Silver Angel

  The question was asked with such confidence that there was no point in denying the truth. "No."

  "Why?"

  "I would just as soon have stayed in the kitchen, if you must know. No harm was done."

  "Stayed in the—? Do you hate him that much?"

  The incredulous tone snapped Chantelle's temper. "I don't want to be his next whore!"

  "My dear, you could never be that," Rahine said gently. "No concubine could when she is restricted to only one man's attentions. But you must know that Jamil already prizes you. He breaks customs for you. He appears obsessed with you in every way. Can you truly find no tender feeling for him?"

  "Why do you do this?" Chantelle cried.

  "Because I live for his happiness. What else do I have to live for?"

  Oh, God, how pathetic. Chantelle couldn't stay angry with the woman after hearing that. "Can't you go home? Why do you lock yourself away in here when you don't have to? You're his mother. He wouldn't keep you here if you wanted to go, would he?"

  "No, but I have nowhere to go. This is my home now, Shahar. Jamil, his children, his women, they are my family. This is my life. There is nothing for me anywhere else."

  "You're not an old woman. You could still find another husband."

  Rahine smiled at that. "I can do that here, Shahar, if that is what I want."

  Chantelle gave up. "Very well, so you like it here. Kindly accept the fact that I don't and never will."

  "I wonder if you will still feel that way, say, a week from now."

  Rahine didn't wait for a reply but left Chantelle alone to wonder what could happen in a week that might change her mind. It didn't take much intelligence on her part to guess. Rahine was warning her that Jamil's patience wouldn't last any longer than that. So be it. She had known, deep inside, that he would get his way eventually, one way or another. She knew her days were numbered. But she would still hold out to the bitter end, and her feelings weren't going to change when that end came.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  If Chantelle didn't know better, she would swear she was being courted. During the past five days she was summoned to Jamil every evening, and each time was the same. He was charming, witty even. He told stories about his childhood in the harem, some that even made her laugh. They would walk in the garden or play games, and once they read to each other.

  It was all very proper by her standards, which was why she was learning to relax in his company, at least for most of each visit. But before the evening was over he would inevitably make his move, and she would inevitably resist it, though God knew it was getting harder each time to do so. When Jamil turned amorous, he was plainspoken, telling her exactly what he wanted to do to her. She would have not only his hands to contend with but his words, too, and what they could make her feel. But she prevailed, despite her traitorous body's reaction to him.

  Amazingly, she was not treated to another display of anger, even when she rejected his advances. She almost wished it were otherwise, for her image of the cruel tyrant was receding more and more, especially when little gifts would arrive during the day, or notes to remind her that he was thinking of her.

  Last evening had been the same as the others, except he had been drinking when she arrived. That had made her extremely nervous, until she realized he wasn't drunk, just different, more relaxed, more-well, truth to tell, he seemed more English than ever. This "courtship" seemed more English than ever, too. If she didn't have to return to the harem, filled with women who belonged to him, she could almost forget who he was and where she was.

  But the women, his many women, could never be forgotten. He might spend his evenings with her, but she didn't know with whom he spent his nights. No one else was summoned to him; any enemies she had in the harem would have made sure she knew about that. But he was known to spend his nights with one of his wives, to go to her apartment rather than have her brought to his. This could be done in secrecy, so Chantelle couldn't know what he did after she left him.

  That she should wonder about it at all disturbed her. She shouldn't care about whom he slept with, as long as it wasn't with her. But if she was going to be honest, at least with herself, she had to admit she didn't like the notion that his patience with her could very likely be the direct result of his getting his pleasure elsewhere.

  This made her less agreeable toward his wives, who had since paid her several visits. Noura she hadn't liked before they'd even met, and that opinion was reinforced at their second meeting, when the black-haired beauty showed her true colors. She had an attitude of superiority that was only more pronounced by her conceit and imperious manner. She might have reason to be so condescending, since, according to Adamma, Noura was the only woman in the harem who was not a slave, having been given in marriage to Jamil to seal a treaty with some desert pasha. But that was no excuse for such overwhelming arrogance, or for her cutting remarks. Noura could turn her spite on anyone who gained her attention.

  The other two wives were totally different. Sheelah, especially, was hard not to like. The hummingbird that the first kadine had given her was indicative of her generous and friendly nature. In fact, Chantelle couldn't find a single reason to dislike her— except that she was Jamil's beloved first wife, and that reasoning was so illogical that it didn't bear close examination.

  There was a certain anticipation today as Chantelle prepared herself for her sixth consecutive evening with Jamil Reshid. She accredited it to nerves, because she knew her time was running out. That she might be looking forward to his company was not considered.

  For tonight she was dressed in a delicate pink muslin that softened the color of her eyes and went well with her platinum tresses. Those Adamma still arranged loose, pinning only the front locks away from her face. She now had earrings, two bracelets, hairpins, and a large amethyst ring to go with her necklace, gifts that Jamil still sent her even though she hadn't earned them in the traditional way.

  "You will take his breath away, lalla," Adamma assured her happily.

  "Do you think he will expire from suffocation, then?" was the hopeful reply.

  Adamma giggled. She didn't take Chantelle's disparaging remarks about Jamil seriously anymore, perhaps because Chantelle only said such things from habit now. A week ago she might have looked upon his demise as her salvation and felt not a moment's sorrow. Now she might still pray for escape, but not through his death.

  It was Kadar who took her to the Dey each evening and waited for her return. He had become like her shadow, escorting her everywhere she went, guarding her door when she was in the apartment, sleeping in the front room with Adamma at night. She had wondered whose side he would take if she were to refuse Jamil's summons again. He seemed completely loyal to her, but she wasn't quite ready to put it to the test. After she had figured out a way to escape, she was going to need help, and she was hoping Kadar would supply it. But it was too soon yet to trust him completely.

  Tonight she found Jamil standing by the garden doors. He never received her in any room but this one, with the ever-threatening bed close by. But he had had large pillows brought in to form a cozy couch by the windows, through which moonlight would filter in. Not that the room wasn't always well lit to begin with. Yet somehow the lighting seemed to dim before the evening ended, as if invisible servants came to extinguish each lamp. She wouldn't know if they did. Jamil always claimed her attention so completely, an army could march through and she probably wouldn't notice.

  He was wearing a dark gold tunic in a rich Venetian brocade that molded across his chest and shoulders. The typical loose trousers were white Persian silk and tucked into high boots of a European design. The wide sash about his waist was gold tissue and held a dagger that was lethal in its unadorned simplicity. The only jewels tonight were his rings, a large amber stone and the emerald that he always wore. And as usual, he was without his turban. She hadn't seen him turbaned since they had first met.

  She wished it were otherwise, for with that smoothly shave
d face and the thick black hair that parted in the middle and fell in waves to his shoulders, there was nothing Eastern about him from the waist up. How often had she gazed at him and thought how normal he would look in an English drawing room. She had pictured him in a well-cut coat, tight knee-high breeches, with a silk cravat at his throat, and knew he would cut a dashing figure. He cut a dashing figure anyway, damn him.

  At Jamil's insistence, she no longer prostrated herself when entering the room. But she never approached him either, remaining by the door until he called her forward. Tonight he didn't say anything at first, though he stared at her with those penetrating green eyes of his. Perhaps he was merely waiting for the recital to finish. A Reader of the Koran sat in a corner, reading aloud from the book on his lap.

  When the little Muslim's voice rose suddenly, Chantelle turned toward him, unable to ignore him any longer.

  Those you fear may be rebellious, admonish; banish them to their couches and beat them. If they then obey you, look not for any way against them; Allah is All-high, All-great.

  Your women are a tillage for you; so come unto your tillage as you wish, and forward for your souls; Allah is All-mighty, All-wise.

  Chantelle caught her breath and glanced back to see Jamil still watching her. He dismissed the Reader of the Koran with an abrupt motion, never taking his eyes from her.

  Chantelle waited until the little man had bowed himself out; then one silver brow rose sharply. "For my benefit?"

  "But of course."

  His sudden grin was so mischievous, she couldn't help laughing. "You forget I'm a Christian infidel who doesn't follow your prophet's teaching."

  "I never forget for a moment what you are, Shahar." He walked toward her while he said this, and brought her fingers up to his lips before he finished with, "What you are is mine."

  Her mind might shy away from her attraction to him, but her body did not. It responded immediately to his touch and possessive tone. But before she could even think of a reply, he was leading her to the couch of pillows. He dropped down there, pulling her next to him.

  They had never sat this close so early in the evening before, not that they were actually sitting. The pillows were so large they were like a bed when formed together. Jamil reclined back on one elbow, with one knee bent so that he leaned partially toward her. She rested on both elbows for the moment. He had always managed to work his way closer to her gradually, in effect forewarning her when he was about to make an advance. That the rules were suddenly changing was unnerving.

  Slowly, so as not to be obvious about it, Chantelle scooted back until her spine rested on the pillows that were set up against the wall. At least their thighs weren't touching this way, and she had the advantage of being able to look down on him, which settled her nerves a little, until she saw him smile. She hadn't been subtle at all.

  He chose not to comment on her discomfort, saying instead, "What shall we do tonight?"

  "A walk in the garden?"

  Chantelle immediately started to get up. An arm across her thighs prevented her.

  "What would you like to do—here?" he clarified, and to her relief removed his arm.

  "I—I don't know. What would you—" He cocked his head to look up at her, and his grin was so blatantly wicked, she didn't have to finish the question. "Besides that," she added a bit sharply.

  He gave the barest of shrugs, his gaze traveling slowly down her body to end at eye level on her lap. "Have you learned to dance yet?"

  She knew what kind of dancing he meant. She had watched one of the ikbals practicing in the courtyard, and it was like nothing she had ever seen or could even imagine. It was a dance designed solely to arouse male passions, with sinuous belly and pelvic movements that were not just seductive; as far as she was concerned, they were obscene.

  "Your Eastern dances are too . . . foreign for my tastes," Chantelle said.

  "But I would very much like to see you dance, Shahar," he replied, and ran a finger down the top of her thigh to her knee, where his hand then rested. "Will you learn for me?"

  He looked up for her answer. The heat in his emerald gaze caused her throat to tighten. Her belly was already turning flip-flops from his touch.

  "I—I couldn't."

  "You could," he murmured thickly, and his finger started a trail back up her thigh. "You choose not to. But it is not something that can be forced. You have to want to inflame my passions—"

  "Jamil!"

  She grabbed his finger before it could go any farther. He startled her by yanking it away and sitting up. When he glanced back at her, she knew she had displeased him from the tight set of his features. She assumed it was because she had stopped him. It was a surprise to find out differently.

  "You may call me anything but Jamil."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Call me Derek."

  "What?" she said incredulously.

  "It means 'beloved.' "

  She blinked. What the devil had come over him?

  "In what language?" she asked skeptically.

  "Never mind what language!" His voice rose in his irritation. "Will you call me Derek?"

  "No," she replied simply, and saw his jaw stiffen.

  "In another language, it also means 'bastard.' Now will you call me Derek?"

  It was too much. She grinned and the laughter followed, until she was bent over with it, clasping her sides. When she finally leaned back, she saw him watching her with his own lips curled.

  "Oh, God." She sighed, wiping tears from her eyes. "If I'm not permitted to call you Jamil, you only had to say so. Derek indeed. The name's as English as I am."

  "So is my mother, Shahar," he pointed out. "Perhaps she gave me the name."

  "Did she?"

  "No," he said truthfully, for it was his grandfather who had named him Derek.

  He reclined again, bemused by his irrational reaction to hearing her call him by his brother's name. What was a name, after all? Just because it belonged to someone else . . .

  Chantelle was watching him curiously. "What was that all about, then, if you don't mind my asking?"

  He glanced up at her, suddenly aware that her humor had relaxed her guard. That would change, however, if he claimed his prerogative not to answer.

  He shrugged offhandedly. "My frustration, rising to surprise us both."

  She could believe it, but was loath to pursue that subject. "Oh, well ..."

  He chuckled. "Where's your courage, English?" Aren't you curious why I'm frustrated?"

  "No!"

  "It's not what you think."

  "Isn't it?"

  "I want you in my bed, yes, but I want other things as well."

  Before she realized what he meant to do, he had hooked his fingers in the top of her pantaloons and tugged, gently enough so that the buttons on each hip didn't snap off, but enough to bring her sliding down the silken pillow until she lay flat on her back next to him. She brought up her hands immediately to ward him off, but he didn't lean over her as she had expected.

  "That's better," he said. "I was getting a stiff neck looking up at you."

  If that was meant to reassure her about this new position, it didn't. "I don't think—"

  "Shh, don't you want to know what I want to do to you?" She shook her head emphatically and he gave her back her own words. "Besides that."

  "No matter," she insisted. "It can't help to talk about it."

  "How do you know? And how do you know you won't like what I want to do to you?"

  She closed her eyes with a little groan, only to snap them open as she felt him lean closer. His face was now above hers, a mere breath away. His hand, still holding the band of her pants, turned so that she felt his palm against her skin. It wasn't as warm as the smoldering heat of his gaze.

  "I want to put my fingers inside you, Shahar."

  "Oh, God!" she got out before his mouth slanted across hers to add to the whirling of her senses that his words had caused.

  Still, she re
ached for his arm, wrapping her fingers about his wrist. That there was no strength to her tug was not surprising.

  "If you don't give me something, woman, I am going to go mad," he said against her lips.

  His kiss turned fierce, possessive, as if he meant to devour her. She became even weaker under this onslaught, until her hand fell away. His hand immediately slid into her pants, the fingers parting her curls, moving down, finally doing what he said he had wanted to do.

  Her reaction was to soar up against him, which allowed his fingers to press even deeper inside her. She clung to him, reeling in the most delicious sensation, mindless of anything except that pleasure.