Silver Angel

  Jeanne stood up to embrace her in farewell, even though they had known each other only a few hours. "Good luck, my friend."

  "If you wish me luck, Jeanne, then pray I escape."

  "Ah, petite, you must give up such thoughts."

  Chantelle turned away. "When I'm dead and buried," she mumbled to herself as she followed the guard out of the bagnio.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The hidden chamber was not unique by any means. One or two could be found in almost any large household in the Near East, many more than that in a royal palace. In the Dey's palace, one could be found overlooking the audience chamber, the throne room, the schoolroom, the council chamber where the Divan met, even Jamil's bedchamber.

  As children, Derek and Jamil had often sensed eyes staring down at them from behind the fretted wooden screen high in the wall of the schoolroom, and had known that one of their parents had come to monitor their studies without disturbing the firm discipline of the class. Mustafa had often punished certain of his wives by forcing them to sit behind the screen in his bedroom while he cavorted with one or two of his other concubines. And attending a meeting of the Divan without the council members being aware of it had been a favorite pastime of many sultans.

  Derek stood with one arm braced against the wooden screen that looked out over the large room where Jamil took his leisure. The concealed room was small and dark, without ornament, and extremely hot in the afternoon. Large cushions were piled on the floor to sit on, but Derek rarely used them.

  Each morning he was escorted to a similar hidden chamber overlooking the throne room, where he would spend several hours watching Jamil conduct daily business having to do with the palace, disputes among his officials, matters of discipline with the servants, judgments. Even his concubines could seek audience with him there over grievances.

  One morning had been spent in another like room above the audience chamber, where Jamil received foreign dignitaries and dealt with matters of the city. Usually this was done four or five days a week, but lately Jamil had cut it down to once a week, attending to only the most important business, and now was not the time to change this recent habit.

  In the afternoons, Derek suffered the heat in this tiny room, learning how Jamil dealt with his personal attendants, what amused him, what annoyed him. The early evenings were spent here, too, and Jamil spared himself nothing, concealed nothing; if anything, was extreme in his reactions for Derek's benefit. Omar, who was nearly always at Derek's side explaining things in whispers, insisted more than once that the harshness, the occasional cruelty Derek was seeing, was not the real Jamil.

  "His patience is usually unlimited, his kindness renowned. He can be ruthless when the matter is warranted, but also merciful. Even as you see him now, he is still not the tyrant Mahmud was. But what you see is the result of his self-imprisonment. He is a man who worships the outdoors. He would ride for hours each day. When he had to give that up, it was only natural for him to become short-tempered. The situation has simply gone on too long. Since you came, he might have returned to his old self, but he cannot let anyone see it except you and me. Not even his women must suspect that his frustration has nearly gone."

  Derek could understand that. He thought that he might react the same way under the same circumstances, and since he was going to be putting himself into those same circumstances, he could only hope it wouldn't be for as long as Jamil had endured it.

  To prepare for that time, day and night Derek was witness to his brother's life without anyone being aware of it, even in the bedchamber.

  Derek had at first balked at this. As children, he and Jamil might have sneaked into the hidden room to watch their father with his concubines, but that had been as a lark—exciting, dangerous. As a man, he had no desire to play the voyeur. Yet Omar insisted it was necessary for him to know how Jamil behaved toward his women, since they were a very active part of his life.

  So far, he had watched Jamil make love to three of his favorites and one of his wives. Each time he was different in his behavior to show Derek the complexities of his nature—tender, forceful, abrupt, even violent. The violence had disgusted Derek, enough for him to get angry, but Omar had explained that this particular woman could not achieve pleasure without it, and so she was called for whenever Jamil needed to work off his frustrations, which had raised her to the status of favorite only recently. She had been whipped, not by Jamil, but by one of his mutes, and then Jamil had taken her brutally. And to Derek's further disgust, she had seemed to enjoy it.

  The night Jamil's first wife, Sheelah, came to him was the only time Omar suggested Derek leave before they actually made love. He was almost sorry to go, for she was a rare beauty, with soft sapphire eyes and red hair that reminded him of Caroline. And he noticed the difference in the way Jamil treated his number one kadine. He didn't have to be told that this woman was special to his brother.

  "He loves her, doesn't he?" Derek had asked Omar as they walked toward the chamber that had been given him for sleeping, and where in total darkness each night he had been sent a slave girl to appease the long abstinence at sea.

  "He loves them all, Kasim, but yes, he is in love with Lady Sheelah."

  "Then it was his idea that I leave?"

  "No." Omar chuckled. "Did you not notice his increased testiness today? He knew he would send for her tonight and that you would see her. He would not cut short your instruction for any reason, but he did not like it, that you would see her."

  "And I'm supposed to send for her myself later?" Derek asked incredulously. "How can I possibly, knowing how he feels about her?"

  "You will have to, Kasim. He sends for her most often. He even goes to her after he has been with one of his other women. Most of them do not sleep with him, but return to the harem for the night. This is normal, because he would rather sleep with Sheelah beside him at night and does. Since you have come he has not, though. What excuse he has given her I do not know, but it would not be the truth. Even she is not to know that you are not him when you take his place."

  "So if he has prepared her to expect this change in their routine, I won't have to sleep with her?"

  "No, you will not. But you will have to summon her to you, as I said. Of course, what you do with her when you are alone is up to you."

  Derek laughed at that. "You sly old fox. Her temporary hurt feelings come second to his peace of mind, correct? Then tell him tomorrow that I won't touch her while he's gone."

  "No."

  "Then I will."

  Omar shook his head. "His pride is at stake here. He hopes that you are a man such as he, that you would not touch another's wife no matter the reason. But for what he asks you to do for him, he cannot deny you anything, even her. Giving you the choice is the risk he takes in leaving you here in his place. He must feel that he risks something, as you do. You cannot take that from him. Besides"—Omar grinned—"this is the incentive he needs to return quickly."

  But what agony would he suffer in the meantime? Derek wondered.

  Tonight, a half-dozen ikbals and all three of Jamil's wives had been invited to take dinner with him. For some, it was the first time they were seeing him with his newly shaved face, which had caused a considerable stir in the palace and did now among his women. Some were surprised, some delighted, which naturally annoyed Jamil, to Derek's amusement. But he could not stay annoyed for long, not surrounded by the crème de la crème of his women.

  The atmosphere of competition among the ikbals was fierce: who could hold Jamil's attention the longest, find the choicest meat for him, make him laugh. His wives competed just among themselves, it seemed, and only Lady Sheelah had no need to,

  she who sat next to Jamil and was herself fed by him.

  One of the concubines got up and danced to the tune that two blind musicians were playing. It was a sight to delight the senses. These women were the most lovely in the harem, Jamil's favorites. Here, with only his personal attendants on hand, they did not have to veil
themselves. All were scantily attired except one, who wore a flowing caftan to conceal her advanced pregnancy. The others were adorned in bright silks, each a different color, and sheer gauzes. Jewels glittered and tinkled about their necks, their wrists, their ankles, some even about their waists, which glistened bare between the short vests and pantaloons.

  "Do any take your fancy?" asked Omar, beside him.

  "All take my fancy," Derek answered, though with a degree of hesitation.

  It was true, however. In beauty of features, in pure sensuality, they were incomparable. If they were each a bit more plump and curvaceous than he was used to, it didn't matter. He had not forgotten the harem he was raised in, where half the women had gone to fat in their lazy existence and the other half would join them eventually. It was a condition prevalent in harems and was no doubt why the Muslim male had acquired a taste for plumpness in his women.

  Derek might have been raised to see beauty in the same light, but he had been awakened to manhood by the slim little bodies of overworked English maids, and his taste in women was now decidedly English. Not that each one of Jamil's women couldn't raise his libido, and no doubt many would in the coming weeks. These favorites certainly did. It was just that his preferences were different from his brother's, and he doubted he would find his ideal in Jamil's harem.

  Which was just as well. They were, after all, his brother's women. He would not, could not, feel right about taking any of them to his bed, no matter how much Omar, and Jamil himself, insisted it was necessary.

  "You will see all of the women tomorrow," Omar told him, wishing he could see Kasim's expression to know exactly what he was feeling, rather than depending on his tone of voice to tell him, difficult to judge when they had to speak in whispers. "They have been invited for an afternoon of games and entertainments in the garden. It will be your opportunity to choose those you favor."

  Derek grunted in response. Yes, he would have to learn their names if he was going to summon them to his bed, and it would not be Omar who handled such things later, but the Chief Black Eunuch, the man in control of all those who served the harem.

  "What happens to those women I so favor after Jamil returns?" Derek suddenly wanted to know.

  Omar did not answer immediately, and then not at all, as a servant entered to whisper a message to Jamil. With a single word from him, his women quickly left. A few moments later, the Chief Black Eunuch came into the room, followed by three of his minions, each dragging forward a woman who was immediately forced to her knees in the traditional prostration of respect before the Dey. One protested this, until her guard jabbed a knee into her back to keep her down.

  The Chief Black Eunuch spoke softly to Jamil, bringing forth a chuckle from his master. "So my Grand Vizier was wrong for once."

  It was a statement, not a question, and Derek heard Omar stir beside him. "What were you wrong about, Omar, that he finds so amusing?" There was a mumble, and Derek almost laughed aloud, imagining the old man flushing in embarrassment. "Come now, I can't hear you."

  "I said," Omar bit out, "Jamil's delighted that I was proved wrong in this instance."

  "About what?"

  "There was a special slave offered to him before you arrived. He declined as usual. I assumed she would have been quickly sold, so I saw no reason to hurry Haji Agha to the slave markets when Jamil requested some new women, especially since the next slave caravan from the south wasn't due until yesterday."

  "He requested new women? I was under the impression he feels he already possesses too many."

  "True. These women are for you."

  Derek did chuckle now, though softly in understanding. "I suppose the harem is to have some new favorites so that I don't work my way through all of his."

  "It can safely be assumed that that is his hope, though he will not admit it. And obviously, the special one he previously declined was still available, proving me wrong. Fortunately, these few extra days did not see her sold, or he would not be so amused now."

  Which one was supposed to be special was anyone's guess, for all three women were cloaked and heavily veiled, having just come from the city. But Derek was not hopeful and could not dredge up even the slightest interest after having seen Jamil's beauties. The Muslim's idea of "special" was probably "already pleasingly plump," with the fairness of coloring that was so prized here. Anything else would be considered ordinary.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chantelle had made a bad mistake, but she didn't realize it until she was shoved to her knees to pay homage to the Grand Turk, or whatever he was, and she heard Haji Agha address him as "my gracious lord." It was inconceivable that the man she had thought had bought her for himself would show her off to his own master. No, she was very much afraid she had been bought for this other fellow, whom she was at this moment being forced to bow down to.

  That went against the grain, and she had very nearly resisted being pushed to the floor until she saw what happened to the black girl beside her, who did resist. It was unfair that brute strength could so easily win the argument. What was the point of going through that when she would only lose in the end and her pride suffer even more? She had put up with enough indignities lately that one more seemed inconsequential.

  It would have been nice, though, if she had been told what was going on instead of being left to draw her own wrong conclusions. When she had left Hamid Sharifs, it had been to climb into one of four waiting litters, which had been her first disappointment. She had hoped that she would be walking through the city as she had done before and that there might somehow be an opportunity to slip away. But with all the litter bearers, not to mention a small contingent of mounted guards, that hope had become an impossibility.

  She tried peeking out of the curtains that enclosed her in the litter, but was shouted at by one of the guards riding alongside her, so she gave up trying to see where they were going. It was uphill. She could determine that at least. But then the path leveled out, and there was the opening and closing of gate after gate, making her think she was leaving the city, until the litter was set down soon after.

  It wasn't until she stepped out of the litter that she saw another girl in one of the other litters, bringing their count to three. And she had only the briefest glance of a courtyard with gardens beyond before she was whisked inside a tall building and down several long corridors, past numerous guards standing at attention before tall doors, and finally brought into this large chamber filled with a half-dozen people. She saw them only in a blur as she was shoved to her knees so fast and forced to lower her head to the floor. She hadn't even noticed the "gracious lord" whom Haji Agha addressed, but she heard him chuckle and mention something about his Grand Vizier being wrong.

  Who was he to have a minister with that title? He couldn't be the Dey of Barikah, for that high personage had declined to buy her. Some pasha then? Or some high official in the Dey's court? Would she even be told? That was salt on the wound, that these arrogant Muslims considered women so inferior they didn't have to explain anything to them.

  Chantelle gasped when she was suddenly yanked to her feet, and she caught the tail end of the lord's hand gesture that they should rise. What bloody inconsideration! "Don't bother with "You may stand, ladies." No, that would be too decent.

  Her temper was simmering when her eyes moved from his bejeweled hands to his face, and as instantly as her temper had arisen, it was forgotten. Dear God, one of her worst fears had come to pass. He looked like a European. Worse, with that high brow and sculpted cheekbones, that aggressive chin and aquiline nose, he looked like a bloody English aristocrat! The only thing Turkish about him was his dress—the loose trousers, the long-sleeved tunic of red-and-white printed silk falling just below his hips and sashed tightly to his waist with a large gold clasp. The sash was wide and white, as was his plumbed turban, centered with an enormous ruby. His slashing brows indicated black hair, but none was visible, not even a beard. That had been the one thing she had come to expect
on all Muslims, a long, flowing beard, or at least a drooping mustache. He had neither, revealing a strong neck, a full, sensual mouth. His eyes were green, dark green, and thickly lashed. He was not short or fat, but just the opposite, as she saw when he rose gracefully to his feet and stepped down from the raised dais on which he had been sitting.

  He gave another gesture of his hand and suddenly her double veils and robe were removed, along with those of the other two women. She felt self-conscious now in front of so many people. Besides Haji Agha and the three eunuch guards who stood directly behind each woman, there were three other men and an old woman kneeling near the dais, and two African giants wearing only trousers and short vests, with ugly-looking scimitars hanging from their hips. They stepped forward when the lord did, staying directly behind him on either side.

  Chantelle nervously crossed her arms over her midriff. The white cotton of her pantaloons was thick enough and baggy enough to be concealing, but they