Devil's Daughter

by Catherine Coulter

  “It is baked mutton in curry and fennel. Eat.”

  Arabella shook her head. “No,” she said. “I am not hungry.”

  He said slowly, his voice very precise, “If you were in the presence of any other man in this country, you would now be dead, your body thrown to the dogs.”

  “What is the matter?” she asked him in an equally precise voice. “You have no dogs for your barbaric sport?”

  “Ah, certainly I have. But for you, little slut, I would have my soldiers take you. You would doubtless, however, find that quite enjoyable.”

  The words were scarce out of his mouth when he felt the grains of rice strike his face. She was staring at him, her face perfectly white. She dropped her spoon to the table.

  Slowly Kamal wiped his face. “You will eat your dinner now.”

  She shook her head, mute.

  “If you do not eat, I will have your clothes taken from you. A woman without clothes, I have found, is very vulnerable.”

  Her eyes widened, and he was pleased to see her hand tremble just a bit as she picked up her fork.

  Though the lamb was tasty and tender, Arabella could swallow only a couple of bites. She was too aware of the man so close to her. She accepted a piece of pita bread he handed her, and nibbled it around the edge. She supposed it too was good, but it curdled with her fear and tasted like paste in her throat. She sipped at her wine, then set the goblet down.

  “I want to know why I am here,” she said.

  “You are here to be my slave,” Kamal said easily. She stiffened, just as he knew she would. “You look like my slave,” he continued, “and I will teach you to respect and please me, your master.”

  To his surprise, Arabella smiled, an enchanting smile that brought forth dimples on either side of her mouth. “Pray stop being an ass,” she said. “Although I find your rhetoric somewhat amusing, I grow bored with you. I asked you why I am here. I expect an answer.”

  He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snarl to Arabella. He lifted his goblet and slowly sipped the sweet red Cypriot wine.

  “My mother—the contessa—she told you nothing?”

  Arabella shook her head, deciding she wouldn’t tell him what she did know. See if the pirate was capable of truth.

  Kamal shrugged and speared another square of lamb on his fork. “There is no reason for you not to know. You are out of the game, so to speak.” He started to add that he had never wanted her involved in his mother’s vengeance, but her ill-disguised contempt for him held him silent. He continued in an expressionless voice, “Twenty-six years ago, my mother, the Genoese Contessa Giovanna Giusti, was captured by my father, Khar El-Din, along with your father’s half-brother, Cesare Bellini. Your mother evidently paid a great deal of money to my father to keep the contessa and to kill her husband’s half-brother.”

  “That is a ridiculous lie.”

  Kamal arched a brow.

  “Very well, I will listen to you.”

  Kamal smiled at her with satisfaction. “I see that you are capable of manners. The reason my mother was sold to my father was that your mother—an English harlot—wanted the wealth and position the Earl of Clare could offer her. Once she was pregnant, your father did indeed wed her, and did nothing to save my mother. She bore me within a year of her captivity. She has waited long for revenge for the evil done to her.”

  She drew a deep breath and said slowly, “My father has always told me that the corsairs were honorable. He paid tribute to your father, Khar El-Din, and your half-brother Hamil, yet you”—her voice frayed with contempt—“you looted and burned two of my father’s ships and killed all his men. Your notion of revenge is chilling.”

  “The revenge, my lady,” he said, “will be the capture of your esteemed parents and their disposition as slaves in Constantinople.”

  Arabella could only stare at him; then she threw back her head and laughed deeply. “You credulous fool. Your mother, your highness, is a vicious harridan, a liar, and the mistress of an evil Frenchman and of the king.”

  Kamal’s face grew red with fury. “Do you want the flesh flayed off your back?”

  “Ah, the honorable gentleman now makes his savage threats. You and your mother are two of a kind, both of you dishonorable animals.”

  No one had ever spoken thus to Kamal and he could only stare at her. Did she not understand that he could break her neck with one hand?

  “You are afraid to hear the truth?”

  “The truth, my lady? That you are indeed your mother’s daughter? A fact I have little trouble in believing now that I have met you.”

  “I repeat, your highness, are you afraid to hear the truth?”

  Kamal waved a negligent hand. “Proceed with your tale.”

  Arabella’s brow puckered in thought. “I do not know anything about your mother, nor has my father ever mentioned a half-brother. He met my mother in England. She was to wed another man, but fell in love with my father instead. She was anything but a harlot. Indeed, she was an eighteen-year-old girl, the daughter of an English baron. Your mother’s story of my father bringing her to Genoa, unmarried, is ridiculous. My mother is a lady, and my father a gentleman.” She paused a moment, sensing that he was listening to her. She leaned toward him, her eyes intent and serious upon his face. “My mother could have no reason to rid herself of your mother. She was my father’s wife. Perhaps there was jealousy on your mother’s part. I do not know. But you must believe me. My parents are honorable people. They would be incapable of perpetrating such a deed as your mother claims.”

  “I see,” Kamal said quietly. “How, then, my lady, did my mother arrive in Algiers? Her own free will? She sold herself?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And what was the name of the English gentleman your honorable mother was supposed to have married?”

  “A childhood friend, a viscount,” Arabella said. “I know little else.” A memory, vague and misty from Arabella’s earliest years, rose unbidden in her mind, a memory of her mother’s old nurse teasing her mother about her father’s ruthlessness in taking what he wanted. “Aye,” she could hear the woman saying, “he’d take you again, my pet, and devil take the consequences.” Arabella shook away the senseless memory, aware that Kamal was speaking.

  “It is likely that you are truly ignorant of what happened. Are you so certain that your mother did not play your father’s whore until he finally married her?”

  “That is impossible. My mother is a lady.”

  “You spin amusing tales, my lady,” he said, “but they have no substance. It is time for you to change your thinking, just as you have changed your clothes.”

  “I have no intention of changing my thinking.” Arabella stared at him. She said slowly, “I asked you why I was sent here. I am bait, am I not? I am to lure my father here?”

  He nodded and looked away for a moment, unable to bear the anguish in her eyes.

  “I will not allow that,” Arabella said calmly. “You will have to kill me first.”

  “Kill you? Pride sits ill on a woman’s shoulders. Consider yourself a slave—my slave. I am your master and you will obey me.”

  “Master. I would as soon call a jackal master. And what would you now, master, force me, as would an animal?”

  “Why should it matter? You gave your body willingly enough to all the foppish gentlemen in Naples.”

  “That is another of your mother’s lies.”

  “If it is a lie, it could be easily disproved, could it not?”

  “No,” she whispered. “No.”

  “If I did not know of the harlot’s blood flowing through your lovely body, I would be much moved by your virgin’s performance. As it is, I only hope that you are not diseased.”

  She stared at him, not comprehending.

  “Cease your playacting,” he roared at her.

  “Oh,” she said suddenly, remembering Adam’s words. “You mean the pox.”

  “Yes, the pox.”

 
; “What is it?”

  “Enough.” He stretched out his long legs toward her. “Come, slave, and remove my boots. I grow tired of both your foolish pride and your lies.”

  “The only thing I would remove is your black heart.” She grabbed the knife and scrambled to her feet.

  Kamal did not move. He looked at her eyes and saw naked fear, despite her show of bravado. He rose slowly, unwilling to frighten her more. “Give me the knife,” he said, and held out his hand toward her.

  Arabella shook her head, beyond words.

  He frowned at someone behind her and shook his head. Arabella whirled about. In the next instant, her wrist was twisted back and the knife fell from her fingers to the carpet. He had tricked her so very easily. The grip on her wrist eased.

  “Now why don’t you become the soft, pleading woman,” he said. “I will go easy with you, if you prettily beg my pardon and admit to your lies.”

  He could not see her face, for her head was bowed. “You search for gentle words, my lady?” He slid his hands up her arms, drawing her closer to him. “I am accounted a good lover, and since you are no blushing innocent, I expect you to do more than spread your legs for me. It will pass the time until your father arrives.”

  She flung herself at him, striking her fists at his face, kicking at his legs. She felt his arm go around her, choking off her breath, but still she fought him. She kicked him in the shin and his hold eased.

  Her fingers closed about her heavy silver wine goblet and she brought it against his head with all her strength. She heard the satisfying thud. In the next instant she was on her back on the carpet.

  Kamal shook away the pain from his temple. He held himself away from her, knowing if he touched her he would likely break her neck. She was staring up at him, and he knew that she expected to die, that she had known he would kill her when she attacked him. Her jacket was ripped and he saw the white flesh of her breast. He also saw the marks from his fingers on her upper arms. She bruises easily, he thought.

  He took a step toward her.

  “Stop. Stay away from me.” Arabella scrambled among the cushions until her back was pressed against the wall.

  No woman had ever fought him; indeed, with many European women, he had sometimes felt as though he were the one being used for their pleasure. Why did this girl fight him when she had given her favors so freely to other men?

  It angered him beyond reason. He moved so quickly that Arabella’s screams were stuck in her throat. He pulled her to her feet and threw her over his shoulder.

  He moved his fingers over her, knowing that to her it was the most effective punishment. She struggled, but to no avail. He carried her into his bedchamber and dumped her unceremoniously onto the floor.

  “You act like an ill-broken mare,” he said, standing above her. “I will treat you like one.” He pulled off the leather belt at his waist, seized her hands, and bound them together.

  He retrieved another leather belt, tied it to the one about her wrists, and jerked her toward the bed. She was screaming at him in English, a whore’s curses, he thought, not slowing.

  He secured the length of the belt to the bedpost and stepped back from her. She lay on her back, her arms drawn upward.

  He started to tell her that she would spend the night on the floor, but held himself silent. Let her wonder.

  Arabella watched him shrug off the white shirt. When his hands went to the buttons on his white trousers, she closed her eyes. And waited. She heard his boots hit the floor. She tugged at the belt wrapped around her wrists, but could not ease them. She felt his presence very near her, but would not look at him.

  Kamal checked to see that the belts were secure. He started to touch her, but pulled back his hand. Her hair fell about her face and down her back. He wished she were not so lovely.

  Arabella heard the bed give under his weight. She opened her eyes, but could see nothing, for the chamber was dark. She passed the next hour tugging at the leather with her teeth, half her attention on the man in the bed.

  Finally she fell into an exhausted sleep. She did not hear him rise, nor did she feel the weight of the blanket he tossed over her.

  Chapter 19

  “Wake up, lady.”

  Arabella felt a hand on her shoulder and jerked upright, a cry of pain on her lips because of her numb wrists. She stared into the black eyes of a young man she had seen the previous night. She looked frantically around for Kamal, but the chamber was empty save for the two of them.

  Who are you?” she whispered as he unfastened her bonds.

  “Ali, lady. My master said to release you and take you back to the harem.”

  Arabella rubbed her aching wrists and slowly rose to her feet. “Where is your master?”

  “With his soldiers. He enjoys training with them.” Ali studied the girl who had spent the night tied to his master’s bed. The welts on her wrists were black and purple.

  “I hope,” Arabella said, “that someone runs a sword through him.”

  Ali drew back, no pity for her now. “A worthless woman does not speak of his highness like that. You are lucky he didn’t kill you.”

  Arabella sighed. “I am too valuable to be so lightly discarded,” she said. And she realized that it was true. If she were dead, the contessa and her son would have no bait to lure her father to Algiers. She knew too that her father would verify that she still lived before he came. Then come he would.

  “No woman is that valuable,” Ali said.

  “I’m hungry,” Arabella said.

  Raj stood at the gate to the harem, waiting for her. He spoke quietly to Ali in Arabic, then dismissed the boy. “Come, my lady,” he said. “Lena will bind your wrists.”

  Arabella followed the huge eunuch into the harem garden. It was still early in the morning and few of Kamal’s concubines were up and about. Those who were, stared at her and whispered to each other behind their hands.

  “How many girls does that perverted jackal keep prisoner here?”

  “There are twenty girls presently in his highness’s harem,” Raj replied, not pretending to misunderstand her.

  Arabella wondered for one insane moment if she could get all the girls together and foment a revolt. She laughed aloud at the thought.

  “His highness did not touch you,” Raj said, eyeing her.

  “No, I would not allow him to.”

  Raj shook his bald head. “If he had wished to take you, my lady, there would be no one to stop him. You least of all.”

  “I angered him.”

  “And it got you nothing, save bruised and numb wrists.”

  “He cannot kill me,” she said. “You know that he cannot. My father is not a fool.”

  “No, your father is anything but a fool, my lady.”

  Arabella looked at him sharply. “You know my father?”

  “No, but I have seen him, and you, my lady, with your black eyes and eyebrows, have the look of him.” He saw that she would question him further and said abruptly, “No, my lady. I encourage you to accept your fate. There is nothing else you can do.”

  My fate. Was her fate to be raped by that animal Kamal? To lie in his bed until he had her father? And her mother?

  Arabella looked up to see Lena, her brow furrowed with concern.

  “See to your mistress,” Raj said, and left them.

  Lena rubbed Arabella’s wrists with a soothing cream and bandaged them, clucking over her while she ate her breakfast of soft, flat pita bread, fresh oranges, and pomegranate juice. She spent the next hours in the bath, and her hair was again washed, her body massaged with a jasmine cream. She was scarce aware of the chattering Lena or the harem girls who drew close to see her. Did Adam know what had happened to her? If he did know, what would he do? She shot a deadly smile toward a beautiful oleander tree. She hoped he would draw and quarter the contessa.

  After a lunch of cold shrimp and rice, Lena left her alone to nap. To Arabella’s surprise, sleep came quickly, but her dreams were violen
t and steeped in darkness.

  She awoke heavy-eyed and frightened. She forced herself to leave her small chamber and stroll into the harem garden. The fragrance from the flowers soothed her somewhat, and she lay down in the sun near the pool.

  “Well, daughter of a witch.”

  Arabella opened her eyes and smiled up at Elena.

  “I hear you are such a bitch that the master tied you to his bed.”

  “That is correct.”

  “He will ask for me tonight, and you will stay in your chamber and rot.”

  “I hope that he will ask for you, Elena. I would like to be left to rot.”

  Elena eyed the English girl in frustration. Would nothing pierce her white hide? She could not believe that the girl did not want the master. Every girl in the harem wanted to gain his attention. “Where did you learn to speak Italian? You are English.”

  “I grew up in Genoa. At least, I spent about half of each year there.”

  “Ah,” Elena said suddenly, her beautiful mouth curving into a vicious smile. “I understand you now, English cow. You know that the master can have any woman he wishes. You are only pretending that you do not want him.”

  “Elena,” Arabella said patiently, sitting up, “do you not want to be free? Do you not want to make your own decisions? Decide your own fate?”

  “What do you mean?” Elena asked, her voice heavy with suspicion.

  “I mean that no one—man or woman—should be forced to serve another. It is not right.” Arabella looked around at the beautiful gardens and the graceful arched building. A calm, serene prison, but a prison nonetheless. “This is your world. It is quite small, you know. And it is even guarded.”

  “You are crazy,” Elena said. “When the master takes me to wive, I will have you killed.” She turned on her heel and walked away.

  Arabella stared after her for a moment, then lay back and closed her eyes against the afternoon sun.

  “You must forgive Elena,” came a gentle voice. “If she has not Kamal, she has nothing.”

  Arabella opened her eyes. The woman who had spoken stood above her, her belly swollen mightily with child. Kamal’s child? “Who are you?”