Hart, Mallory Dorn

by Jasmine on the Wind

  Sighing, she slid her arm about his neck. He bent forward and found her mouth. They kissed with so soft and exquisite a tenderness that the glory of the dreaming moment was forever impressed into the infinities of their memories.

  And then the tranquil prelude was gone, and swept away with it was all the rancor, all guilt, all proud emotional dams. She clung to him, hugging him as fiercely as he was hugging her, and then she threw back her head to laugh shakily. He gathered her to him, kissing her throat, her chin, her lips; he tasted her lips with small, deep kisses as if he were savoring the sweetness of ripe fruit, and then forced them open with his thrusting tongue to explore the space beyond them, his arms tightening about her convulsively as she met him with her own questing tongue, timidly and then finally passionately.

  Dolores gloried in the joy coursing through her. Nothing else mattered, she was doing what her heart wished and her body craved. With her own hand she helped him to find the simple fastenings of her garments and draw them quickly off until her flesh was as naked as his, and then went easily and naturally into his arms, molding her body to the heat of his, enfolded by him and pressed hip against hip, thigh against thigh, reveling in the ripple of muscles in his back, the tight, smooth warmth of his skin, the masculine smell of him as she buried her nose in his neck, the strong hand that caressed her buttocks. His groan this time was of sheer delight, and a deep pleasure flooded through her, and what was more, a bold need.

  Her sudden move to withdraw surprised him enough that she was able to break from his embrace, but only to push him down on his back so she could crawl further up on him, acting by instinct and a powerful love to press quick and burning little kisses on any of his face not covered by hair, and then working down, over his broad, hard chest, his flat belly, hearing his breath catch in astonishment and then come quicker, feeling his heart beating strongly under her lips...

  He pulled her up to fit his mouth on hers again and kissed her ardently, one hand slipping up and down her body in heated answer to her, then he rolled them both over so that now she lay on her back, and in the first blue light of morning from the window grill she saw that the hot azure gaze devouring her also held wonder and tenderness and perhaps even love, and it was her turn to give a small moan of pure happiness.

  His warm palm caressed her hips and belly in sensuous, possessive circles, and then his hand slid up to cup one pear-shaped, pointed breast. She closed her eyes helplessly against the voluptuous tremors that rippled through her body. His lips closed around her erect nipple and he tickled it with his tongue and sucked and drew at it, summoning her very soul to the site of his mouth, and also to the moist place, far away, where his other hand was beginning slowly to touch her and move. She gave herself up to the ecstasy he was creating, opened her legs, let her hips keep rhythm with the skillful hand where now her whole life and being seemed centered, her heart skipping as his tantalizing lovemaking seemed to lift her off the bed.

  The hard, insistent lips sought her mouth again in a deep, lingering, tonguing kiss, and now that mysterious, musky male scent filled up her nostrils and set her body trembling, set it on fire. Deliberately he removed his mouth from hers and in a second she felt his lips close around her other nipple. The pace and movement of his fingers in the wet warmth below her triangle of hair increased feverishly. She was riding his finger, riding, mounting to a delirious pitch, her breath coming in gasps, her open mouth dried, she did not know where she was or care, she only wanted something, wanted, wanted— Frantic, she sunk her teeth into his muscled shoulder and heard him laugh. He discontinued for a very brief moment, and just when she thought she was going to kill him for it he was above her, he entered her, and there was no pain, only the most exquisite rapture spreading from between her legs through her whole body as she accepted him and surrounded him with her warmth, and finally moved frantically with him. He gasped out her name as the surge of his desire overtook him and also overtook her, like a burst of white light—he was her love, her passion, her only desire—and she experienced so nameless a convulsion she thought she was dying and cried out in ravaged shock.

  Later, for there was a later and she did not die, she knew that they lay quietly side by side, drained, in an island of time that held only them, beyond the reach of anything else, even reality. His eyes were closed, his breathing regular; he rested with his hand relaxed upon her belly, relaxed and yet possessive.

  Tomorrow was her nineteenth birthday, Dolores thought. But the number was meaningless for today was the first day of her life. Her body seemed emptied and full at the same time. She wanted to laugh, to sing, to shout her triumph, but she felt too languid, her limbs felt too voluptuously heavy. She looked over at her supine knight, her master, her tormentor, her love. The future was veiled and imperfect, but for the present, still remembering the stirring heat of his kisses and then the wild excitement of his touch, she had only a grateful smile.

  The wail of the muezzin from the palace mosque brought Francho's eyes open, and he saw the brightness of day peeping through the window grill. He had not been dozing, not really, just thinking. He turned his head toward Dolores and saw she was up on one elbow, her gray eyes soft, and she was smiling at him, a small, shy, and wondering smile, like a bride, he thought, on the first day of marriage. And she was very beautiful.

  With a lazy arm he fished up from the floor the puffed silken coverlet to ward off the morning chill from them and with a satisfied grunt pulled her into the curve of his shoulder and gently pressed her head down.

  "Sleep now, querida. A few more hours. Sleep."

  Snuggling into him blissfully she did just what he told her to.

  ***

  When she awoke she was alone. For a moment her heart skidded and dropped as she thought it had all been a dream. But no. Her breath came again as she took in the mussed couch where her love had lain and the pressure outline his head had left upon the soft pillow. The air was heavy and still in the room, perfumed by the flowering bushes beyond the bead curtain to the garden. She wriggled over to lay her head where his had been and closed her eyes, trying to breathe in his essence. She smiled languorously and idly stroked her own belly, appreciating its slight roundness and the sensuous smoothness of her flesh, remembering as little thrills ran up her backbone the sensations of being physically loved, of being caressed and kissed and sucked and entered and— Her eyes popped open and she struggled to stop her thoughts. Madre de Dios, her hips had begun to move in that way again, her body to yearn, she was intemperate, wanton, debauched. How would she get through the day?

  Forcing herself to action she bounded up into the patterned rays of sunshine streaming from the window (which made it almost noonday) and drew on her pantaloons and tunic. She splashed water upon her face from a ewer and basin behind the screen, smoothed her hair and long, thick plait with wet hands, and opened the door. She intended to go to the slave quarters to wash more thoroughly and to find a fresh tunic, then to the kitchens for whatever she could scare up to fill her complaining stomach, and then back to put Jamal ibn Ghulam's chamber to rights, trim the lamp, and bring in some flowers from the tiny garden to decorate the room.

  She found Selim sitting outside the door. He blinked at her sourly. "Well, finally. Does the Sultana deign to get up?"

  "What is it to you how late I sleep if the master lets me?" she flung back.

  "Because I have my orders. Clean up, he says, sweep, fresh sheets, fill the incense burners, bring wine..."

  "I do not do that anymore?"

  "No, he says. It's back to work for you, Selim, he says. And he sends me off to fetch his breakfast to the baths and take messages here and there. And he walks off humming and whistling as if Allah had showered the pasha's wealth in his lap."

  "Well, you needn't grumble, it's the work you were doing all along before he punished me."

  Selim pulled a long face to show what he thought of going back to work. He picked at a pimple on his chin. "Master also says he will go down to the ci
ty tonight." He looked up under his brows to enjoy her fading smile and then slyly added, "But he says he will be back not too late, for you to attend him, as ordinary. Yach! Women get too many privileges," he complained, and followed up with an adolescent smirk as Dolores flounced off.

  The guard at the harem's slave dormers sent her to see Sayeda Fawzia. "Well I see you have been reinstated," Fawzia remarked. "I had a message by your master's slave boy this morning."

  Dolores said nothing but stood with her chin elevated in her old proud manner. Fawzia's bright eyes missed little. They studied the high color warming the velvet cheekbones before her, the clear luster of the eyes that had so lately been dull, the cheerful smile sweetening the Christian's wide mouth. "Hmmmm. I see you have been more than reinstated," the fat harem mistress noted with dry satisfaction and a hint of curiosity. "Finally. It certainly took you long enough to please him. I wondered at his patience. If you are smart you will take the experience of the slave quarters as a warning, my girl, and remember my words: they seldom forgive twice." She wrinkled her broad nose in her usual habit. "Fah! Look at your hands! And your hair, so straggly. And your eyes are naked. Your old chamber has been restored to you this morning and all your belongings. Go there and I'll send some attendants to you." A smile warmed the pudgy face.

  "I thank you, Sayeda Fawzia," Dolores said softly, and meant it. The dark misery of the past weeks had faded into the distance like a nightmare retreating on muffled hooves. The new day was brilliant with sun; in fact, it was the most beautiful day she had ever experienced. Everything stood out sharp and clear as she crossed a little plaza on her way to her room, the air was more wonderfully scented, the birds were more sportive and singing more sweetly than ever before. She was happy to have her clothes and jewels back, and some shreds of her pride. And beyond that she was just, very simply, happy.

  That afternoon, once again bathed, plucked, tweezed, powdered, and perfumed, she begged to climb to the battlements atop the harem to dry her hair in the sun and meanwhile to peer out through the screening grill at the vast Christian camp of thousands of striped and patterned pavilions which was jumping up on the plain like a field of exotic mushrooms, but too far away for her to make out any of the individual insignias streaming from their tentpoles. She had always expected to be thrilled beyond measure to see Ferdinand's army finally swarming before the city of her captivity, promising with its might eventual freedom for her and victory for her side. But now she stared with a somewhat jaundiced eye at the brisk activity about the Christian encampment, where a palisade of stout logs was swiftly going up, and only felt annoyed. It was—it was an invasion of her privacy! Why didn't they go home?

  She had the grace to burst out laughing at herself, drawing the curious gaze of several other women who had been peering through the grill at the enemy's number and twittering to each other. What disloyalty to wish her own people transported to the other side of the world! She clearly understood, after all, that her life—and Francisco de Mendoza's life—was anchored in the fabric of the Spanish Court and in Seville, Madrid, Valladolid. And she further realized that the Catholic rulers would have to sit there and wait for months on end and their army fight many a bloody skirmish before Granada might weaken. But she was greedily jealous of this wondrous obsession which she and her love had at last bowed to, and she wanted no interference, not yet, not from Leonora de Zuniga or Medina-Sidonia or Tendilla or Felipe de Guzman, not yet. Still amused with herself, she chuckled. As if his dear Leonora or her own patron the Duke were capable of leaping the leagues separating all of them and flying over the walls! Yes, she could allow her heart to soar for a while, and this was her consolation. God would not begrudge her the joy of adoring this man, her dashing, parfit knight, her black-bearded Moor with the lyrical voice, the exciting lover who hungered for her too, if only for a while. Whatever befell her, should she live to be an old, old lady, nothing would ever surpass the profound joy of being with him in this wondrous place.

  Looking about quickly to see that she was unobserved, she saucily thumbed her nose and crossed her eyes at the Christian encampment. Then, smiling widely, her cleft chin lifted high as her spirits, she flapped down the tower stairs in her loose slippers to have her hair brushed into a coppery sheen.

  ***

  She waited for him that night, the hours passing so slowly that even the beadwork she had brought with her to pass the time became a bore. She looked up eagerly at every footstep passing outside the portal, every voice approaching, but no hand touched the latch. Even eavesdropping on the cavorting voices beyond the high hedge of the little garden, apparently several men and a giggling dancer chinking finger cymbals, grew tedious. Finally she put down the scarf she was embellishing and wandered about the room, but with an ear out for the right footfall.

  She had donned her finest garments. Her wide pantaloons were of the most gossamer cotton, her little jacket was of weighty blue satin closely embroidered with arabesques of silver thread and tiny glass beads. There were shiny brass coins dangling from her purple silk sash, and her henna-soled feet were encased in green sandals trimmed with softly tinkling little bells. Her burnished hair cascaded in waves down her back, her eyes were rimmed with kohl to emphasize their tilt, her eyelids and lips had been touched with a shiny tint. The scent of jasmine had been artfully applied to her skin, her neck, the inner side of her elbows, between her breasts. Even Fawzia had approved of her.

  She couldn't get her heart to stop bouncing around in her chest even as the wait grew longer and longer. What would he say to her? Would they both feel embarrassed? Would he regret the whirlwind that had swept them up? Every now and then panic would flutter in her stomach alternating with excitement. Finally she occupied herself for the fourth time with rearranging the flowers in a big brass vase. And suddenly she looked up and there he was, just coming through the door, tall and olive-skinned in his white turban and close-cut tunic.

  She stood there frozen, hugging several of the long stalks of pink blossoms against her, her breath caught in her throat. He closed the portal behind him quietly. The intense blue eyes roved over her. She opened her lips to greet him but no words came out. In silence they stood and stared at one another, and yet the silence rang with meaning. Dolores felt her knees go wobbly.

  He drew his dark brows together and his voice was gruff, almost accusing. "I heard nothing anyone said to me all day long. All I could think of was you."

  She gulped and unlocked her throat. "The... the mistress of the harem seemed to be able to tell that I had— pleased you. Now she likes me better."

  "So do I." He nodded solemnly.

  She wondered at the childish bashfulness she was feeling, it was not at all like her. But she found something to say. "W—will you not step in? It is your own chamber."

  For a moment longer he stood at the door, and then moved a few paces toward her and stopped, unslinging his guembri and lowering it to the floor. He unbuttoned the tight neckline of his tunic, not taking his eyes off of her. "You are more lovely than those blossoms you hold, doña. You are very, very beautiful."

  Dolores felt the blush rise in her cheeks, yet she could only continue to stare at him, enmeshed in the virile charm that drew her and bound her. "I thank you, sir," she whispered.

  Tongue-tied they both stood a moment longer, motionlessly yearning toward each other. And then, with a twitch of his lips that suddenly became a wide grin he flung open his arms in invitation. With a little cry she dropped the flowers and rushed into his embrace and he picked her up and whirled her around in a paroxysm of delight, both of them laughing in the back of their throats. She threw her head back, and he dipped and scooped her up in strong arms and carried her toward the divan, already spread with silky sheets for his evening repose. He covered her face with little kisses as he strode and then plumped her down in a nest of pillows.

  Suddenly she felt nervous again. She sat upright. "Uh... have you already dined, raiss?" She smiled but one hand was twisting the finge
rs of the other.

  "No."

  "Then I shall immediately send Selim—" She made a half-hearted attempt to get up but he held her firmly in place.

  "No. It is not food I am interested in..." Slowly he lowered his face to hers till the tips of their noses touched and then he pecked her parted lips briefly, several times, kisses so delicious and teasing they started her heart pounding. Then he straightened and moved his shoulders to loosen them. "But I could use some drink, a little wine for a gullet dry from wailing Arabic modes all day and evening to usher in Ramadan. No, you stay, I will fetch it."

  He poured out and carried back to the couch two brass goblets of pale, straw-colored Andalusian wine. Smiling he tipped one goblet up to her lips. "Drink, hermanita, it will heat up your blood."

  "I don't need it," she said and looked up at him through her long lashes. Nevertheless she took the goblet from him and drank a few gulps. He drained his quickly, his cerulean gaze never moving from her over the rim of the glass.

  Then he chuckled. "You don't need it? Lady, where is your modesty?"

  " 'Twas never my saving grace, modesty," she said with a shrug, a chuckle in her voice.

  He swiftly set down his goblet next to hers and with a rumble low in his throat launched himself at her and pressed her down on the pillows. He swiftly opened the rest of his tunic and cast it aside, then pulled off his turban. The eyes that scanned her face grew serious then, and into her breathless silence he said her name, said it so reverently and wonderingly that she quivered inside. "Dolores," he breathed. "Dolores..."