Adora

by Bertrice Small

  Murad had been correct in assuming that she had never been kissed. In fact, Theadora knew nothing of what happened between a man and a woman for she had spent all but four years of her young life behind convent walls. When she had been married Zoe had wisely refrained from discussing the duties of the marriage bed with a child years away from puberty. Consequently, the sultan’s youngest wife was a total innocent.

  Now she wondered about the handsome young man whose strong arms had saved her from serious injury. Tall and tanned, she knew he was as fair as she, for where his black hair had been newly cropped, his skin was quite light. His jet dark eyes had been caressingly, even boldly, warm; his smile, which had revealed straight white teeth, very impudent.

  Of course she would not see him again. It was simply unthinkable. Still, she wondered if he really would come tomorrow night. Would he actually be bold enough to climb the convent’s orchard wall again?

  There was only one way to find out. She must hide herself in the orchard before dark and watch. When he came—if he came—she would not, of course, reveal herself. She would remain hidden until he left. But at least her curiosity would be satisfied.

  She giggled, imagining his chagrin. He obviously thought himself quite irresistible if he expected a respectable girl to sneak out and meet him. He would soon learn differently.

  Chapter Two

  Murad had been amused by his encounter with the girl, Theadora. He was a grown man, experienced in the amatory arts. Her sweetness, her unaffected innocence, enchanted him.

  Legally, she was his father’s third wife. But he felt there was virtually no chance that Sultan Orkhan would ever bring her into his palace, let alone his bed. The little princess was merely a political pawn. Murad felt no remorse over dallying with her. He was an honorable man and had no intention of seducing her.

  Murad Beg was the youngest of the sultan’s three sons. He had a full brother, Suleiman, and a half brother, Ibrahim. Ibrahim’s mother was the daughter of a Byzantine nobleman who was distantly related to Theadora. Her name was Anastatia, and she looked with haughty disdain upon Murad’s mother, who was the daughter of a Georgian hetman. Anastatia was the sultan’s first wife, but Murad’s mother, who was called Nilufer, was the sultan’s favorite. Her sons were the most beloved of their father.

  Murad’s half brother, Ibrahim, was the eldest of the sultan’s sons, but he had been dropped on his head as a baby and had not been right since. He lived in his own palace, lovingly tended to by his slaves and by his women, who were all sterile. Prince Ibrahim alternated between normality and periods of wild insanity. Still, his mother hoped he would follow his father as sultan, and she slyly worked toward this goal.

  Prince Suleiman also kept his own palace, but he had sired two sons and several daughters. Murad had no children. His women were, by his choice, incapable of childbearing. The youngest son of Orkhan knew that his father’s choice for successor was Suleiman.

  Though Murad loved his older brother, he intended to fight him for the empire when their father died. But there was always the chance that he might lose—and that would mean not only his own death but the deaths of all his family. So Murad chose not to have children until he was sultan and his sons could be born into relative safety.

  Mere chance had brought him past the Convent of St. Catherine that afternoon. He had been visiting a charming and delightful widow who lived in a nearby neighborhood. He had passed the convent just in time to catch Adora. He chuckled. What a minx! She had wanted peaches, and she had gone after what she wanted. What a worthy wife she would be for some man. He stopped, a smile lighting his face. Muslim law decreed that a man might take any of his dead father‘s wives for his own, provided there was no incest committed. How much longer could Orkhan live?

  The girl was safe—and unlikely to be called upon to serve her royal lord. Theadora Cantacuzene had been forgotten. And it was better that way, thought Murad grimly, for rumors had been circulating in the last few years about the sexual depravities practiced by his father in efforts to retain his potency.

  Murad wondered if she would come the following night. She had scolded him for kissing her that first time. But she had yielded the second time, and he had felt the turmoil that swept over her before she fled.

  The next day seemed to drag for Theadora. As it was midsummer the convent’s school was closed, and the daughters of Bursa’s wealthy Christians had repaired to their seaside villas with their families. No one thought to invite the emperor’s daughter to spend her holidays with them. Those sympathetic to her hesitated because of her position. The others considered her déclassé because of her marriage, though they would never have dared to voice such thoughts publicly. So Theodora was forced by circumstances to be alone at the very time in her young life when she needed a friend.

  Sharp of mind, she read and studied everything she could. Still Theadora grew restless with a longing she could neither name, nor understand. There was no one in whom she might confide. She was alone, as she had always been. Her classmates were polite, but she was never with them long enough to be able to form any real friendships. Her servants were palace slaves, and they were changed thrice yearly since serving the sultan’s child wife in her convent was considered dull duty. Consequently the sultan’s wife was more innocent of the world and of men than any other girl her age. She was eager for adventure.

  As the hot afternoon drew to a close, Theadora attended vespers in the convent church. Returning to her house she ate sparingly of capon, a salad of new lettuces from the convent’s kitchen garden, and the last of her stolen peaches. She drank of a delicate white wine from Cyprus.

  Aided by her slaves she bathed in lightly scented warm water, which eased the heat. Then a short, white silk shift was slipped over her dark hair, which was unbound and brushed.

  She waited for those few moments between sunset and dusk when she might slip unobserved into the peach orchard. She now possessed a key, having boldly asked the reverend mother for one and, to her surprised delight, received it.

  “I am restless with the heat,” she told the nun. “If the orchards are open to me, I will have more space to roam in. May I eat the peaches?”

  “Of course, child! What is ours is also Your Royal Highness’s.”

  The convent was now quiet. The residential neighborhood about it was quiet too. Only the little twilight creatures, cheeping and chirping, broke the purple stillness. Theadora rose and drew a dark-colored, lightweight cloak about her nightshift. She left her ground floor bedroom by a window, then hurried along the gravel path toward the orchard. Her soft kid slippers made virtually no sound at all. The little key was clutched tightly in her damp palm.

  To her relief, the small door into the orchard opened noiselessly. Closing it carefully behind her, she leaned against it, eyes closed, weak with relief. She had made it!

  “You came!” The low, deep voice broke the stillness.

  Her eyes flew open. “Wh-what are you doing here?” she demanded, outraged.

  “Did we not agree yesterday to meet here tonight?” he asked. She could hear the laughter in his voice.

  Oh, good St. Theodosia! What kind of a wanton must he think I am? she thought. Mustering all the dignity she could, she said severely, “I only came to tell you that you must not violate the sanctuary of this convent, of which the orchards are a part.” Her heart was hammering wildly.

  “I see,” he said gravely. “I thought perhaps you had come early so you might hide yourself and wait to see if I came.” The silence that followed seemed eternal. “You’re blushing,” he said mischievously.

  “H-h-how can you tell?”

  His hand gently touched her face, and she jumped back. “Your cheek is warm,” he answered.

  “The night is hot,” she quickly replied.

  Again he laughed that soft laugh. Taking her hand, he said imperiously, “Come! I have found us a perfect place—toward the middle of the orchard, beneath the trees. We cannot be seen there.” She was
pulled along until he ducked beneath the spreading branches of a large tree and drew her in after him. “Here we are,” he said. “Safe…and very private.” To his amazement, she suddenly burst into tears. Surprised, Murad put his arms about her. “Adora, my sweet, what is it?”

  “I-I-I-I am afraid,” she stuttered, sobbing.

  “Of what, dove?”

  “Of you!” she wailed.

  And then he realized how very innocent she really was. Gently he drew her down to sit on his cloak, spread on the grass. “Do not be frightened, Adora. I will not harm you.”

  He held her tenderly, close against his chest, and the front of his shirt was quickly soaked. “I-I have never been with a m-man before,” she confided, her sobs lessening somewhat. “I do not know what I should do, and I would not have you think me ignorant.”

  He swallowed his laughter. “Adora,” he said gravely, “I think it might help if you know who I am as I know who you are. Your Highness.” He heard her soft gasp. “I am Prince Murad, the third son of Sultan Orkhan. The gossips would have you believe I am a profligate. But I obey the Koran, and I would certainly never seduce my father’s wife—even if she is very tempting. And only a political pawn.”

  For a moment all was silent. Then she asked, “Have you known my identity from the beginning?”

  “Almost. When we met, I was returning to the palace after visiting a friend who lives nearby. There is no other way to go except past St. Catherine’s. When you told me your name it suddenly came to me that you were the Theadora.”

  “And knowing who I was, you still kissed me? And made an assignation with me? You are despicable, Prince Murad!”

  “You came, Adora,” he reminded her quietly.

  “Only to tell you that you must not come here again!”

  “No. Because you were curious, dove. Admit it.”

  “I admit nothing.”

  He took a gentler tone with her. “Curiosity is no crime, my sweet. It is natural for a young girl to be curious about men. Especially a girl as cloistered as you are. Tell me, when was the last time you saw a man?”

  “Father Bessarion hears my confession weekly,” she said primly.

  He laughed low. “I said a man, not the dried-up husk of an elderly priest.”

  “I have not seen a man since I entered St. Catherine’s. The other students do not live here, and no one comes to visit me.” It was stated simply, mat-ter-of-factly.

  He reached out and covered the slim little hand with his own large, square one. His touch was warm. He felt her relax. “Is it very lonely for you, Adora?”

  “I have my studies, Prince Murad,” she answered.

  “No friends? Poor little princess.”

  She snatched her hand away. “I do not need anyone’s pity. Least of all yours!”

  The moon had risen. It was very round and very full; its bright light cast a silvery glow on the fat, golden peaches that hung like perfect globes from the heavy branches. It touched the fair-skinned face of Theadora Cantacuzene, and Murad saw that her look was proud, though she fought to keep tears from filling her amethyst eyes.

  “I do not pity you, dove,” he said. “I merely regret that someone as alive as you are should be wed to an old man and incarcerated in a convent. You were made for a young man’s passionate caresses.”

  “I am a princess of Byzantium,” she said coldly. “I was born to the title, even before my father became emperor. It is the duty of a princess to wed where she may do her family the most good. It was my father the emperor’s wish that I wed the sultan. As a good Christian daughter it was not my place to question his wish.”

  “Your filial devotion is to be commended, Adora, but you speak like the child you are. If you had ever known love you would not be so stiff and unyielding.”

  “My family loves me,” she retorted, outraged.

  “Do they? Your father bartered you into marriage with a man old enough to be your grandfather, simply so he can call upon the sultan’s armies to help him keep his stolen throne,” said Murad. “He gave your sister in marriage to his rival, the boy emperor. At least she has a husband only three years her senior. And should the young John overcome the old John eventually, your father‘s life would still be safe because his daughter would then be empress! But what of you? Do you know that your sister, Helena, recently gave birth to her first child, a son? She preaches a holy war against the ‘infidel’! Helena obviously has great love for you. She is aided in her endeavors by your half sister, Sophia, whose piety is second only to her sexual excesses, which are the scandal of Constantinople. When was the last time either of them communicated with you? And what of your brother, Matthew, who is now to become a monk? Has he written to you? These are the people who love you?”

  “My father did what was best for the empire,” she said angrily. “He is a great ruler! As to my sisters, Sophia was already a woman when I was yet a child. I barely know her. Helena and I have always been rivals. She may talk of holy wars,” and here Adora’s voice became scornful, “but it will never be. The empire can barely defend itself, let alone do battle against the sultan.” Her grasp of that particular political truth impressed him. “My mother,” she continued, “keeps me fully informed. Though we have not seen each other since I left Constantinople, she writes to me each week. And my lord Orkhan has a special messenger, for me alone, who brings my letters directly from the coast and returns with my replies. My half brother John was killed in battle a few months after I came here, and she sent me word of his death immediately, so that I could pray for his soul. My mother cannot visit me. You surely know that travel is dangerous. And the wife of the emperor of Byzantium would make a fine prize for pirates and robbers! But I am very much loved, Prince Murad! I am!”

  “You know nothing of love,” he said fiercely, pulling her into his lap, holding her firmly.

  “You remember only the vague affection of a child for its family. No one has ever truly touched you, or stirred your proud, cold little heart. But I will, Adora! I will awaken you to life…to love…to yourself!”

  “You have no right,” she spat angrily at him, struggling to break his grip on her. “I am your father’s wife! Is this how you honor the Koran? What of your promise not to seduce me?”

  He smiled grimly. “I will keep that promise, my innocent little virgin. There are a hundred ways I can pleasure you without robbing you of your maidenhead. We will commence lessons now!”

  But as he bent toward her, she put her hands against his chest to hold him off. “Your father…“

  “My father,” he said, loosening the ties of her cloak, “will never call you to him. When he dies, Adora, and I am sultan, I shall arrange with whoever is emperor of Byzantium for you to be my bride. In the meantime, I will school you in the arts of loving.”

  And before she could protest further he had found her mouth. She could not struggle, for he held her far too tightly. She could barely breathe. Her heart was thumping wildly and she could feel his, beneath the flattened palms of her bands, matching the rhythm of her own. She tried to turn her head away, but one hand wound itself within the scented, silken tangle of her hair. He held her fast.

  The mouth on hers was warm and firm, but surprisingly tender. The kiss was more frighteningly wonderful than it had been the first time, and once again she felt her resistance wearing away. As she relaxed, his kiss deepened, and she felt herself growing weak. Her young breasts grew strangely tight and the nipples ached.

  His grip on her eased, and he released her mouth from its sweet captivity. She was speechless and lay unresisting across his lap. Smiling down at her, he traced a gentle line down her cheek with his finger. Her mouth felt dry. Her pulse raced. Her head was giddy, yet somehow she managed to find her voice.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I want you,” he said quietly, and she trembled at the intensity in his voice. Again his mouth found hers, but this time he kissed not only her lips, but her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, forehead,
and chin. These gentle kisses sent small shivers of hot and cold through her all at once. Eyes closed, she sighed with unconcealed pleasure.

  His black eyes twinkled. “You like it,” he accused, laughing softly. “You like being kissed!”

  “No!” Oh, lord! What was she thinking of to act this way! Again she tried to escape his grasp, but again he found her mouth, and now she felt his tongue running lightly over her tightly closed lips. Pushing insistently against her clenched teeth he murmured against her mouth, “Open to me, Adora. You cannot deny me, dove, or yourself.”

  Her lips parted, and his tongue thrust inside. He stroked and caressed until she was close to fainting with the intensity of it. The feeling grew, and she trembled.

  Removing his mouth from hers he held her tenderly, looking down at her through half-closed eyes. Her young breasts rose and fell swiftly, the nipples showing clearly through the thin silk of her shift like little buds. His heart beat fiercely with an exultation such as he had never before experienced. He longed to touch those tempting little peaks, but he refrained. It was much too soon to subject her further to her own sensual nature.

  He had not believed such innocence existed. In his world a woman came to a man fully trained to please him. She might be a virgin, but she had been carefully taught to give pleasure and to receive it. Yet this lovely creature was untouched by man or woman. She would be his! He would allow no one else to ever possess her. He would mold her, teach her to please him. No one would ever know of her sweetness but him.

  She opened her eyes and looked up at him. Her face was very pale, and her beautiful eyes were like large violets in the snow.

  “It’s all right, my sweet,” he said gently. “We have concluded the lesson for tonight.” Then he teased, “It pleases me, however, that you like my kisses.”

  “I did not!” she hissed. “I hate you! You had no right to do that to me!”