The Harem Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  For a few moments Penny was so fascinated she almost forgot the seriousness of her situation. Until a bevy of hands stripped off her robe and a bucket of startlingly hot water sluiced over her head. She screamed. And was instantly mortified that she had let these women see her fear.

  It wasn’t fear! Truly, it wasn’t. She was simply startled.

  Penny only had time for one swift glance, reassuring herself that the male guards had truly stopped outside the velvet draperies, before three women, clad only in linen towels wrapped round their waists, attacked her with sponges so rough they reminded her of the time she had fallen into clump of raspberry bushes. Penny squirmed, protested, was ignored. Another bucket of hot water poured over her. Once again, the loofahs attacked. Her skin was beginning to turn the shade of a cooked lobster. Tears filled her eyes. This could not possibly be happening. Not to Miss Penelope Blayne, of Kent, England. Not to Penelope Blayne, who had traveled the world, inviolate behind the protection of wealth and privilege.

  At last—after suffering the humiliation of having every square inch of her body scrubbed by strangers—it was over. No, not quite. For the drying process was nearly as intimate. When Penny was finally offered a dry white linen robe, she was so grateful, her tears spilled over. To her surprise, many of the women gathered round, making soothing sympathetic sounds. A huge brass tray, piled high with fruit and pastries, appeared, as if the slave who brought it had been waiting for the pale foreigner to finish her bath. Several of the women continued to hover, offering Penny tidbits from their own fingers, their faces anxious, hopeful, urging her to eat.

  Lacking a mutual language, was this the only way the women could say, “Courage, Take Heart”? Touched, in spite of her fear and despair, Penny accepted a sweet pastry, which melted in her mouth and sent an instant surge of energy to her flagging spirits. By the time she had nibbled a date and sampled two more pastries and a cluster of grapes, her mind was beginning to return from the pit into which it had plunged.

  Aunt Cass must be frantic. To whom would she turn for help? Lord Elgin, Viscount Lyndon? Would Faik have any idea how to find her?

  Would she ever see family or friends again? Or was she destined to live out her life like the other women in this room, cut off from any society but their own?

  Except, of course, for occasional intimate encounters with their lord and master?

  Penny had no illusions. She was not that naive. She was in a harem. And it was very likely she was here to stay.

  In all of his twenty-one years Jason Lisbourne had encountered few true challenges. He had moved serenely through a life filled with more love and understanding than most young aristocrats of his time. His entrance into Eton and Oxford had been assured from birth; he enjoyed women without suffering any of the pangs experienced by some of his friends. Everyone around him knew he would one day be the eighth Earl of Rocksley, an old and venerable title, and treated him accordingly. A long line of ancestors, noted for not frittering away their funds on frivolous women or even more frivolous pastimes such as games of chance, had increased the Lisbourne fortune until it was one of the greatest in the land. In short, from the moment the expensive London doctor had handed him to the maid standing by with lace-edged linen towels, a silver bowl of warm water, and finely embroidered swaddling cloths, life had flowed remarkably smoothly for Viscount Lyndon.

  Now, for the very first time, he was faced with a challenge worthy of a knight of old. There was a fair maiden in distress, and he, Jason Victor Granville Lisbourne, Viscount Lyndon, was going to rescue her. Though, at the moment, the how of it quite escaped him.

  When Lord Elgin had, at last, been granted an audience with the Sultan’s Vizier, he readily agreed to the viscount’s presence at his side. Lord Lyndon was, the two men reasoned, a connection of Cassandra Pemberton and, in an effort to impress the totally male society in which they found themselves, would be presented to the Grand Vizier as head of her family. But the Vizier, the Ottoman equivalent of Prime Minister, had merely looked askance at the two noble British petitioners and barked words that had been translated as: he was distressed to hear of the young lady’s disappearance, but even more distressed that Lord Elgin should think he or his magnificence, Sultan Selim the Third, could possibly have knowledge of such an outrage.

  So now Jason sat alone, slumped onto a divan in the main salon of the villa he and his friends had leased. He had sent the others off on their evening adventures without him. How odd to discover, after twenty-one years, that he had more substance than he had thought, for somehow he could not enjoy himself while God alone knew what was happening to little Penelope Blayne. Why she had become his responsibility, he was not certain. His connection to Cassandra Pemberton was tenuous, at best. But thoughts of the lost girl haunted his days and his nights. He had to get her back. It was his duty.

  And, yes, he groaned to himself, his self-esteem demanded it as well. No foreign bastard was going to steal a woman under the protection of Jason Lisbourne! And if his noble fervor was increased by the young lady’s sheer beauty, as well as the lively spark in her eye, was that not a requisite ingredient for a knight rescuing a fair maiden?

  “My lord, you have a visitor,” the majordomo announced, a bit dubiously. “The man Faik.”

  “My lord.” Faik, hard on the majordomo’s heels, salaamed, then crossed the room to stand before the viscount. He stood tall and proud, his dark skin highlighted by the room’s flickering oil lamps, augmented by a single brace of wax candles. “There is a new rumor, lord. A mere thread, but it is spreading through the bazaar quarter like fire or a plague.”

  Jason sat up straight, all attention. “Quick, man, tell me!”

  “It is said that Mustafa Rasim, a merchant of great wealth, has long wished control of all the poppy fields in the eastern provinces. Such a gift would grant him riches and power beyond all but the greatest men at court.”

  “Yes, yes, get on with it, man!”

  “It is said that Mustafa Rasim has just given a gift of great price to the Sultan, a foreign virgin so fair her hair could be spun from moonlight. A very young woman of great beauty.”

  “By God, that lying Vizier vowed they did not have her!” Jason cried, bounding to his feet.

  “He did not, lord. The girl was only given to the Sultan today.”

  “Today? She has been gone for nearly a fortnight!”

  “Yes, lord, but it would have been necessary to prepare her—”

  “Prepare her? What does that mean?” the viscount barked.

  “She must be properly bathed and dressed, lord. Her—ah, body hair must be removed. She must be taught how to give obeisance . . .” At the horrified look on Viscount Lyndon’s face, Faik’s voice faded to a halt.

  “Body hair?” Jason inquired faintly.

  “Hair is allowed only the head, my lord,” Faik murmured, fixing his gaze on a point over the viscount’s left shoulder.

  “Good God,” the viscount breathed.

  “Is not so bad, my lord. The women use a paste of rusma and lime, which they apply to—”

  Jason held up his hand. “That is quite enough, Faik. More, in fact, than I wish to know. “Pray tell, what else must Miss Blayne learn?” he added in a tone that could only be termed ominous.

  “To crawl up from the foot of the Sultan’s bed, how to bring him pleasure—”

  “Stop!” Jason pounded a fist into his palm. “Dammit, Faik, there has to be some way to get her out. Tell me how!”

  The stalwart guide shook his head. “First, my lord, we must know she is truly there. I can think of only one way to be sure.”

  “And that is?”

  “The only women from the outside who may go into the harem and come out again are merchants, those who sell their wares to the Sultan’s women. They are mostly Jews, my lord. They are called ‘bundle women,’ because they carry great bundles of goods.”

  “Tell me where to find one, Faik,” was the viscount’s eager reply. “Just tell me where
to find one of these ‘bundle women.’”

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Seven

  Miss Penelope Blayne had indeed learned a great many things in her twelve days as an odalisque in the harem of Mustafa Rasim. A brisk swat on her bottom and a hard shove to her back had soon taught her the efficacy of mastering the art of prostrating herself. Sharp raps on her knuckles taught her to use only the fingers of her right hand when attempting to eat without knives, forks, or spoons. She learned how to apply kohl around her eyes, how to wash her hair with a special clay mixed with rosewater, lavender and rosebuds. How to apply a beauty mask made from dates and goat’s milk. She was, however, still working on mastering the skill of walking on the exceedingly high wooden pattens the women wore when negotiating the slippery floors of the bathing chamber. Most of all, she learned to do as she was “told” by the actions of the women and eunuchs surrounding her.

  Her degradation was complete, Penny decided, on the second day of her captivity when two older women applied a paste to all the hair on her body except that on her head. Even her nostrils were not exempt. Nor, to her total mortification, were those parts where no one’s hand should go. When the horrid-looking mess was scraped off, to Penny’s astonishment, her body hair came with it. She was now as naked as it was possible to be. Surely this was as vulnerable and exposed as a female could get. In the midst of a crowd, she was alone. No one spoke English, French, or Italian. Penny tried them all. And, in spite of the languid luxury of her prison, she might as well have been incarcerated in the deepest dungeon. Like the lost princes in the Tower, she would never be seen again.

  Nor was she spared shocks beyond the imagination of her maidenly innocence. Exposing her mind, she discovered, was even more degrading than exposing the full nakedness of her body. Beginning on the fourth day of her captivity, she watched in stunned silence as detailed demonstrations—employing the services of the harem’s less mutilated eunuchs—taught Miss Penelope Blayne that hands did, indeed, wander to very intimate places. Dear God, was this what men and women did together?

  These experiences led to several inevitable conclusions. Penny eyed the scimitars hanging from the guards’ belts and did the only thing a sensible sixteen-year-old could do. She submitted. And prayed most heartily that Aunt Cass had not given up hope. That Lord Elgin would help. And Viscount Lyndon. In her dreams the golden-haired Jason Lisbourne became her very own knight errant, the forlorn hope to which she clung, even knowing, in her heart, how foolish it was to dream of rescue.

  There were odd moments, however, that had their attractions, as much as Penny scolded herself for enjoying anything this lavishly appointed and scented prison had to offer. Having her body massaged with scented oils was an astonishingly pleasant experience, once she got over the initial shock. And the food was surprisingly delicious. Small pastries filled with lamb, cheese, or spinach. Rice dishes, vegetables cooked in olive oil, and eggplant served in a variety of tasty ways. And always an assortment of fruits and exotic sweets, including some so chewy they took quite five full minutes to eat.

  By the time the day came when there was great excitement in the air—much hustling and bustling in the normally lazily quiet women’s quarters, featuring whispers, giggles, and sly looks—Penny was beyond shock. If this great to-do involved herself, it could only mean one thing. And that she resolutely shut from her mind. Impossible as it seemed, at that moment she would have chosen to remain a slave in the seraglio for the rest of her life to being thrust once again into the notice of her captor, whom she now knew was called Mustafa Rasim. She could not, positively could not, do that with him!

  But she would. Most certainly she would. If she did not wish to be put in a sack and thrown into the Bosphorus or, even worse, be given to a whoremaster in one of the city’s brothels, she would do what was expected of her. That had been made perfectly clear by the only words of English, haltingly spoken, she had heard since she had been dumped at the feet of Mustafa Rasim. Though some might say Miss Penelope Blayne suffered from a flaw in her stout English character, Penny discovered she had something in common with the legendary Aimée de Rivery. Sixteen was too young to die.

  So after suffering yet another bath, followed by more massage with redolent oils, she allowed herself to be dressed. First, diaphanous azure silk shalwar, embroidered in gold, the full drawers revealing more than they concealed. Then a smock of white gauze, with long flowing sleeves, almost medieval in style, followed by a fitted waistcoat of elaborate royal blue brocade, fringed in gold and fastened with a pearl button. Next came a robe of the same diaphanous azure as the shalwar, followed by a wide girdle of shimmering gold, with gems set among the elaborate blue and red embroidery. Penny was quite certain that even two layers of the fine silk did not constitute sufficient covering to maintain her modesty.

  One of the women threw a nearly transparent veil of white silk over Penny’s head, while another placed a kalpock of white satin, covered in pearls and diamonds on top of it. A third woman stepped forward to tweak her veil in place, fastening it with a loop to one of the pearls on the satin cap. All three women stood back, nodding and smiling, plainly pleased with their handiwork. Penny, filled with misery, could only follow blindly as the women led her toward the draperies covering the archway onto the loggia.

  She was the virgin sacrifice, going to her doom.

  But not quite yet.

  Mustafa Rasim, resplendent in a robe of heavy scarlet silk, embroidered in gold and silver and studded with pearls, and an immense turban from which glittered a ruby almost large enough to be called a third eye, merely frowned as he examined Miss Penelope Blayne from head to foot before giving a sharp nod of satisfaction. A pink feradge was suddenly dropped over Penny’s head, enveloping her completely, leaving only a tiny slit for her eyes. And then she was whisked into a litter, the women who had accompanied her from the harem demonstrating, with gestures, how she should recline among the cushions. Curtains swished shut around her, cutting off light, air, but not all hope. She was going outside? She had been found. Ransom paid, she was going home!

  The litter jerked, rose off the floor, began to move. Surely, surely, this meant she was being freed. Oh, dear. Poor Aunt Cass was going to be so shocked by her costume!

  After days inside the seraglio, the heat, the smells, the noise of the streets assaulted Penny’s senses. Oh to be once more in her beloved Kent, in that quiet, gentle green countryside. She would never venture away from home again.

  It finally occurred to Penny’s numbed mind that she was alone in the litter. There was no one to scold if she peeked out to see where she was. A few moments later, she gasped and let the curtain fall, for what she had seen was familiar. Not the harbor and a ferry, as she had hoped, but the Blue Mosque in Sultanahmet Square, with the walls of the Topkapi Palace rising behind it. Her heart plummeted. What a foolish child she was to believe, even for a moment, that this tale would have a happy ending. Too appalled to cry, Penny sat, stiffly quiet, while her bearers—eunuchs from the harem of Mustafa Rasim—passed through the well-guarded gates of the Topkapi Palace, home of Sultan Selim the Third, ruler of the Ottoman Empire.

  When the litter came to a rest, the curtains were thrust back and two pairs of hands reached in to help her up. Penny did not care where she was, or why. All that pounded through her head was that this was not home. There was no Aunt Cass, no Jason. No rescue from the nightmare into which she had fallen.

  Though enveloped in misery, Penny was aware she was in an audience chamber, that someone of great importance sat on a great divan of gold, set on a raised dais. A someone with a long black beard, dressed more magnificently than Mustafa Rasim, his sleeveless outer robe edged in sable and an aigrette of diamonds sparkling in his white turban. Even the dais on which his gold throne rested was higher and more ornately decorated than the one her captor had sat on the day she was stripped naked before him. Was that to be her fate once again? Barely visible through the slit in her feradge was Mustafa Rasim, making his o
beisance to the Great Man on the broad gold throne. Her captor stood upright and began to speak. Penny, fearing the worst, retreated inside herself, seeing nothing, hearing no one.

  Suddenly, the feradge disappeared in a rustle of silk. Exposed to the view of the fifty or more men in the audience room, Penny stood frozen. Truthfully, garbed as she was, she felt almost as naked as if she were indeed wearing nothing at all. A sharp shove on her back brought her momentarily to life. Automatically, as she had learned over her near fortnight in captivity, Penny prostrated herself before the Great Man, palms flat on the floor, forehead touching the tiles, backside up, knees tucked under. A ridiculous position. She hated it.

  And then, with the aid of the eunuchs, she was on her feet, being motioned forward to the foot of the dais. The Great Man—the Sultan himself?—waved his hand, one of the eunuchs unfastened her veil. The Great One nodded, the veil was replaced. A giant black man paced forward. Even in her near stupor Penny recognized that his garments were even finer than Mustafa Rasim’s. She also noted that her captor was looking exceedingly pleased with himself. Whatever had just happened must have gone the way he had planned.

  Numbly, Penny followed the magnificently dressed black man, with two eunuchs close behind—not the same men who had accompanied her litter. Once again, she was alone amidst complete strangers. Their route, along yet another arched colonnade, was short. Penny was ushered into a relatively small chamber comfortably furnished with a divan and many large colorful cushions. The giant black man, wearing a white headdress even taller than a shako, lowered himself onto the plumply upholstered divan. Penny stood before him, while the eunuch guards remained outside the open archway, which was covered by a curtain of rose-red damask.