Sheik

by Mason, Connie

  “Then I wish you pleasant dreams, Princess,” Jamal said, rolling up in the blanket and facing away from her.

  Cursing beneath her breath, Zara tried to squirm into a comfortable position, but the rocky soil beneath her became her enemy. Each hard pebble, every jagged twig, dug into her tender flesh despite the thick robes protecting her. And the cold! Blessed Allah, it seeped into her bones until she ached. She glanced over at Jamal lying a short distance away and wished him to Hades. Eventually, however, she fell into a fitful sleep.

  Jamal awoke during the night feeling as if his back were against a blazing brazier. Rolling over, he found soft womanly curves planted against him, absorbing his heat. He smiled grimly. Prideful as the woman was, she had unknowingly gravitated toward the warmth of his body in her sleep. Surrendering to the dictates of his flesh, he pulled her against him, covered them both with the blanket and closed his arms around her.

  Zara awakened and sighed, lulled by warmth and the pleasing scent that filled her nostrils. She tried to stretch, found she could not move her arms and legs, and frowned, suddenly recalling everything that had happened the previous day. Sayed was dead and she was the prisoner of Sheik Jamal. To make matters worse, she was being held snugly against his large body, the scent of him surrounding her, making her giddy.

  Zara surged upright, dragging the blanket from Jamal. He opened his eyes and stared at her. “Good morning. Have I overslept?”

  A sweeping glance around their campsite assured him that the soldiers had not yet begun to stir.

  “How did I get here when I refused to lie beside you?”

  He gave her a smug smile. “You must have changed your mind.”

  “Never! You’re the enemy. I spit in your eye. I spit in the sultan’s eye.”

  He clapped a hand over her mouth. His voice was cold and emotionless. “I wouldn’t try it if I were you. The sultan isn’t as lenient as I. I might not demand your head for such an insult, but the sultan would. Now, will you keep a civil tongue or must I gag as well as bind you?”

  Zara gulped convulsively. She wasn’t afraid of the arrogant sheik but at this point it might pay to practice caution, something she knew little about, or so her father had claimed. She nodded her head and he freed her mouth.

  “That’s more like it.” He pulled her to her feet and untied her hands and feet. “There are some trees yonder, if you have need of them.”

  Zara nodded vigorously. Her bladder was about to burst. She started to walk toward the trees, then stopped abruptly when she found Jamal falling in beside her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “With you, of course, unless you’d like one of Hasdai’s men to accompany you.”

  “There’s no need.”

  Jamal grew weary of Zara’s belligerent attitude and told her so. “You would do well to obey me. Your life depends upon my good will.”

  Once again Zara employed caution and withheld her sharp retort as she continued walking toward the trees Jamal had indicated.

  “I’ll wait here,” Jamal said as he leaned against a thick tree trunk. “Hurry, or I’ll come after you.”

  Zara did as she was told, wishing for a long, leisurely bath and something to eat other than olives and cheese. With Jamal and an army around her, there was virtually no way she could escape. She had to trust her father and his people to rescue her. And if that wasn’t possible, she’d accept Allah’s will with stoic resignation.

  “It’s about time,” Jamal complained when Zara came out from behind a tree. “The men are anxious to be off and I am eager to go home. I’ve been away a very long time. If not for the sultan and his need to rid the world of the Berber horde I would be riding upon my own land, enjoying my women and eating food fit for a king.”

  “I pity your women,” Zara said with a hint of contempt.

  Jamal stared at her. “Why do you say that?”

  “Are they not confined to a harem? Do you not summon them into your exalted presence so that you may use their bodies to ease your lust?”

  Her words were harsh and condemning and didn’t sit well with him. Who was she to tell him what to do and what not to do with his women? Not that there were all that many of them. He kept only three concubines and an older woman to see to their needs. He spent so much time at sea that he saw no reason to fill his harem with women. Neglected women would only make trouble in his absence. But when he returned he happily availed himself of their lush young bodies. His women were cosseted and spoiled; they lacked nothing in the way of material comforts. If they were lonely in his absence, he tried to make it up to them by bringing them back expensive baubles.

  “Did no one ever tell you that men punish their women for being viper-tongued? You speak too boldly for a woman.”

  “Berber women are allowed freedom to speak and act as they please. They show their unveiled faces and are not confined to harems.”

  “No wonder Berber women are so brazen,” Jamal muttered, sliding Zara a look that conveyed his contempt. Allowing women that much freedom was dangerous.

  When they reached the main camp, the men were already mounted and waiting for Jamal to return with his captive. Jamal tossed Zara atop his horse and leaped up behind her. Moments later they were racing toward the imperial city of Meknes.

  Chapter Two

  The medina teemed with throngs of noisy people and animals as Jamal entered Meknes with the sultan’s soldiers. Holding Zara possessively against him, he passed through the narrow streets which led to the Kasbah and imperial palace, a mighty fortress built on the crest of a hill overlooking the medina.

  Zara gazed in awe at the wondrous sights and sounds surrounding her. The souk, a central marketplace within the medina, was a kaleidoscope of vivid colors and pleasing scents. Children and adults alike were grouped around storytellers and magicians while nearby, dancers practiced their graceful movements and monkey trainers and water sellers mixed freely with vendors hawking fruits, vegetables and meats.

  Having lived most of her life in her own village high in the Rif mountains, Zara had never seen such a colorful mixture of sights and sounds. Then the call to prayer by the muezzin in his minaret brought people to a halt as they fell to their knees, facing Mecca, the holy city and birthplace of Allah. The muezzin’s cry echoed over the city, his chant in praise of Allah and his works repeated over and over by the faithful. After prayers, the sultan’s party continued on to the palace.

  Zara feasted her eyes upon the sultan’s exquisite gardens, stunned by their extravagant beauty. A profusion of every kind of flower grew in a precise pattern of vibrant colors. When they reached the palace door, Jamal lowered her to the ground and dismounted behind her. Moments later the door was opened by two palace guards dressed in striped pantaloons, short vests and capes. When Zara would have paused in the doorway to gawk at the ornate walls and ceilings held up by tall marble columns, Jamal urged her forward.

  “Have you never been inside a palace before, Princess?”

  “Not one like this,” Zara admitted. “Perhaps I might have lived in such a dwelling if the Arabs hadn’t stolen our cities.”

  “Come along, I’m sure the sultan has been advised of my arrival and is waiting for my report.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the harem. You can eat and refresh yourself while I speak in private with the sultan.”

  Zara stopped in her tracks. “The harem? I have never been in a harem in my life and don’t intend to go there now.”

  No sooner had Zara uttered those words than a plump Negro slave shuffled up to Jamal and bowed low. He wore robes of the finest silk and pointy shoes of soft leather. His face was round, smooth and unlined, and his expression was anything but servile.

  “I am Assad, chief eunuch. I will take the slave to the harem and bring her forth when Moulay Ishmail summons her.”

  Zara’s chin rose mutinously. “I won’t go!”

  Assad gave her a look of stunned disbelief. Such behavior from a
woman was unheard of. “The lady needs to be taught proper conduct, my lord,” Assad advised. “Have you impressed upon her the fact that the sultan will not allow such disrespect from a woman? He is not an easy man to deal with.”

  Jamal grasped Zara’s arm, pulling her aside. “Assad is right. You must do as you’re told and keep a civil tongue in your mouth. Moulay Ishmail is so enraged at your father, ’tis unlikely he’ll show compassion to Youssef’s daughter.”

  Zara swallowed her angry retort, realizing she would gain nothing by antagonizing the sultan’s household. “I thought I was your captive.”

  Jamal gazed into her vivid green eyes and wished it were so. “Nay, you were never mine. I merely held you in the sultan’s name. After I make my report I will leave you in his care and return to my oasis home. I am not the master of your fate.”

  “I will take my chances with the sultan,” Zara said haughtily. She nodded at Assad. “I’m ready. Take me where you will.”

  Jamal watched her walk away, her head held high, her pointed little chin refusing to lower, and a shiver of dread passed through him. The stubborn little wench didn’t realize the danger she was in. As angry as Ishmail was with her father, Jamal wouldn’t give a fig for her future. If he could but gag her he might have a slim chance of saving her life, but the brazen Berber vixen would have her say no matter what. The sultan had no use for women with cutting tongues, and Jamal feared that the consequences would not be to Zara’s liking.

  Zara found the harem beyond anything she’d ever seen: floors covered with thick woolen carpets, so colorful they hurt her eyes, walls hung with silks and satins, divans upholstered in rich velvets. And women. Allah, the women were too numerous to count. Short, tall, fat, plump, slim, they were dressed in vivid peacock colors and pale pastels, flowing silks, satins and brocades.

  Some women lounged on divans or sat on pillows upon the floor. Others were bathing naked in a sparkling pool in the center of the main room. Several attendants dressed in coarse robes bustled about, catering to the demands of their charges. Assad beckoned to an older woman and she hurried over to them.

  “Badria is the mistress of the bath. She will see that you are refreshed and fed something before you appear before the sultan.”

  Zara and Badria eyed one another warily. Badria found her tongue first. “You wear the robes of a Berber warrior.”

  “Aye, I am a Berber warrior,” Zara proudly admitted.

  Suddenly Badria snatched away Zara’s headdress, releasing a cascade of hair the color of corn silk that reached nearly to her waist. Badria gazed in mute admiration at the combination of oval green eyes, smooth golden skin and hair that shimmered like sunlight.

  “I know of no warriors who look like you and I’ve lived a long time,” Badria contended. “Who are you?”

  “I am Princess Zara, daughter of the great cadi Youssef.”

  Badria’s breath hissed through her teeth. “You’re the Berber chieftain’s daughter? Allah save us.”

  The harem wasn’t so isolated from the world that Badria didn’t know what was taking place outside the walls. There were numerous ways of finding out things. Eunuchs and slaves could always be bribed to bring back news of importance.

  “I am hungry,” Zara said boldly. “Bring me food.”

  The women lounging within earshot snickered at Zara’s imperious manner while secretly admiring her bravado.

  “You’ll bathe first, then food,” Badria said, wrinkling her nose as if sniffing something offensive. “You reek of camel dung and dirt. Take off your robes. I’ll find you something decent to wear.”

  Zara was reluctant to remove the badge of her people. Once she shed the distinctive blue robes, she would be just another woman. “You may shake the dust from my robes but I will wear them to meet the sultan.”

  “You’re a foolish young woman,” Badria contended. “Appearing before the sultan dressed like a man will surely anger him. If you wish to impress him—”

  “I have no desire to impress the sultan,” Zara claimed, interrupting Badria in mid-sentence. “I am Princess Zara, daughter of Youssef. I’m well aware of my fate. Do not badger me, mistress. I will bathe and eat and face the sultan in my own clothing.”

  Never in all her years had Badria met a more obstinate creature. So be it, she thought, disgruntled. At least she’d tried to save the Berber vixen. Defying the Sultan was not wise.

  Zara allowed Badria to disrobe her, paying little heed to the woman’s gasp of shock and outrage when she noted that Zara’s body hair had not been removed.

  “What manner of men are Berbers that they allow their women to keep their body hair?” Badria sniffed. “I will personally see that you appear before the sultan as smooth as a newborn babe.”

  In that respect, Zara knew Berbers and Arabs agreed. Berber men like their women smooth, hairless and clean, but Zara had found little time of late to groom herself properly. Besides, no man had ever seen her undressed. Not even Sayed. The proper time and place had never arrived for them to consummate their love.

  Zara shrugged. “If you wish, for all the good it will do either of us. Never let it be said that Princess Zara met her death with an unclean body.”

  Zara was led to the pool, trying not to feel self-conscious as the sultan’s wives and concubines watched with avid interest. She ignored them as Badria scooped soft soap from a jar and spread it over her body. Then the bath mistress took a flat tool and scraped off the lather, removing both dirt and soap at the same time. Next, her arms, legs and groin were spread with a pale pink substance that when rinsed off left her skin smooth and hairless as a babe’s. Then she immersed herself in the pool, sighing with pleasure as the warm, scented water soothed her body.

  Badria washed Zara’s hair, scrubbing and rinsing several times before she was satisfied. When Zara emerged from the pool, Badria dried her hair with silk until it glistened and shone like the purest sunlight. Then Badria robed Zara in a diaphanous dressing gown and sat her on a cushion before a small table. Moments later a slave brought in a tray and placed it before Zara.

  Zara ate heartily of couscous cooked with lamb, peeled green figs, newly made yogurt, fresh bread, grapes and oranges. The beverage maker came with his brazier, charcoal and kettles and brewed mint tea, which Zara drank in copious amounts. She ate her fill, then sat back, replete. After such a meal she was ready to face anything, even arrogant Sheik Jamal.

  Jamal was taken to the Hall of the Sultanate, where Moulay Ishmail awaited his report. He made his obeisance and waited for the sultan to speak.

  “I trust you met with success.” It was a statement rather than a question. The sultan did not accept failure.

  “The caravan will reach the city gates intact before sundown tomorrow. We met the Berbers and turned them back. I left men behind to gather the wounded and protect the caravan from further attack.”

  “What of that jackal Youssef? Have I seen the last of him?”

  “Youssef escaped, my lord sultan.”

  Ishmail rose angrily from his ornate throne of carved ebony inlaid with gold and precious gems. “You failed? Surely not, Jamal. I’ve never known you to fail. I cannot tolerate failure. If what you say is true, then Youssef will continue his raids. He will strike again and again.”

  Jamal smiled, not at all intimidated by Ishmail’s anger. Other men might quail in their boots, but not Jamal. The sultan had come to depend upon the plunder from Jamal’s pirating.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me when you see the gift I’ve brought you. My gift will stop Youssef from raiding your caravans and keep his people in their mountain fortress.”

  Ishmail sat down, eager now to listen. “What game do you play, Jamal? I’m thoroughly sick of the Berber raids upon my caravans. What wondrous gift have you brought me?”

  “Youssef’s daughter.”

  Ishmail’s face grew mottled with rage. “His daughter? His daughter?” he repeated shrilly. “Of what use is a daughter to a man like Youssef? Had you brough
t me his son I would have given you half my kingdom.”

  “Hear me out, mighty sultan. Youssef has no living sons. His daughter rides at his side and is as fierce as any son. Youssef highly values Princess Zara. Let her be your weapon against her father.”

  Somewhat mollified, Ishmail mulled over Jamal’s words. “I would like to see this princess upon whom Youssef dotes. I will judge her worth for myself before determining her use to me.” He turned to a guard standing nearby. “Tell Assad to bring the Berber wench to me.”

  Jamal felt his heart slam against his chest. He had known this moment had to arrive but now he felt an unreasonable fear. Zara wasn’t a woman to hold her tongue, and the sultan wasn’t a man to condone insolence in a woman. Fireworks were bound to occur when the two met face to face. A fierce protectiveness toward Zara welled up in him, one that both surprised and annoyed him. He prayed that Allah would take pity and strike Zara mute.

  Zara knew the moment she saw Assad enter the harem that he had come for her. She had already donned her pantaloons, shirt and blue robes in anticipation of her summons and was waiting for him. She thanked Badria for her care and followed the plump eunuch through the lush interior of the women’s quarters into the marble and mosaic hallways beyond the guarded entrance.

  Zara was taken directly to the Hall of the Sultanate, past a pair of fierce guards carrying scimitars and wearing short knives strapped to their upper arms. Zara dragged in a shaky breath, lifted her head proudly and stared straight ahead into the vast hall as she approached the throne. Her gaze found Jamal and she faltered. He seemed to be conveying a silent warning that she chose to ignore.

  “The sultan is waiting,” Assad said, giving her a little shove when her legs refused to move.

  Zara stumbled inside the huge hall, righted herself and walked on wooden limbs toward the dais.

  “That’s far enough,” Ishmail said when Zara reached Jamal’s side. Then he waited for her to make her obeisance.

  “Pay homage to your sultan,” Jamal hissed into her ear when she boldly glared at the sultan and showed no sign of prostrating herself before him.