Silver Angel

  But he couldn't tell Shahar that. And when he thought of how long it was going to take to break through her resistance on his own, without the truth to make it easier, he groaned in frustration. How was he ever going to last? Certainly there were any number of women he could summon to his bed, but his ache was for Shahar, and until she relieved it, he doubted anyone else could, not completely. To hell with half measures. He would wait.

  In the meantime, he would put his impersonation to the test and meet his sisters-in-law, all three of them, and his many nieces and nephews. These summonses were expected and might as well be gotten out of the way now as opposed to later. Shahar would need a few days alone anyway, to contemplate his displeasure. If fear could make her more agreeable, he wouldn't prevent its manifestation, though he wouldn't add to it either. He would prove to her afterward that there had never been any reason for her to be afraid of him.

  With that resolved in his mind, he turned about and headed back to the city. He had ridden only a few yards when he noticed the vague outline of two of his guards finally catching up with him. He chuckled, his mood improved. Their desert mounts had never had a chance of keeping up with an English Thoroughbred sired by a champion racer. It was in his blood for the stallion to leave all comers in the dust.

  Derek should feel contrite about his thoughtless actions, but he didn't. He had needed this time alone, with nothing but the stars and the wind and the quiet to keep his temper company. The danger of going off alone had been the least of his concerns. In fact, he would have welcomed a would-be assassin—he had been in the mood to hurt. But that mood was over now that his loins had cooled off. Imagine being ruled by his sex. That, too, was a new experience he found disconcerting.

  Derek pulled up on the reins when the approaching riders got closer and he made out the flowing gray robes, not exactly the uniform of the palace guards he had assumed them to be. He frowned, wondering if he was going to get his wish after all, to meet a few of Jamil's enemies. Not that he minded. It just would have been convenient if he had thought to carry a weapon or two on him for this mad dash out into the countryside. But he hadn't exactly been thinking when he'd left the palace. He had been propelled along by hot, frustrated emotion and nothing else. A rather stupid thing to do after his many sojourns across the Channel as one of Marshall's spies. Old Marsh would be appalled by such carelessness.

  The riders didn't slow down until the very last moment, giving Derek fair warning that he did indeed have a fight on his hands. The thing to do would be to take off and outrun them. There was no chance in hell they could keep up with the white stallion. But he didn't do that.

  The decision was made in the split second before a scimitar cut the air in front of him, slicing toward his head. He ducked, noting that the assassins weren't smart enough to come at him from each side. As the first man passed him after an unsuccessful swipe, the second came up on the same side, only this one tried to leap onto Derek and knock him off his horse. He met Derek's foot squarely in his chest, kicking him back into his saddle and nearly over it. He dropped his weapon in the fight to regain his balance and breathe at the same time.

  Derek immediately dismissed him as incapacitated for the moment and swung about to face the other man, who had had time to turn around for his next assault. Several yards away, Derek was able to rear the stallion up on his hind legs and bring the front legs down at the crucial moment. The scream told him the stallion's hoofs had hit something vital on their descent. The man's horse had suffered, too, the front legs buckling, which sent the assassin tumbling over the animal's head. He didn't try to rise, squirming on the ground with one hand pressed to his right shoulder, yelling loudly now in his pain.

  Derek whipped about again to see what the other one was up to, only to grin as he caught die man's shadow in flight, already far away. He dismounted then and picked up the dropped scimitar before he moved to stand over the fallen man. The fellow immediately started blubbering for mercy, but Derek had no intention of killing him. He did intend to take him back to the palace, however, and turn him over to Omar. There was a slim chance that this one might know something more than the other would-be assassins who had been caught.

  Swiftly, he brought the hilt of the scimitar down on the man's turbaned head. Silence was immediate. Derek moved to check the fellow's horse, which had since risen and was standing by docilely. Bruised, undoubtedly, but the animal seemed capable of carrying a prone burden back to the city. If not, Derek would just as soon drag the luckless fellow behind his own mount. For someone who had just tried to kill him, he couldn't dredge up much sympathy.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The other slaves didn't know what to make of Chantelle's presence among them. Some were spiteful, some sympathetic, some fearful of speaking to her at all. Apparently, a concubine from the royal harem had never before been sentenced to kitchen labor. And from the few derogatory remarks she overheard, she knew she was singularly unique in not wanting to win the Dey's favor. With every other woman going out of her way to please him in any way possible, it was no wonder punishment such as she had incurred was rare.

  She was considered a freak, her crime heinous. God, what absurdity. She hadn't done anything wrong as far as she was concerned. Of course she hadn't thought so two days ago, when she'd been brought to the cavernous kitchen area and turned over to the Chief Cook, who was now in charge of her. At that time she had been so terrified, the large, overbearing woman had taken one look at her and turned away in disgust, ranting that she would never get any work out of such a pale, skinny wraith.

  But Chantelle's fear had been very real after Rahine's parting shot. She didn't know why the Dey's life should be in danger if he left the palace, but that he had, and that it was, horrified her, for she did think she was responsible, and she believed absolutely that if he didn't come back, her life would be forfeit.

  She hadn't slept that night, for no one had bothered to let her know that Jamil had returned safely to the palace. She'd learned of it the next day, when one of Noura's servants, Noura being his second wife, came through the kitchens bragging to anyone who would listen that her mistress had been summoned for that night. Chantelle had then felt such keen resentment that it surprised her. She'd told herself it was because of her sleepless night, all for nothing, that Rahine could at least have had the decency to send word that her life was no longer in danger, even if her punishment wasn't to be rescinded. Her umbrage certainly wasn't because Jamil was going to spend the night with one of his wives. He could have a bloody orgy for all she cared, as long as she wasn't included. And it didn't look like she would be, ever. He sent her to labor as a kitchen slave and blithely went on with his customary lechery, the swine. Rahine was probably right—she would be forgotten in this dreary, unfriendly place.

  Well and good. It was what she had originally hoped for, wasn't it, to end up anything but a concubine? But it would have been nice if she hadn't spent those first few days as a concubine, which accounted for the outright resentment of some of the other women who shared her new existence. Not all, though. She had met Adamma's mother yesterday and found her as likable as her daughter.

  Fayolo was a beautiful Nigerian who seemed much too young to have a daughter Adamma's age, but she had informed Chantelle unabashedly that she had been a ripe thirteen when she began catching the eye of the palace guards. That the kitchen slaves had access to other parts of the palace was news that Chantelle pounced on, until the Chief Cook snapped that she wasn't to have such freedom, by Rahine's orders, which just added another dose of resentment to that which was already brewing.

  The large chamber was to be her prison and, with a pallet on the cold floor, her bedchamber as well. Jamil had sent her here—she didn't doubt that. He had obviously left the order before he'd stormed out of the palace. If it had been left to Rahine to punish her, she would more likely have been severely beaten instead, the lady had been that angry with her. No, Jamil had put her here, probably thinking that this would sh
ame her more than anything else, that she would regret losing her pampered existence in the harem and wish she had been more agreeable to him. Hah! He had done for her what she hadn't been able to figure out how to do for herself. He had put her out of his reach. Well, not exactly, but if enough time passed, he would forget about her. And as she had already concluded, why would he bother with her again when he had so many women who prayed to have his notice?

  She had to count her blessings. It might not be a pleasant place to work, but thanks to her stay with Aunt Ellen, a kitchen was at least familiar ground. And they had made their own meals. The blustering cook, who was so quick with the slaps and the shouts, might not be an easy taskmaster, but Chantelle would eventually get along with the woman if it killed her. The main thing was, here she didn't have to worry about being summoned to share her lord's bed. For that relief she could put up with anything, the hostility, the ridicule, the constant work, even a slap from the Chief Cook when she did something wrong. Also, she would have a much better chance of escaping from the kitchens than the harem, whose every door was guarded. But that was for later, when she was acclimated and no longer under curious observation from nearly everyone.

  Yesterday had been a normal workday, yet even with so many slaves on hand, Chantelle had still been kept busy, for this kitchen fed all the concubines and favorites of the Dey. Fayolo informed her that only the eunuchs' kitchen, one building over, was as busy, since there were three times as many eunuchs, but that the ideal kitchen to work in was Lalla Rahine's, which served only her.

  "But what of the palace guards and the slaves?" Chantelle had wondered aloud. "Isn't their number even greater?"

  "Much greater," Fayolo told her. "But their food is simple fare, requiring much less actual preparation."

  Today Chantelle found out just how much preparation could go into one meal, and this for only ten people. She was awakened before dawn to help Fayolo get a young sheep ready for roasting. Mechoui, the dish was called, and Chantelle, so used to bringing home already butchered meat from the market, lost the leftover pastry she had quickly downed as her breakfast when she watched Fayolo plunge a knife into the carotid and blood spurt out. She had time to recover, however, since they had to wait until all the blood was drained, but then a hole was made with the knife point above the knee joint on one back leg and the skin loosened there. With nausea fast returning, she had to take turns with Fayolo blowing through this hole until the air reached the forelegs so the sheep could swell and stiffen.

  Fayolo took pity on her and did the skinning, but the Chief Cook insisted Chantelle participate in scraping and rinsing the tripe, as well as singeing and cleaning the head and trotters. She was twice sick again before they finished, over which the cook and half the women there laughed heartily, but finally the sheep was impaled from tail to throat for slow roasting and basted in olive oil.

  It would take five hours for the skin to become crackly and the flesh juicy, but Chantelle was not given a respite. She also had to help cut up camel meat for the tajin, a stew that was so thick it was eaten with the fingers, while Fayolo made the couscous, a delicious-smelling dish of semolina with chicken and two sauces, one to moisten the semolina and one to spice the dish, with vegetables cooked down to a paste.

  But the most arduous time was spent helping the Chief Cook with the bstila to round out this feast for ten. Never had Chantelle seen such a complicated dish for so few in number. Three actual pounds of butter were needed, thirty eggs, four pounds of flour, six pigeons, twelve ounces of sugar, a pound of almonds, and then the exact measurement of cinnamon, ginger, pimentos, onions, saffron, and coriander. What it turned into in the end was an enormous stuffed flaky pastry with one hundred and four thin individual layers of crust.

  The bstila took all day to make, but Chantelle only had to help with the crusts in the afternoon, after the previous helper had fainted from the heat. During the few hours that she was under the cook's watchful eye, she received two separate slaps when she broke two of the thin crusts when setting them aside. Fayolo tried to change places with her, for she was the one basting the sheep, a much easier job, but she got a slap for the offer. Chantelle thought the cook was just being spiteful, until she heard one of the other women giggle that Noura had specifically requested that she have a hand in each preparation. And then she learned that this feast was Noura's idea, a surprise for the Dey, to be attended only by his wives and favorites.

  For a split second, she wished she could get her hands on some poison. But by the time this magnificent feast was carried out, she wished only for her pallet. She was wilted, her hair and clothes damp with the sweat that had run off her all day, and so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. She was certainly too tired to eat her own dinner, which wouldn't be served for several hours yet, since the kitchen slaves didn't rest until the last concubine had been fed.

  Fortunately, the cook must have found an ounce of pity in her large frame, because she sent Chantelle to bed, rather than ordering her to another table where food was still being prepared for the other ladies of the harem. Or maybe she just realized that Chantelle simply couldn't do any more today without dropping. The reason didn't matter. Chantelle was asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, her last thought of Jamil's second wife and how she would have liked to see her roasted instead of that poor young sheep, which she hoped they all choked on, especially Jamil.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  "I'm not sure I want to invite you in with that long face, Haji," Rahine remarked when her old friend appeared at her door. "Didn't Jamil like Noura's surprise feast?"

  "He seemed pleased."

  "But not enough to mend his temper?"

  "On the contrary, he seemed in very good spirits," Haji replied as he curled his old frame onto the pillow next to Rahine.

  She sighed in exasperation when he said no more than that. "Spit it out, then. What did not happen as expected?"

  "He wondered why Shahar was not among his favorites to enjoy the feast with him."

  "What?" Rahine gasped. "But he must have been joking! A concubine cannot reach the status of favorite until she has found favor in his bed."

  "He knows that, Rahine. But this situation is rather unique, you must agree. Never before has a new slave been summoned by him and then returned to the harem a virgin. As far as he is concerned, that first summons changed Shahar's status, regardless of how their evening ended."

  "More deviations from custom?"

  "So it seems."

  "But doesn't he realize the confusion and resentment this will cause among the other women? You did point that out, didn't you?"

  "Certainly."

  "And?"

  "He said he would rectify the situation tonight."

  Rahine groaned. "No! How can he do this to me? Did he think I would do nothing when the girl defied him and made him so furious that he recklessly risked his life? Only by the grace of Allah and Jamil's own skill did he return that night unscathed. Does he think Shahar has been languishing in comfort just waiting for him to summon her again? He knows me better than that!"

  "Perhaps with everything else that is on his mind right now, he simply didn't consider the possibility that you would punish her," Haji offered.

  "Possibility!" Rahine shrieked the word. "There was no uncertainty involved. The girl deserved to be punished. I am only surprised that Jamil didn't attend to it himself."

  "Perhaps that alone should have given us pause, Rahine. The fact that Jamil didn't punish her himself, especially when he has been so quick to deal with the slightest offense lately, should have made us at least hesitate—"

  "You agreed with my decision at the time!" Rahine pointed out scathingly.

  "I know, I know, and what is done cannot be changed. At least she has been in the kitchens only two days. How much damage could have been done in so little time?"

  "But he doesn't know, does he? Or did you have the courage to tell him where I put her?"

  Haji shook hi
s head. "Maybe she won't mention it," he said hopefully.

  "Don't count on it, Haji. I will have to tell him myself."

  "Don't be a fool, Rahine. Why stir the pot to boiling when it is only simmering? If she mentions it. that will be soon enough to bear the brunt of his anger. And you only acted in his best interest. Perhaps these few days have changed the girl's disposition. If so, he will have reason to be grateful, not furious."

  "Perhaps." Rahine sighed. "But Allah's mercy, Jamil hasn't been the same since he first laid eyes on this girl. He has become completely unpredictable."

  "Which is not a bad thing at this time," Haji remarked. "If we cannot predict what he will do next, neither can his enemies. He certainly surprised them the other night."

  "But Omar was unable to learn anything from that cutthroat Jamil brought back with him. I still shudder to think how close they came to succeeding in killing him. He had no weapon on him, Haji! When has Jamil ever left the palace without a weapon before?"