Sheik

by Mason, Connie

  Romantic Times praises Connie Mason,

  winner of the

  Storyteller of the Year Award

  and a Career Achievement Award in

  Western Historical Romance!

  THE LION’S BRIDE

  “This wondrous tale is a must read for the medieval fan and Ms. Mason’s legion of fans!”

  SIERRA

  “Ms. Mason has written a definite winner!”

  WIND RIDER

  “A delight action-packed love story!”

  TEARS LIKE RAIN

  “Vivid…strongly written”

  TREASURES OF THE HEART

  “Connie Mason adds sizzling sensuality and a cast of unique characters to turn Treasures of the Heart into another winner.”

  A PROMISE OF THUNDER

  Once you pick up A Promise of Thunder you won’t want to put it down.”

  ICE & RAPTURE

  “Ice & Rapture is filled with one rip-roaring escapade following on the heels of another wild adventure…A delightful love story.”

  BRAVE LAND, BRAVE LOVE

  “Brave Land, Brave Love is an utter delight from first page to last-funny, tender, adventurous, and highly romantic!”

  SLAVE TO LOVE

  “Do you like that, princess?” Jamal whispered against Zara’s ear. “Spread your legs and let me pleasure you.”

  “No, stop! Send me back to the stables but don’t use me like this!”

  Jamal went still. He seemed angry. “I’m not using you. I want to give you pleasure. We will pleasure one another.”

  “That’s not at all what I want. Berber women are free to choose their own lovers. We are men’s equals.”

  “You are a slave and slaves have no rights,” Jamal pointed out. “I can take you here beside the pool, if I so desire.”

  “I will not submit easily.”

  Jamal stared at her. Her beauty was mesmerizing. Allah help him, for he did want her, but force did not appeal to him. Force had never been necessary in his dealings with women. I will have her willing and submissive, he vowed to himself, without the use of force.

  “I will strike a deal with you, sweet vixen. Here’s my wager. Within four weeks you will invite me inside your body. If you do not, I will set you free.”

  Sheik

  Connie Mason

  To my agent Natasha Kern.

  You deserve a dedication for all your help and support.

  © 1997, 2012 Connie Mason. All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Slave to Love

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Author’s Note

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Morocco, 1673

  Sheik Jamal abd Thabit strode down the gangplank of his pirate ship, Plunderer, and surveyed the amphitheater of hills rising above the great port city of Tangier. He was pleased to be home again after a year-long voyage to visit his mother in England. Jamal was not pleased, however, upon stepping ashore, to find himself quickly surrounded by a substantial number of Sultan Moulay Ishmail’s soldiers.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Jamal challenged with quiet authority. Those who knew Jamal best had learned to tread cautiously whenever the sheik used that coldly menacing, hushed tone of voice. “Am I under arrest?”

  A large man whose skin glistened like polished ebony stepped forward. “You are not under arrest, Sheik Jamal. Our great sultan, Moulay Ishmail, requests your presence immediately.”

  Jamal’s dark gaze settled disconcertingly on the sultan’s captain, whom he knew well. Ishmail’s army consisted of over fifty thousand captured African slaves. His soldiers were renowned for their fierce loyalty to the sultan, their strength, and their fighting skills.

  “I have just this minute stepped ashore after a long voyage, Captain Hasdai. I must first see to the unloading of my ship. Can this not wait?”

  “You bring plunder?” Hasdai asked.

  “Enough to satisfy even the sultan. I encountered three Spanish galleons, two off the shores of Portugal and one in the Strait of Gibraltar. All riding low in the water and rich with treasure. The sultan will receive his fair share.”

  “My instructions are to bring you to the royal city of Meknes immediately. Much has occurred during your absence and the sultan has need of your services.”

  Jamal thought of his luxurious white marble palace located just west of Meknes in a lush oasis he called Paradise. He hadn’t seen his home in over a year. He closed his eyes and visualized the walled palace, the verdant gardens, the spring-fed lake whose clear blue water sparkled like a million diamonds. He pictured his concubines eagerly awaiting his return and was suddenly very angry at the sultan for demanding his presence.

  “Tell the sultan I will come as soon as I can.”

  “You will come now.” Hasdai was implacable; he’d had his orders and to fail meant death. Sultan Ishmail was a man one did not cross. Mean-spirited and moody, Ishmail expected instant obedience from his slaves.

  Jamal knew when to give in graciously. “Allow me time to change into my robes and issue orders for the transportation of my goods to paradise.” Without waiting for a reply, he spun on his heel and returned to his ship.

  Haroun, Jamal’s lieutenant and the most trusted of all his men, met him on the quarterdeck. “What’s amiss, Jamal?”

  Jamal’s dark brows knotted together in a frown. “My presence is requested in Meknes immediately. You know how the plunder is to be divided. See that the sultan’s share is sent by caravan to Meknes immediately and that my share is delivered to paradise and stored in my vault. Divide the rest among the crew. Await my return at Paradise. I will notify you if I have need of my men-at-arms.”

  “It will be done as you say, my lord.”

  Twenty minutes later, Jamal strode down the gangplank to rejoin Captain Hasdai and his men. He had shed his European garb, consisting of tight trousers, linen shirt and waistcoat, in favor of a flowing white robe referred to as a djellaba, loose pantaloons and a shirt that laced at the neck. His thick, slightly curly dark hair was covered by a white turban.

  “The sultan wishes to present you with a horse,” Hasdai said as one of his men appeared, leading a pure black Arabian stallion. “He is called Kacem, the swift one. He is spirited but the sultan trusts you will be able to handle him.”

  Jamal eyed the prancing horse with relish. It was indeed a generous gift. Whatever the sultan wished of him must be important for Moulay Ishmail to part with such a fine animal. The tooled leather saddle was magnificent, as were the harness and reins studded with a dazzling assortment of precious gems.

  Kacem snorted and pranced as Jamal mounted, flinging his head from side to side, but Jamal was equal to the task, and he quickly brought the horse under control. Hasdai eyed the horse warily, backing his own sturdy animal a good distance from the Arabian, whose wild-eyed snorting and stomping frightened his mild-mannered gelding.

  Moments later, Jamal dug his heels into Kacem’s flanks, leaving Hasdai and his men in his dust. His laughter reverberated behind him, earning smiles from his men. Most had been with Jamal long enough to respect his
wild nature, his utter disregard for danger, his arrogance and his occasional ruthlessness. They also knew him to be fiercely loyal and unfailingly honest, and forgave him some of his harsher qualities.

  With the sultan’s army at his heels, Jamal entered the imperial city of Meknes. Passing through the triple protective wall, he entered the medina. Wending his way through the narrow streets of the old city to the imperial palace in the Kasbah, Jamal took time to savor the sights and sounds of the marketplace. Men playing drums, tambourines and flutes created magic sounds that he had missed these past months. Food cooking on braziers made his mouth water for spicy native fare, and he stopped to laugh at the antics of monkeys riding their masters’ shoulders. How he had missed all this during his sojourn in England.

  He entered the palace grounds through the Bab Berdaine, a gate of magnificent proportions. Captain Hasdai was beside him as he rode past Moulay Ishmail’s granaries and the Christian prison where European captives, who worked on the fortifications, lived in a vast underground space. He did not pause to admire the fine mosques or elaborate gardens as he dismounted and passed beneath the carved and gilded entranceway into the palace.

  “This way, Sheik,” Hasdai said, leading Jamal through spacious rooms and long corridors, past guards standing at attention and supplicants waiting to see the sultan.

  Jamal had been in the palace enough times to know that he was being taken to the sultan’s private chambers instead of to the Hall of the Sultanate, where most business was conducted. His boot-heels clicked loudly against cool marble floors as he was ushered past tall Negro guards into the sultan’s sanctuary.

  Moulay Ishmail, a short, solidly built man of middle years with sharp features and a thick black beard, sat on a cushion surrounded by a bevy of beautiful women. His numerous wives and concubines were said to be among the loveliest women found anywhere in the world. Each was unique in her own way. Their skin tones ranged from milky white to ebony. But it was the sultan himself upon whom Jamal focused his attention.

  “Ah, Sheik Jamal, you have arrived at last,” Moulay Ishmail said, motioning him forward.

  Jamal approached the throne, made his obeisance and asked, “Why have I been summoned without so much as an explanation? I had to leave the unloading of my ship to my men in order to comply with your demand. Could this not wait?”

  Had Ishmail not been in desperate need of Jamal’s help he would have been offended by his abrupt manner. But Jamal was a powerful sheik, a title inherited from his late father, and a faithful subject of Islam and the sultan. Though he carried the foreign blood of his English mother, he followed the teachings of Allah and was valued by Ishmail as an ally.

  Jamal’s activities on the high seas provided Ishmail with much-needed revenue. His escapades as a Barbary pirate were legendary. Ishmail had no reason to doubt or question Jamal’s loyalty.

  “I’ve been anxiously awaiting your return,” the sultan said sulkily. “I need you, Jamal. The Berber cadi, Youssef Abu Selim, is making a pauper of me. He and his warriors attack every caravan going in and out of Meknes, then run to their walled fortresses in the Rif mountains to escape my army. In the meantime, I’m losing valuable revenue.”

  “The Berbers have been a thorn in the side of every sultan and caliph since the Arabs conquered their country,” Jamal said. “Meknes once belonged to them. The city was named after the Meknassa, the great Berber tribe that founded it. They want their territory returned to them. My own father lost his life fighting Berbers in your behalf.”

  With a solemn nod of his head the sultan acknowledged Jamal’s loss. “We will take some refreshment while we discuss this matter. Leave us,” he ordered his women. They scurried away, eying the handsome sheik with admiration as they backed out of the room.

  Jamal sat cross-legged on a cushion facing the sultan as a servant brought a tray of honey cakes and set it between them. Then an old man shuffled in, bringing the charcoal, brazier and kettles necessary to brew fresh mint tea. After the elaborate ceremony ended, he filled tiny cups with the fragrant brew and bowed himself out of the room.

  Ishmail sipped cautiously of the hot tea, then asked, “How did you find your mother?”

  “In good health. She still misses my father.”

  “Is she as beautiful as I remember?”

  “She grows lovelier with age. But you didn’t call me here to discuss my mother.”

  “Indeed not. I know you hold no love for Berbers. That is why I chose you to help conquer them. I want you to capture the Berber cadi Youssef for me. You are cunning and experienced, just the kind of man I need to bring him to heel. My coffers grow empty while Youssef and his tribesmen grow rich.”

  “The Berbers have waged war against you for years,” Jamal contended. “They resent the high taxes you levy on them. And they want their city back. If all the separate tribes banded together into one fighting unit they might succeed in recapturing their land. Fortunately, they fight in small bands.”

  “I’m obliged to expend time and money to keep them in line, when my energies could be better directed to enrich the lives of my people and establish trade with foreigners. Youssef Abu Selim must be destroyed. He is the chieftain. Without the cadi, his people will be left leaderless and without direction.”

  “I’ve yet to visit my home or ease myself with my women,” Jamal complained. “My voyage has been a long one. Can this not wait?”

  “Your women can wait but I cannot,” Ishmail said. “You will be amply rewarded if you undertake this mission.”

  “I don’t need your money. I have enough of my own. The three Spanish galleons that crossed my path were heavy with gold and plate. Your share will arrive in Meknes by caravan.”

  “Ah,” Ishmail said, his black eyes glowing. “A rich caravan, you say? Youssef will be unable to resist so tempting a prize. My army is at your disposal, Jamal. If you cannot bring me Youssef’s head, then find a way to stop him from attacking my caravans.”

  Chapter One

  Beautiful as the sun and stars, Zara sat slim and tall atop her sleek racing camel, the distinctive blue robes of her people billowing about her supple form. As resilient as the stark brown Rif mountains, Zara was a proud example of the wild desert warriors known as the Blue Men. She possessed the heart of a lion, the soul of a staunch Berber freedom fighter, and the soft, rounded body of a woman.

  Flanked by her father, Youssef, the cadi of their tribe, and her betrothed, Sayed, the chieftain’s lieutenant, Zara fixed her bright green eyes intently on the caravan’s progress as it slowly snaked through the winding trail below them. Against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains, the caravan traveled toward the imperial city of Meknes.

  “There it is, Father,” Zara noted excitedly. “It has to be the caravan carrying the pirate’s tribute to the sultan, just as our spy told us.”

  Youssef, a darkly handsome man still in his prime at forty, smiled indulgently at his daughter’s impatience. It was ever thus with his impetuous daughter. Zara, his golden-haired beauty, had ridden at his side since attaining the age of thirteen, and now, at twenty, she was as fierce and eager for battle as any of his seasoned warriors.

  “Caution, daughter,” Youssef warned. “Our success has always depended upon our being more cunning than our enemy. We must not act rashly.”

  “Heed the cadi, Zara,” Sayed advised. “If our spy was right about the rich cargo, the rewards will be worth the wait. The pirate’s plunder will provide our people with the means to continue our fight.”

  Zara quelled her eagerness with difficulty. Even her camel sensed her enthusiasm as he shifted restlessly beneath her. Zara pulled back on the reins, keeping her rapt gaze upon the caravan’s progress.

  “Nothing seems amiss, Father,” Zara said as she glanced behind her at her tribesmen. Garbed in blue robes that had stained their skins the same hue as their robes, the Blue Men were armed to the teeth and eager for battle. “The men but await your signal.”

  Youssef and Sayed exchanged sil
ent nods. Then Youssef raised his scimitar and brought it slashing downward. The signal sent the band of fierce warriors racing down the mountainside toward the hapless caravan, brandishing scimitars and lances, their bloodcurdling cries a frightening forecast of doom.

  “They come,” Captain Hasdai said with relish.

  “Mount!” Jamal ordered as he leapt upon Kacem’s back. One hundred of the sultan’s fiercest warriors reacted instantly to Jamal’s order, eager to engage the Berber menace in battle.

  No stranger to hand-to-hand combat, Jamal waited until the Blue Men were nearly upon the caravan to signal the attack. Had he given the signal a second earlier, the Berbers would have had time to retreat. The sultan’s orders had been specific. He wanted Youssef dead and the Berber forces destroyed.

  Kacem charged down the hillside toward the caravan, as eager for battle as his master.

  Adrenalin surged through Zara. A heady rush of blood pumped through her veins. The scent of victory filled her nostrils. Actual fighting rarely occurred during an attack. Camel drivers were notorious cowards, unwilling to fight to protect the sultan’s goods. The few soldiers sent along for protection usually broke ranks and ran when they saw the fierce Blue Men, mounted upon their racing camels and wielding their scimitars. Zara noted with satisfaction that this caravan appeared even less protected than most. Only six soldiers trailed behind the camels.

  Racing neck and neck with Youssef and Sayed, Zara was confused when suddenly Youssef brought his animal to a skidding halt.

  “Wait, daughter!” Youssef cried, scenting the danger that Zara failed to see. His warning came too late. By the time Youssef issued his warning, Jamal and his army were already upon them. They were vastly outnumbered; there was no escape for Youssef.

  Youssef’s first concern was for his beloved child. Though she had ridden with him countless times in the past, Youssef knew this was no simple taking of a caravan. This was an ambush. Deaths would occur, and he feared for Zara’s life. “Ride, Zara, ride quickly!”