That he had been concerned for her welfare was a natural reaction, but it gave a hard edge to his voice now. "If I had wanted Jamila, I would have sent for her. I wanted you, Shahar. I wanted you yesterday as well, but foolishly thought you might be grateful for a day of respite after I was so relentless in giving you none the night before."
She pried his fingers away from her mouth to snap, "Don't you dare claim it was for my benefit!"
"I also thought you had too much pride to succumb to jealousy."
Her eyes flared at this new attack. "Jealousy? Not on your life! It was just brought home to me that this is no more than a whorehouse, and you are the—"
"Don't say it!"
"Why not? If I made love to a different man every night, that is what you would call me. And don't tell me it is different for a man, that you are allowed, that you in particular are allowed. Your world might think so, but mine does not."
"Does it not?"
It enraged her further that he smiled when he asked that. "Then let me put it this way. I do not. Now will you ... let ... me .. . up!" She shoved at him again, but he couldn't be budged.
"I will let you go, Shahar, when you forgive me for hurting you."
She made the mistake of meeting the warm glow in his eyes. That and his husky timbre sent a shiver along her nerve endings.
"You didn't hurt me," she insisted, turning her head to the side. "I just ignored a few basic truths for a while, but I am back on the right track now."
"Don't do this, Shahar." He took advantage of the throat she exposed to him, nuzzling his lips there. "It meant nothing to me." His lips moved toward her ear, and he took a moment to draw her earlobe between his teeth. "I cannot even recall what I did or said last night, it was so insignificant." He was murmuring right into her ear now, so that each breath affected her. "But I can remember every single moment I spent with you."
Chantelle's thoughts had scattered, and she couldn't seem to get them back. "You—you can't be faithful. You don't know how."
"If that is what it will take to have you willing again," he promised recklessly.
She shrugged him away from her ear, doubting her hearing. "You don't mean that," she scoffed. "My God, I have even been told you exhaust yourself in order to satisfy everyone. You should be glad that at least one of the women you own won't feel neglected if you ignore her."
"It would devastate me if that were so, but you know it is not. Now that you have tasted the pleasures of the body, you would miss this." He slid a hand between their bodies to capture a breast. "Even now I can feel your nipple hardening, begging for my kiss."
"Sto—" The word turned abruptly to a scream, for suddenly behind him there loomed a dark shape, but all Chantelle actually saw was the flash of a dagger raised above the Dey's head.
Chapter Thirty-seven
If Derek had stopped to think, that would have been the end of it. The knife would have found its target, plunging through his back straight to his heart. And the blade was long enough to have passed through him, going on to impale Shahar as well.
But he didn't stop to think. Shahar's scream was laced with fear, not outrage at his seduction, and his instincts demanded immediate response, not questions.
He rolled, taking Shahar with him, right into the legs of the assailant. The man lost his balance, falling over them, his knife sinking so sharply into the pillows it pierced right through, the tip breaking off on the marble floor beneath. But the weapon was not made any less dangerous by losing its point. It was still deadly enough to slash through flesh and bone, and was swiftly brought into play to do just that.
Derek only had time to shove Shahar away from him, the man was on him so quickly. He couldn't even spare a glance to see if he had abandoned her to other assailants, though professionals weren't likely to bother with a woman until their objective had been met, and he was that objective. But the man didn't get immediate help. He was strong enough not to need any, as Derek painfully found out. And if the blunted, jagged edge of the dagger didn't have difficulty breaking through his skin, it would have sunk deeper than a mere half inch before his own strength forced it out, his hands nearly breaking the man's wrist before it was jerked away.
The second stab was deflected with his forearm, and that gave him a chance to land a fist on the assassin's jaw. But in his position on the floor, there wasn't much power behind it. Mere seconds passed before the knife was back, slashing at his throat this time. But the longer reach of his arms saved him, and a palm to the chin of the assassin so he couldn't see his target.
The blade fell short of its mark, and Derek was able to latch onto the wrist again, determined not to lose it this time. Now it was simply a matter of strength, and an awareness that there could only be one survivor in this contest.
Chantelle crouched on the floor, both fists pressed to her mouth, her eyes riveted to the deadly scene before her. She didn't think to run for help, nor did she wonder why there wasn't any help forthcoming after her piercing scream. Her instinct was to do something herself, but she was terrified to take her eyes off the grappling pair even for a moment, afraid that it would be over if she did. And the assailant was so huge, now that she could see him clearly. There was solid bulk filling his robes, a broad back, thick shoulders, and arms that were probably just as thick. How could Jamil, who might be strong but was so much slimmer, hold him off for very long?
She had to do something and quickly, before the fear she was experiencing paralyzed her even more. She stumbled to her feet, glancing frantically about for a weapon that would make a likely club or . . . Her eyes flew to the table as she suddenly remembered the long knife Jamil had used to carve the roast. No servants had come in to clear the table. The knife was still there, but could she use it? Could she actually kill a man? What would happen if she didn't?
Jamil could die, of course, and that gave her the incentive to run to the table and snatch up the knife. But she was more terrified than ever with the lethal thing in her fist. How could she do it? How could she not? She didn't want Jamil to die, did she? Did she?
She acknowledged the answer only on a deeper level, for she was already moving toward the deadly struggle on the floor, and before she could question the right or wrong of it any further, she raised the knife to plunge it into the assailant's back, just as he had meant to do to Jamil. But she had gotten too close to them. A leg jarred her, ruining her aim, and somehow that broad back wasn't there to receive the blade, but Jamil's head was.
Chantelle blanched even as the momentum prevented her from drawing back, it all happened so quickly. She saw the knife nick Jamil's ear as she fell against the assassin. And then she went crashing into the wall, unaware that she had knocked the large man so off balance that Derek was able to change their positions, and she got thrown over in the process.
The pillows set up against the wall cushioned the impact, so that Chantelle wasn't even stunned. But she had lost her knife in the fall. And when she looked back, the two combatants were still. No, oh, God, no!
"Jamil?"
He raised his head, and Chantelle crumpled with relief, sinking back into the pillows. Now she felt bruised and battered. But what must he be feeling?
"Are you all right, Shahar?"
"Me?" she choked, and then sucked in a gasp as he stood up. "You're bleeding!"
It came out as an accusation. Derek glanced down at his chest but knew the cut was too minor to be concerned about.
"It is nothing."
"But why did he . . . how could this . . . where the devil are your guards?" she finally got out, anger replacing her fear.
"I believe I told them I would skin them alive if they interrupted me tonight for anything. They obviously took me at my word. But they are mutes, after all, and would not have heard anything."
"I screamed loud enough to alert the guards at the end of the hall."
"So you did." Derek grinned. "But even if they would have responded to a woman's scream, which is doubtful in your
case, since the entire palace knows what trouble I have with you, the guards at the door would not have let them in."
She ignored the insinuation that her screams could only mean he had lost patience with her. "Then how did he get in?" She looked at the man lying motionless on the floor and shuddered, seeing the dagger protruding from his chest and the wide pool of blood around it.
"A good question."
Chantelle watched him march to the door, only now realizing that the guards outside must be dead. But they weren't. They came in the room, followed soon by many others. And the Dey's personal guards weren't dead either. They were still in the garden where he had banished them, which left both entrances guarded, but obviously not very well. It was no wonder the mutes were so upset on finding the dead man in the room. They were guilty of either inattention or collusion.
But then the rope was found, dangling next to the garden doors, explaining at least how the assassin had gotten this far into the palace, but not how the two Nubians could have missed seeing him shimmying down from the high roof.
"It is my own fault." The Dey exonerated them to an older man who had come in after the guards and seemed more upset by the incident than anyone else. "I warned them to stay away from the doors and simply patrol the garden walls."
"You deliberately left yourself vulnerable?" the old man asked incredulously.
Jamil said something that Chantelle didn't hear, but she blushed furiously when the old man looked at her with disgust afterward. Whoever he was, he blamed her, and no doubt everyone else would, too.
Some physicians came to fuss over the Dey's wound. The dead man was also examined. A heavy bag of coins was found in a pocket, but nothing else.
Chantelle stopped watching the proceedings. Her anger had turned to guilt, and the full realization of what had happened hit her hard. Jamil could have died. My God, she had nearly killed him.
She glanced up to see one of the doctors dabbing something on the Dey's ear and she paled, her stomach turning over. What if he thought she had done it intentionally, that she had taken advantage of the moment to free herself of him? Hadn't she just told him tonight that she hated him? She had no reason to help him, none that she could think of, none that he would think of, certainly nothing that made sense.
The body was carted from the room, the blood wiped up from the floor, and those pillows that had been stained by it exchanged for new ones. Chantelle moved over when the pillow she was sitting on was taken away, but she didn't get up, even when the room began to empty. She was recalling her angry remark to Kadar that she was going to get her head chopped off tonight, and experiencing die full dread of its being a distinct possibility now.
Finally only Jamil and the two Nubians remained in the room. The Dey drained a glass of kanyak, which he had requested, then abruptly dismissed the two black men back to the garden. They nearly balked at this; in fact, they did seem to argue with him. Chantelle couldn't understand one bit of the sign language they used, but she did understand that they didn't want to leave Jamil alone again. But of course the Dey was finally obeyed and left alone—with her.
"Why did you send them away?" she asked as he approached her. "Or do you mean to kill me yourself?"
He dropped to his knees in front of her, his eyes narrowing. "What silliness is—"
Chantelle didn't give him a chance to finish. In a panic, she threw herself at his chest, nearly knocking him over, and clinging tightly when he righted himself.
"I'm sorry!" she wailed against his throat. "I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear I didn't. I was aiming for his back, but I tripped and—"
"I know."
"His back wasn't there any—" She pulled away to look up at him. "What do you mean, you know?"
He laughed at the umbrage that had slipped into her tone. "What happened to 'I'm sorry'?"
"Then you don't think I was trying to kill you?"
"Were you?"
"Of course not!"
"Then give me credit for knowing the difference between help and hindrance, and timely help at that."
"Timely?"
"My arms were nearly ready to give out from trying to hold him back when your fall unbalanced him enough so that I could get him off me. You probably saved my life."
"I did?" she said in awe, but after a long moment of thought, she added, "Then you owe me a great boon, don't you?"
"If you are thinking of asking for your freedom, little moon, do not. I want you too much to let you go, even in gratitude for my life."
If he had said anything else, his earlier declarations would have rung false. As it was, that answer didn't disappoint her as it should have.
"Could I ask for something else?"
"What?"
"Constancy?"
"You wouldn't rather be showered in riches?" At the shy but negative shake of her head, he gathered her close. "You will wish you had chosen the riches when you beg for mercy and find none."
Chapter Thirty-eight
"Did you have him hung from the palace gate?" Derek asked Omar.
They were on the way back to Jamil's apartments after a morning spent in the audience chamber, a long morning, since it was only Derek's second attempt at dealing with the foreign dignitaries in his brother's stead. The first time he'd been nervous about meeting men of importance who had dealt with Jamil before and could so easily detect any difference in his behavior. But he'd handled it rather well this time, being more comfortable with the role he was playing. He'd even seen more petitioners than he'd planned on, though he had refrained from making any concessions without Omar's advice to guide him.
The older man frowned at the question, his expression indicating he was still touchy over the subject of last night's assassination attempt. "Yes, he is hung out to rot where all can see as they come and go from the palace. But no one has come forward to collect the reward for identifying him."
"Did you really think they would? At this point in the game, it would take a fool to admit to knowing anyone even remotely involved, let alone one of the actual assassins. And the story has probably spread far and wide already that another one has failed in the attempt. That's two since I have been here, and how many more before that?"
"Five attempts, eleven dead," Omar grunted.
"There you are. They are bound to get discouraged eventually, just from sheer loss of numbers."
"Or more desperate and suicidal."
"Come, now, the money behind this plot has to run out sometime. You will have to agree that the risk is too great to come cheap."
"Selim left Barikah bitter, not poor. But you are right about the risk being great, though it is no greater than the unnecessary one you have been taking. You prefer the danger, don't you?"
"Do I look crazy?"
"You look like a man thoroughly enjoying himself," Omar replied disgustedly.
Derek chuckled. "So you have found me out. But it's no more than a little excitement to break the monotony."
"I thought the woman was all the excitement you needed. Or did you use her only as an excuse to leave yourself vulnerable to attack?"
Derek grinned despite Omar's very real displeasure. "It was exactly as I said. Shahar could never have relaxed in my company with those Nubians looking over my shoulder. But no harm was done last night." At Omar's fierce glower, Derek laughed again. "Let it go, old friend. I promise to be alive and kicking when Jamil returns."
"Inshallah, " Omar retorted before leaving him.
There was that, but Derek no longer believed wholeheartedly in the concept that every man's fate was predestined. Muslims did, however. It was what led them fearless into battle, the belief that if it was their time to die they would, and if not, nothing could harm them. He liked to think his own destiny was a little more controllable, that his own skill and decisions could alter its course.
But Omar was right insomuch as Derek had welcomed that little skirmish in the desert last week, just as he had thrived on the challenge last night. It wasn't that he
needed life-threatening danger. He really wasn't suicidal. He just needed excitement of any kind to keep him from falling into the same rut Jamil had experienced.
Jamil at least had had normal business to attend to. But it had occurred to Derek just this morning that with no real responsibilities, no actual decisions to make or worry over, he had nothing of importance to occupy his time. It was no wonder, then, that his concentration had focused on a woman. Could that be the sole reason for his obsession, why he had made her so important? It was likely, and it went a long way toward relieving his mind. When it was time to leave, it wouldn't be that difficult for him to put this episode of his life behind him. He would remember Shahar fondly, but that was all.