Ahmed reached out, closed one hand around her wrist before she could escape. “What a pity it is,” he breathed, “that I won’t have time to train you properly. Still, your spirited nature should offer a delectable challenge. Come with me, and I will show you what a woman is made for.”
She struggled, clasped one of the cell bars with one hand, but Ahmed was stronger. He wrenched her free and propelled her ahead of him, toward the outer door.
14
A HMED HAD GRASPED CHARLOTTE BY HER HAIR, AND HE propelled her along in front of him with cruel force. Since they moved along rarely used passageways, they did not encounter Khalif’s men, and from that quarter, rescue seemed impossible.
Charlotte was far from despairing, however, for she still had the pistol Rashad had given her, secreted in the pocket of her robe. If matters came to such a dire point, she would shoot Ahmed without hesitation, just as her father and uncle had shot mad dogs and infected rats during an outbreak of rabies several years before.
Finally, after traversing a maze of passages and dusty, long-unused rooms, Ahmed thrust Charlotte through the high arched doorway of a large chamber.
The room was clean, and scented smoke wafted from several brass braziers. A male slave played softly on an instrument resembling a lyre, his eyes downcast, his brown body fairly quivering with tension. In the center of the space was a great couch, piled high with pillows of all colors, and the walls were hung with fading tapestries that must have been centuries old.
If she hadn’t been in such untoward circumstances, Charlotte would have taken pleasure in exploring the place. As it was, she felt compelled to keep her wits gathered solidly about her.
“No one will think to look for us here,” Ahmed told her, with a smarmy smile, giving her hair a vicious little wrench before flinging her into the heart of the chamber. “At least, not for some time.” He ran dark, insolent eyes over Charlotte’s dirt-smudged person,. “You look like a street urchin,” he scolded. “You must be bathed before our time of love.”
“ ‘Time of love’?” Charlotte scoffed, sounding braver than she felt. “If I had anything in my stomach, I would surely vomit.”
Ahmed laughed. “Ah, Charlotte, sweet Charlotte. You are indeed a spitfire, as the westerners say. This heartens me.” Having said this, he clapped. his hands together and spoke to the slave in rapid Arabic.
“I hope that doesn’t mean we’re married or something,” Charlotte said stiffly, referring to the hand-clapping gesture. “I already have a husband—not that such a fact would trouble a polecat like yourself.”
“A polecat,” Ahmed echoed thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. He was gaunt from his time in prison, and his eyes gleamed, as if from some fever of the soul. “This is an insult, I am sure.”
“You’re damn right it’s an insult,” Charlotte replied, caught up in the flow of her own bravado. “A polecat is a skunk.”
Ahmed glared at her, letting all his hatred show. “Your insolence is wearing on me, Mrs. Trevarren. I would suggest you stop talking before you earn yourself a taste of the lash.”
Charlotte would not willingly have shown trepidation for anything, but she felt the color drain from her face and knew from Ahmed’s expression that he saw and savored her fear. “Let me go,” she said, with dignity, after a long silence. “I have done nothing to you.”
The sultan’s treacherous half brother rolled his eyes in an apparent bid for patience. “It is not a matter for revenge,” he replied. “I want you and therefore I am entitled to you.”
The slave had quietly filled an ornate brass hip bath from tall urns of sun-warmed water while they were talking. At a nod from Ahmed, he went back to playing his lyre.
“And my feelings have no bearing whatsoever?” Charlotte inquired saucily, needing to challenge Ahmed’s complacent barbarism and prejudice even though she knew it would do no good at all.
“None,” Ahmed confirmed flatly. “Now, undress yourself, and wash, and make certain that your hair is clean as well.”
Charlotte folded her arms. “You can go straight to hell,” she said.
Ahmed gave a raspy sigh of exasperation; then, his movement as quick as mercury set free from a vial, he reached out and slapped Charlotte so hard that she staggered backwards. Her hand went automatically to the pistol in her pocket; an instant after she’d made the gesture, she regretted it.
Before she could draw the weapon to defend herself, Ahmed had guessed at its presence, wrested it from her, and backhanded her a second time. Again she glimpsed a madman looking out of the ebony-dark eyes.
“This is not America,” he told her, his voice drawing tighter as he spoke, like a string on an instrument that has been wound too far. “Nor is it England. Here, women do not speak impudently to their superiors.”
Charlotte refrained from comment, since the things she wanted to say were sure to get her another slap at best and a painful death at worst. But she did not move toward the hip bath, nor did she avert her gaze from Ahmed’s.
The would-be sultan raised one eyebrow. “Why do you hesitate?” he asked, his voice lethal in its very softness.
“I don’t want you—” she paused, gestured toward the slave, who was still quivering with fear “—or him…to watch me as I remove my clothing.”
Ahmed laughed, then shrugged. His indulgence came as a definite surprise. He spoke to the slave, and the poor man left the room, For his own part, Ahmed simply turned his back, the pistol still clasped casually in one hand.
“Do not even consider trying to escape,” he said, with acid cordiality. “If you make a move toward either door, I will hear you and I will kill you for your disobedience—but not before punishing you thoroughly, of course.”
Charlotte had no doubt that he was serious. She slowly stripped off her ruined robe, then the chemise beneath, and stepped naked into the hip bath. Her mind raced as she washed herself clean of tunnel dirt, cobwebs, perspiration, and the rank smell of the dungeon itself. She had still not come up with a solution when Ahmed turned and handed her a musty cloth to dry her hair and body.
She glared at him, ferociously proud even in her nakedness. In the privacy of her heart, however, she was uttering frantic, wordless prayers for help. The unthinkable was about to happen; a cruel man meant to lay hands on her in violence, to rape and probably kill her. If she’d had only herself to defend, she might have given up at that point, but she was carrying a child. She could not bear the thought that their son or daughter would never get a chance to live and grow, to feel sunlight and rain on his or her skin.
“Wouldn’t you like me to dance for you?” she asked, crooning the words. Charlotte had no idea where the question had come from; she hadn’t the wits for cunning because her fear was so great. “Just as the harem women dance for Khalif?”
A tense interval passed while Ahmed considered. He was certain to die this day himself, which meant he had little or nothing to lose. Perhaps, too, in some corner of his wasted mind, he wanted to savor this final triumph over his brother, to make it last.
“Very well,” he said hoarsely. Then he went to a chest beside the wall, beneath a tapestry showing an ancient battle against English crusaders, and brought out a gossamer garment of pale lavender, along with a beautifully beaded vestlike top. “You will dance.”
Charlotte took the garments, amazed that her hand didn’t shake when she reached out for them. She had never been more terrified, not even during the battle on Patrick’s ship, when the pirate had cornered her outside the storeroom.
She turned her back to put on the full, see-through trousers, with their girdle of embroidered brocade, and the vest, which laced in front and barely covered her bosom.
Her hair, freshly washed and unbrushed, hung down her back in twisting tendrils.
Ahmed took a moment to admire her before summoning the slave back with a shouted order and a clap of his hands.
Soon the slave was making music again, and Charlotte danced to it, slowly, like a creature u
nder a night spell. She realized that sunrise had arrived when trails of crimson flowed in through high palace windows and glittered in the gold and silver threads of her clothing.
Ahmed watched her as if transfixed, seeming to lose track of time, but Charlotte was not so naive as to think she could forestall the inevitable forever. Now that her captor had taken her pistol away, she was depending upon Rashad to find her, or perhaps Khalif. Both were familiar with the palace, with all its hiding places and cubbyholes, and this out-of-the-way chamber would not be unknown to them.
“Again,” Ahmed said shortly, when the slave stopped playing out of what was probably sheer weariness.
Charlotte’s heart was beating fast, and she was perspiring slightly, but she kept dancing. Indeed, she would whirl and twist until she dropped, if that would save her.
After a while, however, Ahmed’s eyes began to harden as he watched her. Finally he raised both hands, palms out, and said, “Enough.” He turned to the terrified slave. “Leave us!”
Charlotte stood still, catching her breath. She braced herself to fight, with all the wildness of a cat that has grown up on its own, living on field mice and garden snakes.
Before Ahmed reached her, however, her prayers were answered. Khalif and—dear God, was she hallucinating?—Patrick burst into the room, both carrying swords.
“He has a gun!” Charlotte shouted as Ahmed reached for the weapon.
Khalif sent the pistol flying from his half brother’s hand with one swing of his rapier. The sultan looked fierce, somehow more than human, as if he’d risen above his weakness and conquered it, however briefly.
“Give my brother your sword, Patrick,” Khalif said, his eyes fixed on Ahmed. “I would not have him face me unarmed.”
Patrick didn’t hesitate, though Charlotte saw reluctance in every line of his body and face. He tossed the sword to Ahmed, who caught it deftly.
While the two brothers faced off for what would undoubtedly be a fight to the death, Patrick came to Charlotte and enfolded her in his arms. His strength flowed into her, like spiritual medicine, heightening her own powers.
“It’s high time you got back, Patrick,” she scolded as they watched Khalif and Ahmed engage each other in graceful battle. “As you can see, I have not been safe.”
Patrick squeezed her briefly, but said nothing. He was watching the sword fight, and Charlotte knew he was ready to jump to Khalif’s defense if the need arose.
Khalif had been ill, and he was not as fit as he would normally have been. The match seemed equal, however, probably because Ahmed himself had spent days languishing in prison.
The thin blades of the rapiers clanged together, and the sound reverberated horribly. Ahmed sliced open Khalif’s upper arm, Khalif drew blood by drawing the point of his sword across his half brother’s middle.
Charlotte shuddered and turned her face in to Patrick’s chest, clutching at his shirt with both hands.
The battle seemed to go on and on, but finally there was a scream of mortal agony, and Charlotte forced herself to turn her head and look. Ahmed, struck through the heart by his brother’s rapier, was dead before he’d folded to the floor.
Charlotte gave a little moan of horror and relief, steadied herself when Patrick left her to go to his friend’s aid. Khalif wavered on his feet as he gazed down at Ahmed, bloody sword in hand. His eyes brimmed with tears.
“This terrible day has been stalking Ahmed and me since we were boys,” he said gruffly. “My brother could not bear for peace to exist between us. Even as a child, he hated me.”
Patrick took the rapier gently from Khalif’s hand. “It’s over,” he told his friend. “Ahmed is gone and now you will have peace again.”
Khalif nodded, but he still stared at the corpse lying on the floor at his feet, his face gray with blood loss and grief.
Charlotte had recovered enough to think of practical matters. “The women and children are still in hiding,” she said. Guilt assailed her because she had not had the opportunity to return to Alev and the others with news and supplies, as she had promised.
“Rashad has released them,” Khalif said, turning away at last, staggering to a velvet-upholstered bench and sitting down.
Patrick tore a strip of cloth from the sheets on the bed where Ahmed had meant to rape Charlotte and made a tourniquet for the sultan’s cut arm. For all his efficiency, however, his indigo gaze fixed itself on his wife and not his patient.
“Are you all right, goddess?”
She considered for a moment, then nodded. “How did you find me?”
Patrick sighed, crossed the room to take her in his arms. “You’ve got a ghost, even though you’re alive,” he told her. He paused, brushed her temple lightly with his lips, tightened his embrace for a moment, as if to reassure himself that he was really holding her again. “I’ve been haunted by thoughts of you ever since I left for Spain. When I got here, Rashad and Khalif and the others had already taken the palace back, and when Ahmed didn’t turn up after a quick search, the eunuch directed us here.”
Charlotte rested her forehead against his shoulder and sighed. “Once,” she confessed, “I wished for adventure. Now I believe I’ve had quite enough excitement to last into my old age.”
Patrick chuckled, kissed her forehead. “I have a feeling, Mrs. Trevarren,” he said, “that our adventures have just begun. You draw trouble the way a summer picnic draws bees.”
Khalif had recovered enough to speak by then, and he did so, staring at Charlotte in weary bewilderment. “Rashad assured me you were safe with the harem, in the secret room—just before he drugged and imprisoned me. Did he compound his transgressions by lying, too?”
Quickly Charlotte shook her head. “No, he was telling the truth. I was with Alev and the others—until I found the tunnel under the floor. It seemed to me that, unless we were all content to grow cobwebs in that hidden chamber, somebody had to venture out and see what was happening. I managed to get to the dungeons and release Rashad.”
“Who then released me,” Khalif reflected, with a sigh, rubbing his temples. “I shall forgive my servant Rashad, then, for taking matters into his own hands as he did. There can be no question of his loyalty.”
“None at all,” Charlotte agreed.
Moments later, Rashad himself arrived, bringing a party of soldiers with him. When he saw that Ahmed had been killed, the eunuch gestured for two of the men to come forward and carry away the body.
“We have captured the traitors,” Rashad said to his sultan, his tone grave and formal. “What shall be done with them?”
“Behead them,” Khalif replied. “Let it be done now, in the main courtyard, under the bright light of the morning sun. Let all who live within these walls see the fruits of treachery.”
Charlotte’s eyes had gone round and her stomach had risen to the back of her throat, then plummeted into place again. She started to step forward, to protest, but Patrick stopped her by grasping her arm. An eloquent look and a shake of his head further discouraged her.
“Come, Mrs. Trevarren,” he said. “We’re not needed here.” With that, Patrick took Charlotte’s hand in a bonecrunching grasp and led her past Rashad and the soldiers and out into the passageway.
“You can’t let this happen!” she whispered.
Patrick didn’t even slow down. He just strode toward the main part of the palace, dragging Charlotte along behind him. “I can’t stop it,” he replied abruptly. “And neither can you. This is an ancient society, with rules of its own.”
Charlotte knew he was right, but it still went against her principles to see violence answered with violence. “I want to leave this place,” she said breathlessly, rushing to keep up with her long-legged husband, “and never come back.”
He looked back at her over his shoulder. “That’s one wish I can grant,” he said. “As soon as I know things are under control here, we’ll sail for the island.”
A surge of joy welled up inside Charlotte, but in the next mom
ent she was overwhelmed by the backlash of all that had happened to her in recent hours. She let out a wail and burst into unceremonious, un-Charlotte-like tears.
Patrick stopped, lifted her easily into his arms, propped his chin on top of her head, and proceeded through the passageway. “Go ahead and cry,” he told her, with hoarse gentleness. “You’ve earned it.”
While the executions were taking place, Patrick and Charlotte were alone in his chamber, oblivious to everything and everyone except each other. They celebrated life, even while death held savage sway in the center courtyard.
Charlotte lay curled against Patrick’s side, her bare body glistening with perspiration, one finger playing idly with the hair on his chest. “I love you,” she said.
Patrick sighed and held her a little closer, but he did not offer the same pledge. He just closed his eyes and went to sleep.
Although she was happy to be with Patrick again, and although her body had certainly been satisfied, Charlotte’s soul still hungered. What would it matter—what would anything matter—if Patrick didn’t love her?
She laid one hand to her abdomen and closed her eyes. No matter what the cost might be to her, she would never raise her child in a loveless household. She would take her baby back to Quade’s Harbor first, to grow up in the light and warmth of her father and Lydia’s marriage…
For the next three days, Khalif remained in his quarters. Various members of the harem visited him at different times, Alev included, but he did not show himself publicly.
Charlotte was standing at one of the upstairs windows, gazing toward the sea with undisguised yearning, when Patrick slipped up behind her and put his arms around her waist. He bent, gave her a nibbling kiss on the side of the neck.
“Could it be, Mrs. Trevarren,” he teased, “that you have a yen for wandering, just as I do?”
She turned in his embrace and looked up into his eyes. “Yes,” she answered. “When will we leave?”
He touched her chin with an index finger. “Tomorrow, I think. Were you beginning to fret that I might send you back to the harem and sail off without you?”
Taming Charlotte Page 20
