though in a strong wind. With bowed head, she whispered her response. At a nod from the Bey, she sank to her knees and approached her master. Circling the small page who had not moved during this entire interval, she eased herself between the open legs of the Bey burrowing her head up under his robes. The Bey pulled at his hookah and obligingly widened his legs to give his slave easier access. The disciplining of his reluctant slave in hand, he returned his attention to his visitor. Motioning him forward, the Bey asked, “You are Lord Worth?"
Worth nodded, unable to make his voice work. He was incensed, could not believe that this barbarian was having himself serviced while holding a business meeting with him.
"I am Emil al Hadeem el Bakaar, Bey of Seyhan, servant of the Sultan Selim III. May Allah lighten your days. You know of a female? One who fits all of our criteria?"
Again Worth nodded.
"Her name?” The Bey's voice held a sharpness that jerked Worth out of his retrospection.
"Um ... um, her name is Merridyth St. John-Smythe".
His face completely still, the Bey contemplated Worth for a long moment.
"Is this not the woman recently connected with you in the newspapers?"
Worth's mouth went dry. How the hell did he know that?
"Well, yes.” He cleared his throat. “She is everything you mentioned: learned, of good birth, a virgin, and not too young—"
"And yet you found her ... not worthy of you? Not to your taste, hmm? Perhaps there is something you experienced with her? Something you might wish to share with us about her that caused you to reject her as suitable as your bride?"
Worth looked at the Bey, trying and failing to keep his eyes from straying to the slight rippling of the cloth covering the man's lap; the betraying movements of the slave hidden within its voluminous folds. Worth jerked his eyes back up to the face of the Bey, whose countenance bore a knowing look that discomfited the sweating Lord.
Remembering his humiliation urged Worth to secure his ex-fiancée's downfall. “I haven't had intimate relations with her,” He muttered angrily, “if that's what you mean to imply. But I can tell you why I found her unsatisfactory. The girl is headstrong and haughty. She thinks herself above everyone because she is a great heiress. She tried to humiliate me in front of—"
The Bey had straightened in his seat. “How great an heiress?"
"Three-quarters of a million pounds.” Worth answered in sulky tones insulted that he was interrupted as though he were no better than a school boy. Didn't these Cretins know who he was? “She comes into it when she marries."
"I see...” The Bey closed his eyes. His hands clinched on the arms of his chair, knuckles showing pale from the strength of his grip. His body tensed, every muscle rigid and still. Then his head lolled backwards coming to rest against the raised support at his back. His mouth opened, and a husky foreign word was hissed slowly, repeatedly between tightly gritted teeth. A long sigh left him. He took a shaky pull on the hookah. Pulled again. Held it, savoring the potent, acrid smoke. Opened his eyes.
The slave crawled out from between his legs and came to sit on her knees to the right of the Bey's throne. She hid her face, still damp with tears, against her master's hard thigh. Her body, already flushed from her exertions, tremored out of control when the Bey's right hand languidly toyed with her left breast. “Pride is not an attribute tolerated in a slave,” he stated, returning to the topic of Merridyth St. John-Smythe. “That—and any other undesirable trait—can be conditioned out of her. This one here,” he continued to caress the naked slave girl at his feet, “began life as a royal princess in the Chinese court. She might eventually make an adequate slave.
"As for your haughty lady,” the Bey said, bringing his direct gaze to bear on Ware, “we will pay two thousand pounds now. If we are satisfied, you will receive the other eight thousand pounds in a draft drawn on the Bank of London."
"I was told ten thousand for a name and the direction of her house.” Worth exclaimed, unhappy about having to wait for the majority of the money he had thought to collect immediately.
The Bey's eyes narrowed. “You were misinformed. Perhaps you would like to lodge a complaint...? I will be happy to deal with them—"
"No. It is of no matter, only—” Worth hesitated. “I know you will find all in order, only ... uh ... what would happen if ... should you decide not to take Miss St. John-Smythe?"
The Bey raised an expressive eyebrow. “Why, someone would need to return to collect our two thousand pounds from you.” He tapped his pointed chin with a dark finger. “Shirka, I believe. Yes. I send Shirka to handle all ... collections when necessary."
Worth looked over at the hulking giant who was smiling, fingering his curved scimitar, and suppressed a shudder. “I believe you'll be satisfied,” He croaked nervously.
"I hope so, Lord Worth.” The Bey steepled his fingers. “It is always better that one's superiors be pleased. Shirka will see you out."
Worth was glad to go. Outside once more, Lord Worth took a deep cleansing breath and stepped into his coach. Once safely inside, his neutral expression changed to one of disgust. His superiors. They should live to see the day. He knew a slight when he was dealt one; Emil having that slut between his legs while conversing with him. As for the money, two thousand pounds wasn't much, but it would at least keep the hounds at bay for a while longer. As soon as he had the remainder of his monies, he intended to inform the Harbor guards of the Turkish ship and its cargo. Merridyth would be ruined when it was known she had been aboard, and that damned, slimy Turk, the Bey, would fail in his mission for his superiors.
Inside, the Bey was issuing orders. “You will take two of the guards and go at once to this house. You will discover the maiden and bring her to the ship. Take care no one witnesses your deed. The one maiden we have already purchased is proving to be ... slow in her lessons. She might not work out. Meanwhile, our most illustrious Lord is impatient to present his beloved son with an English rose, therefore, we sail immediately upon your return."
"It shall be as you wish, my Lord,” Shirka promised. A hungry glint appeared in his eyes. “What of the Lord who has just departed?"
"The infidel dog does not know when he has been insulted.” The Bey laughed, not at all humorously. “He is ignorant as are all these indolent English nobility. Yet there was ... something, about him, Shirka. A low cunning I could not like. Have one of the guards follow him. Report to me his every movement, even after we depart. I believe he bears watching."
Shirka bowed himself almost to the ground. “Even as you command, Great One, let it be so."
Emil rose from his chair and sauntered across the room. The little page scurried to lift the draperies that secured the bedroom alcove, watching curiously as his master beckoned to his recently acquired slave. She hurried to his side in panicked response. Using only one hand, Emil caressed her soft skin, carefully attending to all of her erogenous zones. Against her will, a moan escaped lips opened to gasp suddenly rare air. Her soft brown nipples budded into tight, pert flowers. Her body shook as if buffeted by a strong wind, and a tear leaked down her cheek, evidence of painful emotions. Emil intently noted her reactions. He inclined his head towards the bed, at the same time motioning his little slave away from the alcove.
"Let us attempt that last lesson again, Princess,” he suggested softly, in his most dangerous voice. “This time with no interruptions..."
Chapter Eight
Selim, Please inform Jared I desperately need to be in touch with him. Tell him he has won. If he will answer this one letter, I shall no longer bother to send letters to him only to see them returned to me unopened. He has desired this all along, and I am only giving him what he wants ... Why then, does it feel like I am deserting him?—Emily
Chapter Nine
Open Sea, November
One day out of London
&nbs
p; A pounding headache was the first thing that Merridyth noticed upon awakening. The second was that, by the brightness of the light stabbing into her tortured eyes, it was no longer late afternoon. But the most frightening realization was the chilling fact that she was not at home, safe in her own room. Indeed, the plunging, rhythmic movements of the pillow-strewn deck on which she was sprawled told her she was aboard a wave-tossed ship. And she had no memory of how she came to be there.
Moving cautiously, Merri sat up, shivering. She was still garbed in the thin cotton nightrail she had donned before Susan had entered her room with the dinner tray. A fierce pain radiated from a knot at the base of her skull. Raising her hand, she gingerly felt at the back of her head. Exploring with her fingers, she believed the skin to be unbroken, and this was born out when she looked at her hand, noting the absence of blood.
Squinting against the light, Merridyth studied the cabin, sweeping an observant gaze over everything in sight. It was large, as ship cabins go, and of an odd shape. Obviously, every space was utilized, nothing going to waste. The walls had been softened with the draping of cloths suspended from the low-beamed ceiling. The beautifully tinted, sheer lengths diffused the brilliant light pouring from the two portholes. It was like being encased in the heart of a rainbow. Huge multi-colored pillows littered all but the central area of the room in which a low, heavily-carved, black lacquered teakwood table held pride of place. Everything was soft and muted, pleasing to the eye. In short, it was a room designed to please the eyes of women. And there were two other females occupying the room. Merri recognized one of the women.
"Su—” Merridyth blinked at the croaking coming from her throat. She swallowed to ease her dry, swollen throat, and tried again.
"Susan. Move carefully.” She warned as she watched her pale cousin stirring. “Heavens. I can see the lump on your head from here. What happened? I can't seem to recall a thing—"
Feathers in the Wind: The Cygnets Page 6
