Excerpt
The last ray of sun dropped below the western horizon, leaving the early evening sky awash with shades of dusky lavender. The Sword of Allah, anticipating the arrival of his guest, stepped from his palatial tent and stole a moment of solitude to enjoy the muted beauty of twilight.
Khalid Beg, imperial Ottoman prince, appeared every inch the well-honed soldier that he was. Standing two inches over six feet, Khalid was broad shouldered and narrow waisted. His hair, a thick mane of ebony, hung low on his neck; and disconcerting sky-blue eyes, his great-grandmother's legacy to him, glittered from his clean-shaven and well-tanned face. Marring his near perfectly chiseled features, an angular scar slashed across the length of his right cheek from his temple to his sensuously formed lips and gave him a frightening, dangerous aura.
Always alert to the unexpected, Khalid felt encumbered when he wore the robes favored by the Ottomans. His brocaded, flowing robes remained in his home near Istanbul where he felt at ease with his surroundings. On this particular night, Khalid dressed like a magnificent corsair. He wore baggy white trousers tucked into soft kidskin boots and a white cotton shirt with sleeves that gathered at his wrists. Sheathed at his side was a jewel-hilted dagger.
“Merhaba!” called a familiar voice. “Hello!”
Khalid turned to see Malik and his man Rashid approaching. The two longtime friends greeted each other with affection and went inside the tent. Rashid and several of the prince's men followed but remained in the tent's antechamber. Walking into his private quarters, Khalid gestured Malik to sit down on the pillows set beside the small table.
One of the prince's men entered with their supper of mutton grilled on a spit, accompanied by saffroned rice with sweet green and red peppers. There were pickled cucumbers, stuffed grape leaves, peaches, and figs. After placing a decanter of rosewater on the table, the servant bowed his way out.
Malik cast his friend a mischievous smile and pulled a decanter of wine from beneath his shirt. He filled his crystal goblet and then held it up in a silent offering.
Khalid shook his head. “The Koran strictly forbids the consumption of alcohol.”
“You sound like a holy man,” Malik said. “Besides, Sultan Selim has a taste for the fermented juice of the grape and, I hear, is considering an invasion of Cyprus because of their legendary wines.”
“Do not repeat this,” Khalid said, “but I have moments when I wonder if my uncle is the true issue of my illustrious grandfather.”
Malik chuckled. “Murad is no better.”
“My cousin is as obsessed with women and gold as his father is with wine,” Khalid conceded.
“You would have made a good sultan,” Malik said.
“Voicing that thought is treason,” Khalid warned, glancing sidelong at his friend. “Besides, I descend through the female line and am faithful to the sultan in all things, no matter his flaws.”
“I cast no aspersions on your fidelity,” Malik said. “However, you do possess many of your grandfather's virtues.”
“Unlike my grandfather, women hold no sway in my heart,” Khalid replied. “Devious creatures by nature, the weaker sex needs a firm, guiding hand lest they become uncontrollable.”
“Even Khurrem and Mihrimah?”
“Especially my late grandmother and mother,” Khalid said. “Uncle Mustafa could have become a great sultan but, as you know, fell prey to my grandmother's machinations. And, Mihrimah is no better than her mother.”
“The fig falls beneath the tree,” Malik replied.
Khalid nodded in agreement, then changed the subject. “Tell me of your travels while I was in Istanbul.”
“We caught one of Fougere's ships,” Malik dropped casually.
Khalid's expression darkened at the mention of that name, and unconsciously, his thumb stroked the scar on his face. “I will eventually cut out the weasel's heart for what he did to my sister and brother.”
“Not to mention your face,” Malik added.
“My face is of no import.”
“We seized very valuable cargo.”
Khalid arched a brow at his friend. “Such as?”
Malik grinned. “You will see for yourself after we've eaten. I have selected a special gift for you.”
“The only gift I desire is the weasel's head,” Khalid told him. “Or his balls.”
“You will desire this gift when you see it,” Malik said. “Trust me.”
Their conversation turned to other matters concerning the empire. When they finished eating, two men entered. One cleared the dishes, and the other offered them bowls of warm, scented water to wash their hands and soft linen cloths to dry them. Then, the two friends rose from the table to stretch their legs.
“Tell my man that it is time,” Malik ordered one of the servants.
Rashid returned a few minutes later and strode into the tent's inner chamber, pausing to hold the flap aside so his master's men could enter. Four of them carried a rolled up carpet slung across their shoulders. Behind them came six of the prince's most trusted warriors.
“A carpet?” Khalid asked.
“The gift is inside.” Malik nodded at his men. Ever so gently, they lowered the carpet to the floor. Two began to unroll it until the edge of the unraveled carpet touched the prince's booted feet.
Khalid stared in surprise at what the carpet contained, the most exquisite piece of womanhood that he had ever seen. Clad in a transparent silken chemise and asleep, Heather appeared like a mythical goddess of love that he'd read about while studying at the prince's school in Topkapi Palace. The tantalizing curves of her flawless body begged to be explored. Having never seen a red-haired woman, Khalid stared at her crown of copper hair that rivaled the natural glory of a fiery sunset.
Enchanted by the beauty sprawled at his feet, Khalid knelt beside her and reached for the soft silkiness of her cheek. Though his touch was light, Heather's eyelids fluttered and opened to reveal disarming emerald eyes.
Heather stared in a daze at him.
Khalid smiled at her clouded expression.
When her vision cleared, Heather found herself staring at a dark-haired, blue-eyed stranger. An ugly scar marred what would have been an incredibly handsome face. In the next instant, she focused on Malik, standing behind him, and then realized she was almost naked. Faster than the blink of an eye, Heather snatched the dagger at Khalid's side and pressed its sharp point against his throat, surprising him and everyone else.
“Get up,” she ordered in French.
Angry surprise registered on the prince's face. With his hands held open, Khalid stood up slowly. He did not actually fear her, but thought her badly shaking hand might slip and inadvertently do him injury.
Heather ignored the cramps in her trembling legs as she rose unsteadily, dizzy from the sleeping draught she'd been given. In her right hand, the dagger pointed ready to pierce him. With her left hand, she tried vainly to shield herself from his gaze.
Khalid and Heather stared into each other's eyes. He seemed bemused; she trembled with fright.
It was then Heather felt the cold caress of steel pressed against her back and froze. Without moving a muscle, she looked first to the left and then the right. Six men, with their daggers poised to skewer, surrounded her. That unspeakably horrific memory arose in her mind's eye and blurred her vision. “Don't!” she cried and fainted. The dagger fell harmlessly to the carpet.
Khalid caught Heather before she fell and carried her to his couch, then drew the coverlet up and sat on the edge. Over his shoulder, he ordered the others to leave. Only Malik remained behind.
“She's as wild as an untamed mare,” Khalid said in a voice filled with wonder.
“And as cantankerous as a camel,” Malik added.
“What is she?”
“English.”
“Indeed, this is a rare gift,” Khalid said, “but I have no need for a clinging woman to slow me down.”
“I would hardly call her behavior clinging,” Malik remarked. “Besides, this woman is special.”
“You took her off Fougere's ship?”
Before Malik could answer, Heather regained consciousness. Her startling green eyes opened and stared up at her captor.
“How do you feel?” Khalid asked, his voice stern.
Careful to keep the tops of her breasts covered, Heather sat up and asked, “Who are you? Why do you need an army to subdue one small woman?”
“I see that you do feel better.” Khalid reached out to brush his fingertips against the silkiness of her flushed cheek, murmuring, “Soft . . . lovely.”
Heather slapped his hand away.
Khalid scowled.
“My betrothed will pay -” Heather began.
“You have no betrothed,” Khalid interrupted her. “You are my property and will forget your past life.”
“I belong to myself,” Heather cried, unable to believe what she was hearing. Her anger overruled her fear, and she added, “The Comte de Beaulieu will cut you up into a thousand tiny pieces.”
Her words drew an instant reaction from him, but not the one she'd hoped for. His expression darkened ominously and the scar on his right cheek whitened in a sure sign of fury.
That forbidding transformation drew an instant reaction from her. Realizing she'd gone too far, Heather paled and trembled uncontrollably. Oh, Lord! Would she never learn to keep her mouth shut?
“The Comte de Beaulieu?” Khalid asked, looking at his friend.
Malik nodded. “I snatched Fougere's intended wife.”
Khalid stared at Heather as if she'd suddenly grown another head. Finally, the corners of his lips twitched and turned up in a mockery of a smile.
“Release me,” Heather said, finding her voice through her fear. “Send me home to England. I have done nothing -”
Khalid leaned close, and nose to nose with her, growled, “Silence.”
Heather shut her mouth.
Khalid turned to Malik. “Leave us now.”
“Stay,” Heather cried, her panic rising.
“Leave us.”
“Stay!”
Like a baited bear, Malik snapped his head from one to the other. Then he smiled. The imperial Ottoman prince had met his match in the English queen's cousin.
Khalid reached out and covered Heather's mouth and nose with his hand.
Heather couldn't breathe. She went wild, fighting for freedom. Finally, she understood his point, and her struggles ceased.
Satisfied, Khalid removed his hand and said to Malik, “Please, leave us.”
“Khalid -” Malik began.
“Destroying this remarkable gift is not my intention,” Khalid cut off his protest. “She is more valuable alive than dead. Now, leave me to enjoy this exquisite gift from the sea.”
The operative word was enjoy. Malik opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it. After all, he intended to 'enjoy' the pretty little cousin that very night. This woman's safety was his concern no longer. Malik nodded and left.
Khalid stared into enormous green eyes that shone with apprehension. Her uncommon beauty attracted him. Though she was truly magnificent, Khalid knew she had to be as evil as her betrothed. Evil or no, he would use her. It was fitting after what Fougere had done to his sister.
Heather stared into his cold, blue eyes. Never before had she been so close, so alone, or so vulnerable with a man. Recognizing the unmasked hatred mirrored in his expression, she trembled with fright.
Khalid noted her trepidation. Though he had little reason to like women and the Koran permitted corporal punishment, Khalid had never struck one. In his personal philosophy, hurting a weaker, helpless creature was unmanly and dishonorable. However, he felt no aversion to frightening them when the need arose. Real strength of character lay in training a slave without using physical force, especially when that slave was a woman as spirited as this one.
“The pampered life of a noblewoman is behind you,” Khalid said, his eyes warning her to remain silent or suffer some unnamed but hideous punishment.
Heather's eyes narrowed, her anger rising like a sudden gust of wind, all sign of her previous fear gone.
Surprised by the defiance in her gaze, Khalid cocked a dark brow at her. “Your eyes scream rebellion,” he said.
Heather's mouth dropped open. “How can you know my thoughts?”
“Silence,” Khalid growled. “You are mine and will serve my every whim and need. Do you understand your position?”
Heather refused to meet his gaze. She remained silent and fixed her eyes on the wall of the tent behind him.
“Look at me when I speak to you,” Khalid ordered, grasping her chin in his hands and forcing her to meet his gaze. Green eyes and blue eyes clashed in a fierce battle of wills.
Looking at him disturbed Heather. She dropped her gaze and said, “I understand your words.”
“Your continued good health depends upon perfect obedience,” Khalid told her.
Heather's head snapped up, “Are you going to murder me?” she asked. “Or worse?”
“Lesson one: a slave never questions her master,” Khalid informed her. “Understand?”
“Perfectly.” Heather's expression told him that she understood but did not accept.
“You're not as unintelligent as you appear,” he baited her, then added when she opened her mouth to reply, “Lesson two: a slave speaks only when spoken to. Understand?”
No one had ever taken that tone with her before. Heather had trouble finding her words.
“Well?”
“I understand.”
Khalid patted her hands. “This pleases me.”
Heather promptly wiped his touch off on the coverlet, a gesture not lost on him. If she'd been a man, Khalid would have applauded her courage and then killed her, but he was a warrior. His experience did not extend to willful women, reluctant as he was to using physical force against a weaker creature.
“My name is Prince Khalid which means the Sword of Allah,” he told her, his expression stern. “But, you will call me lord or master.”
Heather said nothing, but rebellion shone from her eyes.
“What are you called?” Khalid asked.
“Heather Elizabeth Devereux.”
“Such a big name for so small a woman. What does it mean?”
“Heather? Why, heather is a wildflower.”
“Appropriate,” Khalid remarked. “And the other part?”
“Devereux is my family name, and Elizabeth is in honor of my cousin, the queen of England,” Heather told him, hoping that invoking the queen's name would win her an immediate release.
Khalid seemed unimpressed. “But, you are commonly known as Heather, the wildflower?”
“Yes.”
“I will change it.”
“Change what?”
“Your name,” Khalid said. “That word Heather feels uncomfortable on my tongue. Besides, your new life requires a new name.”
“I like my name,” Heather said. “I can't answer to any other.”
Khalid shrugged. “You are probably too slow in the mind to remember a new name anyway.”
“Slow in the -”
“Silence.”
“I want to go home,” Heather said, ignoring his command.
“Your home is with me,” Khalid said. “Forget Fougere.”
Heather snapped her eyes shut and wished, I want this adventure to end. He was still there when she opened her eyes again. “I want to go home to England,” she told him in a forlorn voice. “I have caused you no injury.”
Khalid stared at her, his expression softening for the briefest moment. “Your father would seek vengeance on me,” he said, steeling himself against her. “I have too many enemies as it is.”
“My father is dead,” Heather said in a choked voice.
“Then, I need have no fear on that account.” Khalid correctly calculated that his callousness would anger her.
“Beast.” The word slipped out before she could swallow it.
Khalid leaned close and said in a harsh voice, “Yes, wildflower. I am known throughout the empire as the 'sultan's beast' and feared. Grown men quake at the mention of me, and mothers discipline their children by invoking my name.”
“You mean, as in 'the sultan's beast will get you'?” In spike of herself, Heather smiled, thoroughly beguiling her captor.
Khalid gave himself a mental shake. His intrepid captive was entirely too beautiful. If he wasn't careful . . . The little barbarian was Fougere's intended. She would pay for the weasel's crimes against his family.
“I wish to inspect my gift,” Khalid said brusquely, rising from the edge of the couch.
Heather shrank back. “You what?”
“Get up and let me see you.”
Heather shook her head and pulled the coverlet up to her chin.
“I said, get up.”
Again, Heather shook her head. Her knuckles whitened from clenching the coverlet so tightly.
Khalid reached out to pull the coverlet back, and a tug of war ensued. Within mere seconds, he whipped it out of her hands.
Heather leaped off the couch. Sprinting past him, she raced around the table, and cursing in Turkish, Khalid gave chase.
Spying his scimitar propped against the side of the tent, Heather lunged for it. In one swift motion, she grabbed it and whirled around to confront him.
“Be careful, slave, or you will cut yourself,” Khalid warned, then baited her. “Consider yourself lucky to be my concubine instead of the weasel's wife.”
His words hit their mark.
“Concubine?” Brandishing the heavy scimitar high above her head, Heather flew at him in a rage and swung with all her strength.
Khalid sidestepped to safety. The weight of the weapon toppled Heather forward, head first, and the scimitar dropped from her grasp. Khalid caught her before she landed on it. He shoved her down on the carpet and fell on top of her. His body covered hers completely.
“I can ravish you here where we lie,” Khalid said, nose to nose with her. “Or, you can stand for my inspection.”
Shaking in fear, Heather nodded quickly. She'd never been this close to any man and would have agreed to almost anything to get him off her.
Khalid stood. Reaching down, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her ungently to her feet.
Villain, Heather thought, rubbing her wrist.
“Stand still or I will call my guards to hold you,” Khalid said.
Beneath his gaze, Heather suffered the worst humiliation of her seventeen years. She felt like the concubine that he said she was. Shame forced her to fix her gaze on the carpet.
Deliberately, Khalid circled her and perused her body as if consigning it to memory. What he saw inflamed his senses. Heather's angel face topped the body of a goddess. Her luxuriant mane of copper hair cascaded below her waist like a fiery veil, and the swell of her breasts played a teasing game of peek-a-boo with his mesmerized gaze.
“Petite but not too small,” Khalid murmured, circling her without touching. “Nicely rounded buttocks . . . inviting hips created to entice a man and bear his young.”
Heather folded her arms across her chest, protecting herself from his gaze. Her face flamed with embarrassment.
“A virgin?” Khalid asked, touching her burning cheek with the palm of his hand.
Though seemingly impossible, Heather's complexion reddened even more. “Yes,” she whispered, mortified by his asking.
“Speak with honesty to me,” Khalid warned. “There are ways to learn the truth of the matter.” His piercing, blue-eyed gaze seemed to see to the very depth of her soul.
Heather stared at him blankly. She had no idea what he was suggesting.
Khalid read the innocence in her expression. Satisfied, he ordered, “Drop your arms. I wish to see your breasts.”
Shocked, Heather could only stare at him.
“My guards are outside,” Khalid reminded her. “Shall I call them?”
Heather dropped her arms.
Staring at her, Khalid warred against his raging desire but lost the battle for control. He reached out and cupped one soft mound through the silken fabric.
Heather instinctively slapped his hand away.
“Lesson three: slaves do not strike their masters,” Khalid said.
“People do not own other people,” Heather cried.
“Who told you that lie? I will cut his tongue out.” Again, Khalid reached for her breast.
“No!” Heather slapped his offending hand.
Her insolence broke his control. Grabbing her, Khalid yanked her off her feet and pressed her against the masculine hardness of his body. His mouth swooped down and captured hers in a brutal, punishing kiss.
The feel of him pressing against her stomach made her nearly insane with fear. Heather went wild, kicking and clawing for freedom.
Khalid released her abruptly and sent her crashing to the carpet. Never had he forced himself on a woman, and though strangely provoked, he wasn't about to start now.
Long, silent moments passed as Khalid and Heather stared at each other. Fear and revulsion leaped at him from her emerald gaze.
Khalid looked her up and down, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. When he leveled his gaze on hers once more, contempt had etched itself across his features. She was the weasel's betrothed, not a gift from Allah.
“I'd sooner mate with a leper,” Khalid said, then brushed past her to leave. He paused before disappearing outside and said, “You need harbor no fear for your dubious virtue. Go to sleep.”
Stunned, Heather stared after him. Immediate escape was necessary; he could change his mind and ravish her. She refused to be any man's concubine, much less his slave. She'd rather be dead.
“Damn,” Heather swore softly. How could she escape with no clothes? Though she wasn't above stealing his, Heather realized she would be unable to locate April in the night. Her shoulders slumped at the thought of waiting until morning. She yanked the coverlet off the bed and wrapped it around herself.
Tension and fear had dried her mouth, giving her an almost unendurable thirst. Looking around, she spied a half-filled bottle on the table.
Heather raised it to her lips and gulped a healthy swig. Wine! The one drink in the world she detested! Pinching her nostrils together, Heather took a sip. She grimaced at the taste but swallowed it. At least, her mouth felt better. Heather convinced herself that she was relatively safe for this one night. If the monster's intent was murder or rape, he would have done so already. Uncertain of what she should do, Heather sat down on the bed. Tears welled up in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. Oh, why had she ever wished for adventure? She was powerless to end it when she wanted.
When Khalid stormed out of his tent, he stopped to speak with his second-in-command, Abdul. “Set guards around the tent,” he ordered. “No one goes in or out.”
The older man nodded and grinned knowingly. “I will lay down my life to keep the little barbarian safe until you prepare yourself for the next battle. Beating her might help.”
Khalid failed to see the humor in his man's words. He leveled a scathing look on Abdul and walked away.
The rhythmic sound of crashing waves and the purifying, salty smell of the sea drew Khalid. He walked to the beach and looked up. Accompanied by hundreds of glittering stars, a tangerine moon rode high in the velvet, indigo sky. A peacefulness that eluded Khalid pervaded the night.
Alone with his thoughts, Khalid wondered how best to handle his incorrigible captive without hurting her. His fearsome reputation encouraged others to do his bidding, but this slip of a girl was ignorant of his past, that he'd ordered the slaughter of hundreds of innocents.
Am I back to that again? Khalid asked himself. Will I never enjoy peace of mind?
Always second behind his older brother, Khalid had been too eager for his mother's dubious praise. A fledgling commander in his grandfather's service, he'd ordered his warriors to destroy those defiant villages that refused to submit to the will of Allah. Grant them no mercy, he'd ordered his warriors.
How Khalid regretted those words, his lack of understanding of what those orders meant! The gruesome slaughter of those women and children had earned him the name 'sultan's beast.' Gazing upon the carnage, he'd vowed never to raise his hand in anger to a woman or child.
That vow hadn't been necessary. The legend of the sultan's beast grew and spread throughout the empire until few dared to gaze upon his face for fear of incurring his wrath.
The approbation he'd seen in his mother's eyes hadn't been worth the lives of those innocents, and it hadn't lasted either. She blamed him for the death of his brother at the Comte de Beaulieu's hands. She taunted him about the disfiguring scar he'd taken when his brother died.
Khalid gave himself a mental shake and turned his thoughts to the problem at hand. How was he to train such an ignorant captive? She didn't even know to drop her gaze in the presence of men. Why, she'd boldly stared him straight in the eye as if she were his equal.
Beautiful and brave, Heather intrigued him. She was unlike any woman he'd ever met. No man had ever had the courage to argue with him, much less threaten him with his own dagger and scimitar. Though she feared his strength and power, his wildflower gazed upon his disfigured face without revulsion, a thing his own mother was unable to do.
His wildflower? What in Allah's name was he thinking? The Englishwoman was the weasel's betrothed, and he must never forget that. Attempting to force her out of his mind, Khalid began reciting verses from the Koran.
It didn't help.
Two hours later, Khalid returned to his camp. He dismissed the guards surrounding his tent, then arched a questioning brow at his second-in-command.
“No trouble,” Abdul reported gravely, then ruined it by adding, “She's saving her strength for the next battle. Take my advice and beat her into submission.”
Without a word, Khalid went inside. The light from the candle on the table bathed the inner chamber with an eerie glow. Curled on her side, his captive was asleep on his bed.
Lesson four, Khalid thought, mocking himself, a slave sleeps on the floor, not in her master's bed. He would school her on that in the morning.
Turning away, Khalid snuffed out the candle. He sat on the edge of the table and removed his boots, then stood up and pulled his shirt over his head. Khalid reached for the top of his pants, but a sound from the bed drew his attention.
“No, Papa, no,” Heather moaned, caught in a nightmare. Then she began to weep softly in her sleep.
Khalid lay down beside her and gathered her into his arms. “Rest easy,” he whispered, stroking her shoulder and arm. His presence and touch quieted her, but he didn't let go.
The Ottoman prince and his English slave have one thing in common, he thought wryly. Demons stalk their thoughts.
Without thinking, Khalid planted a kiss on the top of Heather's head. He tightened his protective embrace, then closed his eyes and slept.
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