"You did it," he whispered.
"We did it," she corrected.
******************
The next morning Kareth lay in bed, eyes closed, listening to Thiele move about the cottage. The sounds he made weren't random, rather they cried out with purpose—the cabinet opening and closing, then the wardrobe. And always coming back to the table. She heard him move away, toward the door, and she cracked an eye open. Just as she had suspected—a bundle lay on the table top, and he was fully dressed, complete with cape and boots. He was packing, getting ready to leave.
She sat up, pulling the coverlet over her. "What are you doing?"
He turned and looked at her, surprise registering in his eyes. "Awake so early? I thought after last night you'd be exhausted."
As well she should have been. Freedom from his collar had released them both in so many ways. They'd spent the hours before dawn exploring that freedom and each other. Wonderful and intimate. But she'd known, too, that this was the last. That in the morning he would leave.
"What are you doing?" she repeated.
124 Alice Gaines
He walked back to the table, a water flask in his hand. "I think that's obvious."
"Weren't you even going to say good-bye?" she demanded.
He didn't answer, but raised an eyebrow and stared at her for a moment. Then he went back to packing, slipping the flask into the bundle and bringing the ends of the rough material up into a knot.
Curse him, he hadn't intended to say good-bye. He had meant to pack up her things and slip away while she slept. She climbed out of bed, walked to the wardrobe, and found her shift and gown where they still lay on the floor. She slipped them over her head and turned on him. "Let me help you," she snapped. "I wouldn't want you to forget anything."
"Kareth..."
"No, truly," she said, charging to the cabinet. "Let's see. You'll need meal." She opened the door and peered inside. "But it appears you've already taken it."
"Of course."
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him, fuming. "And knives. Have you taken them, too?"
"Only the big one," he answered.
How could he? After all they'd shared, he was simply going to steal what he wanted from her and disappear without a word. "Take the bird carvings, too. If you're not here, I don't want them."
She walked to the wardrobe again. She looked on top and found nothing there. "No," she cried, spinning back to face him. "You were taking them, without even,asking. Give them back."
"You just said you don't want them."
"Give them back," she repeated. Breath of the Beast, those birds were hers. She crossed to the table, grabbed his bundle, and tore the knots open.
"Is this the priestess who taught me about trust yesterday?" he demanded. "I let you touch my core, and today you won't trust me with some possessions."
She got the cloth open and searched through the contents—foodstuffs, tools, but no carvings. "Where are they?" she shouted, tears
The Spinner 's Dream 125
threatening to choke her voice. "What have you done with them?" He put his hands on his hips and glared at her. "I put them in your pack."
"My pack?" she echoed.
"Over there." He nodded toward the hearth. "If you'd asked, I would have told you."
She glanced over and found another bundle just where he had indicated. A smaller one, made out of her shawl. "You packed for me?"
"Just a few things," he answered. "Some clothes, the carvings, that under-gown."
"You planned to take me with you."
He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to him. "You disappoint me, little one. Do you really think that I'd steal everything you have and leave without even saying good-bye?"
"But we agreed," she said. "I couldn't go overthe border with you."
"I wanted to do the noble thing, leave you where you'd be safe, despite how much I loved you. You took that choice away from me yesterday."
She rested against his chest and sighed. "You love me?"
"Can you doubt it?" he rumbled from his chest.
She ran her arms around him and hugged him. He slipped a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. "I planned to leave you, but you became part of me yesterday. If I lost that part, I'd bleed inside until I died."
"Truly?" she asked, her voice suddenly tiny.
"Truly," he answered.
"But I can't go," she said. "I haven't completed my work here. I haven't yet discovered Dendra's design for me."
"Can't you find that on the outside?"
"No." She pushed away from his chest and looked around her at her haven. "I belong here. This is where I've been sent to find the truth in me."
"Then I’ll have to stay here with you," he said. "Unpack and stay and hope the catchers don't find us."
126 Alice Gaines
She twisted her hands together and tried to think. "That won't work, either."
"You'll have to decide. Here or the outside. But either way together, both of us."
"Dendra, I don't know."
He spread his arms wide. "Which will it be, priestess? Stay or cross the border?"
She studied him, the gleam of mischief, of triumph in his eyes. The sandy hair that fell into his face. His broad shoulders, muscled legs. Her haven lay in him, inside the circle of his embrace. That decided, the rest was easy, after all. "The border," she said.
His smile broadened as he walked to the threshold and opened the door. "Get your pack."
She flew to the hearth and picked up the bundle he'd prepared for her. Then she headed back to his outstretched hand. A few feet away she stopped, suddenly remembering. She walked to the far wall, took down the ax, and slid the handle through the knots of her pack.
His eyes widened. "For you, priestess?" he said. "A weapon?"
She walked back to him, gazing up into his face. "To chop firewood. To keep us warm."
He laughed heartily at that, still holding out his hand to her. She took it, and they crossed the threshold together.
About the author:
Alice Gaines has a Ph.D. in personality psychology from a large west coast university. She lives in the hills of Oakland, California with her husband of 16 years, 50 or 60 orchids, and one neurotic cat.
Alice recently sold a historical romance to Leisure Books. Currently titled Waitangi Nights, the story is set in 19th century New Zealand and features spirits from Maori folklore
129
THE GIFT
JENNIE LeGENDRE
To my reader:
The Gift tells the tale of a woman who dared everything to find love and the man who challenged the boundaries of culture to cherish her. While the characters and their romance are very much fictional, their world is drawn from historical fact. With that in mind......Alessandra and Solimon's love story really might have happened.
THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE
"Behave, my lady," the Kislar Agha ordered, "or the Sultan will be greatly insulted. Calm yourself."
Alessandra de Got tugged the edges of the guimlik over her bare breasts, aghast at the command. Calm herself? When the very idea of bondage as the Sultan's concubine nearly made her faint!
The chief eunuch glared at her, black eyes peering from his face. "You are the Gift, and the Sultan has called you to him this eve. He wants to see how Ibrahim Pasha honors him. This is a chance to distinguish yourself, to earn a place as his favorite." His thick-set fingers gripped her chin, tilting her face upward, preventing escape. "The Sultan is young. His energies have been devoted to fighting and strengthening the boundaries of our beloved land. His haremlik is virtually empty. He has taken no wife. Do you understand what this means?"
Alessandra didn't care. But the words stuck in the back of her throat, and no sound passed her lips.
His mouth thinned into a tight smile. "His mother, the Sultan Valide, is dead. The women are his father's slaves with no one to rule them. The Sultan has called you to him this eve,
my lady, and you alone have a chance to catch his eye."
"I am no concubine. I am a French woman—"
"You are the Gift!" He released her chin abruptly. "Your fate lies within the haremlik of the Sultan's Palace. You can live life as a lowly slave, or you can attract the Sultan and claim a position of honor in his household."
Alessandra's mind raced. A lifetime as a concubine! Sheer panic
132 Jeanie LeGendre
swept through her. She could not live her life imprisoned within the walls of the haremlik, her every action dictated by the lustful whim of a man. Slaves had no freedom. Every tale she had ever heard of the haremlik—and she had heard many—described a place rife with debauchery, mystery, and intrigue. She must persuade the Sultan to free her. Once he discovered she was the French Ambassador's niece, surely he would return her. He wouldn't risk diplomatic problems with France, would he?
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Alessandra straightened her shoulders, preparing herself for what was to come. She glanced up at the Kislar Agha and nodded.
He sighed in obvious relief. "All will be well. Just smile and remember what I've taught you." The sleeve of his emerald satin robe swept against her neck, and she trembled as he brushed strands of hair from her face. "There, there, you are exquisite. Your silver-gilt hair is as fine as spun silk, and your skin glows like a pearl. The Sultan will be enchanted." He reached for the corded bell pull. Instantly, the doors to the chamber opened, and she followed him past the gilded columns of the entrance into the Royal Salon.
Braziers glowed from all corners, and the melodious strains of the lyre filled the air. The Kislar Agha led her past silent rows of black eunuchs prostrated along the path to the throne. His words echoed in her memory instructing, "Never utter a sound and always keep your eyes lowered."
She focused on the silver rosettes of her slippers, willing herself not to stumble, to walk gracefully. Her heart pounded wildly in her breast, and she was keenly aware of her nakedness through the gauze garments that swirled with her every step. She fought the urge to cover herself, feeling shockingly vulnerable in the presence of so many.
In one fluid motion that belied his size, the Kislar Agha fell to his knees, stretching his wide chest flat to the carpet and pressing his turbaned brow to the Sultan's feet. "Grand Seigneur, I beg permission to humbly present the Gift."
He moved aside, and Alessandra slipped to the floor, conscious of appearing awkward in the wake of the Kislar Agha's more ex-
The Gift 133
perienced bow.
"Rise, fair one. Let me view you," the Sultan demanded in a rich, smooth voice that sent a wave of trepidation through her.
Aiessandra rose before him. The silk-bordered edges of the guimlik slid from her grasp with the movement, and she hastily drew the garment closed. At the intensity of his gaze, she bit her lip until it throbbed in time with her pulse.
"You hide your loveliness from me." The words were more a statement than a question. His long fingers brushed against hers, but Aiessandra clutched the blouse over her breasts even tighter. "Clear the chamber," he commanded, the imperious tone of his voice slicing through her.
Sweet Mother in Heaven, she had offended him. The Sultan's power was absolute. With the mere snap of his fingers, he could have her killed, and no one would utter a syllable in her defense. A spark of resentment leapt to life deep inside. He commanded her to attend him garbed like a whore, then wanted, nay expected, her to acquiesce to his touch. But no matter what the punishment, she would not submit. She stiffened, only no reprimand came—just the shuffling sounds of the departing assemblage, and after what seemed to be an eternity, even those sounds faded away.
"Why do you resist?" he asked.
Although he had not spoken harshly, his question shattered the last vestiges of her composure. She had never been so frightened... so outraged in all her life. No matter how she willed it otherwise, hot angry tears slid from her eyes.
"Look at me."
With the greatest effort, Aiessandra lifted her gaze. He stood before his throne, darkly beautiful and strong, just as she would have envisioned a proud Ottoman king. His expression was carved in stone, yet the fury she anticipated was not evident in the bold lines of his face. He was not angry, but curious. Her turbulent emotions eased slightly while the force of his unwavering gaze surged through her.
He was a tall man. A diamond-studded dagger flashed from the jewelled girdle around his waist. The scarlet robes flowing from his
134 Jeanie LeGendre
broad shoulders emphasized the sheer power of his frame. A white egret feather was fastened to his turban by a starburst of diamonds and rubies, but the exotic beauty of his dark face took her breath away. His features were so perfect, so full of strength, he appeared cast in gold.
The powerful Solimon.
As his eyes met hers, a foreboding shiver ran the full length of her spine. His hand shot out, catching hers in an iron grip, forcing her to relinquish hold of the silken blouse. The guimlik fell open to her waist, exposing her breasts to the warm, scented air.
His gaze raked boldly over her, the heat of his touch searing her flesh. She fought the desire to break away, to run from him. With unnaturally heightened awareness, she heard the thin warbling of the finches in the aviary, the soft patter of droplets from the fountain. The slightest trace of moisture hung in the air. She could see its sheen on the diamond-paned windows and the ornately-carved columns lining the walls, feel its misty shimmer on her skin.
"You are magnificent." He stepped toward her, so close, she smelled the spicy citrus scent of him. "Your eyes are the color of the richest amethyst. Not cold like the stone, but vibrant, alive, like the dew-kissed petals of a violet."
His deep-velvet voice poured over her, sending the blood rushing through her veins. She stared at him, pinned beneath his relentless gaze.
"Ibrahim Pasha honors me with your loveliness, fair one."
"My name is Alessandra," she said in a ragged whisper.
His expression did not change. But when his brow lifted ever so slightly, her courage faltered. The silence between them grew heavy, tense, and she could barely catch her breath, knowing he awaited some word of explanation to pass her suddenly dry lips. "I am not a slave."
"I agree, fair one. You are not a slave, but my slave, and there is a vast difference."
At his words, her hopes plummeted, but Alessandra was determined to make him understand. She shook her head. "I was taken ......abducted from the Pasha's palace. I am a member of the diplomatic delegation. My uncle is the French Ambassador." She paused, wait-
The Gift 135
ing for his surprise, some sign of outrage at her cruel treatment, but the Sultan just stood there, seemingly unaffected by her news.
"And," he prompted her to continue as if they discussed nothing more important than the latest bloom in the garden.
"And I was abducted from the bedchamber where I slept, bound, gagged, thrown over some miscreant's shoulder, and brought to the Palace."
So the fair beauty had spirit. Solimon admired the flush of color that raced like a shadow from her rounded breasts to her heart-shaped face. The willowy outline of her legs through the diaphanous folds of the trousers caught his attention, and the thought of her pale buttocks poised over anyone's shoulder captivated him.
Abductions were fairly common, although an emotional and precarious way to fill one's harem. Even though he had never pursued that particular course, he knew of many who had, but couldn't imagine Ibrahim Pasha making a gift of an unwilling slave. There was more to this girl's abduction than she knew. He would send men to delve into the matter immediately.
"What is it you would have me do, fair one?"
"I want to go home!"
"You do not wish to serve me?" He could see by the expression flitting across her delicate features that the idea terrified her. She shook her head, sending silken tresses of pale-blonde hair tumbling around her shoulders. Her hair shimmere
d like shifting moonbeams, and the urge to feel the cool strands brushing against his bare flesh suddenly seized him.
The women he cared for in the Palace, the women who had never caught his father's eye, all ran toward his sire's tastes, golden-skinned and lush-bodied. Solimon could not recall one who rivaled the fair beauty of the exquisite creature before him. Perhaps the Kislar Agha was right—he had neglected his own harem too long.
He could not deny the spark of excitement that flared inside him. To introduce her to passion, to tempt her with his touch until all inhibitions melted away, praise Allah!—the very idea fired his imagination. "What do you think I would have you do as my slave?"
136 Jeanie LeGendre
Her flush deepened like the lingering hues of sunrise on sand, but she remained silent.
He waited.
She lowered her gaze, the dark smudge of her lashes shadowing her fair skin. "Satisfy your . . . desires."
"And you find that thought distasteful?"
Her teeth tugged at the flesh of her bottom lip. Fascinated, his gaze travelled from the inviting fullness of her mouth, down the slender column of her neck, to the creamy white skin that peeked from beneath the loose edges of the sapphire guimlik. The blood pounded hotly in his veins.
Solimon reached out, his fingers enveloping the velvet curve of her breast. She inhaled sharply, startled, and her hand lashed out to strike his away. He caught her wrist with his free hand and held it firmly within his grasp.
"Do not fight me."
The jewel-like eyes, shocked and angry, clashed with his. He ran his thumb across her nipple, feeling it harden like marble in response to his touch. A gasp slipped from her lips, and a tremor visibly rippled through her lithe frame, revealing the passion that simmered beneath her reluctant surface. Was this fair beauty worth the time and energy it would take to coax away her resistance? As he gazed upon the sweetness of her body, he knew the answer.
Secrets Vol 1 Page 13
