She shook her head in the negative.
“Just lie by my side, India. I promise you that nothing will transpire between us. Your presence would comfort me,” Caynan Reis said.
“I have not eaten,” India said softly, “and I must then return the trays to the kitchen or poor old Abu will be most distressed, my lord.”
“When you have finished,” he said, “then come to me.”
“Are you commanding me, my lord?” India asked him.
“Nay,” he replied, and closed his eyes.
India slipped from the bedchamber and ate her meal. Then she carried the trays back to Abu. Returning to the dey’s apartments, she warred with herself for several long minutes, and then, entering his bedchamber, she lay down by his side. He did not move, and she was not certain if he was asleep or awake. It had begun to rain, and the sound of the droplets hitting the gravel path and the flora out in the garden was very soothing. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she was soon sleeping.
Caynan Reis took a deep breath, and put an arm about the slumbering girl. She gave a small sigh and curled herself against him. He could scarcely contain himself. She had come to him of her own accord. He let his eyes scan her face. She was dazzlingly beautiful, and she was almost his. He longed to kiss those full, lush lips of hers. To taste the innocent sweetness of her. He balled his hands into fists to prevent himself from touching her further and frightening her away. He knew that other men would consider his attitude toward India ridiculous. If a woman belonged to a man, and he desired her body, she gave it . . . or he took it. Yet, from the beginning, he had not been able to force her. Suddenly he realized that he wanted India to want him for himself, and not because he was the dey of El Sinut.
The women in his harem were lovely, and most amenable, but India was correct when she said that they feared him. They did. In their world he held the power of life and death over them. They sought to please him because everything they were, or possessed, was because of Caynan Reis, the dey of El Sinut. While he believed he had tamed India’s proud manner a trifle, he had not broken her spirit. She spoke her mind to him, and did not mouth inanities at him. He realized now that he needed more than just willing bodies to pleasure him. He needed a woman who would be his companion, his lover, and who would tell him the truth. He needed India. It was as simple as that, but now he had to convince her of it. He couldn’t be certain if it would be easy or difficult.
Of late he had seen her looking at him with a questioning look in her marvelous eyes. What was she thinking? Could she ever really love him given the way in which she had come to him? Had they been in England instead of El Sinut, would she have even considered him as a husband? She was seventeen, which was old for a virgin, and she had not chosen a husband, nor had her family chosen one for her. He wondered why. One day he would ask her, he thought.
His head was still aching, though less so when he finally fell into a deep sleep, but when he awoke, his mind was clear. The rain had stopped, and India was gone from his side. Had it all been a dream?
“India!” He called out to her.
“Yes, my lord?” She stood in the open bedchamber door.
“My headache has left me,” he said, feeling foolish. He had been like a child for a moment, fearful that she was gone from him.
“I am glad, my lord,” she answered him.
He arose, and she slipped a kaftan over him. “Who shall I choose to share my bed tonight, India?” he asked her. “Who shall I choose?”
For a very long moment she was silent, and she pierced him with a look the meaning of which he could not fathom. Then she said in a low voice, “It is not seemly, my lord, that I choose for you. I know you heard my foolish boast this morning to Samara, but it was only to keep the absurd creature in her place.”
“Who shall I choose, India?” He repeated the question. He stood directly before her, his hands now resting lightly on her shoulders.
I am losing my reason, she thought. I cannot!
“India?”
“Choose me, my lord,” she finally said. “Choose me.”
Chapter 10
He was not entirely certain that he had heard her aright. Reaching out, he cupped her face between his two hands and looked directly into those marvelous eyes of hers. “India?”
“Choose me, my lord,” she repeated once again in a soft voice.
“You are certain?” His heart was hammering, and he felt almost weak in his longing for her. This was not simply desire he realized in a blinding burst of cognition. This was love!
“I am certain,” she replied. “But, oh, my lord! Please be patient with me. You know I am neither incompetent nor witless, but I know very little about passion.” Her cheeks flushed with her words.
Caynan Reis bent his dark head, and touched her lips with his. It was a slow kiss, delicate and filled with promise.
When he finally removed his lips from hers, India’s hand went instinctively to her mouth, her fingers touching the flesh wonderingly. She hadn’t known quite what to expect but certainly not this tenderness. There was something far more to the kiss than she understood, and, seeing the confusion in her eyes, he knew for an absolute certainty her innocence.
“I will teach you passion, India,” he told her, his hands leaving her face, his strong arms enfolding her in a warm embrace.
Her cheek lay against his chest. She could feel the beating of his heart beneath the fabric of his kaftan. She trembled, and then angry with herself for what she felt was an unpardonable show of weakness, pulled away from him.
Gently he drew her back, enfolding her once more. His hand sleeked down her dark curls soothingly. “Passion is always confusing in the beginning. Afterward it is merely surprising,” he told her.
“I feel foolish,” she admitted.
“Do not, my thorny little virgin,” he teased her lovingly. “I have never had a virgin in my bed, and I find the prospect an unusual aphrodisiac.”
“What should I do?” India asked him.
“Another night I will begin to teach you the things that please me, and Azura will instruct you as well, my precious. Tonight, however, I would simply initiate you into the delights of love.”
“Oh.”
He felt her stiffen, and, realizing how nervous she must be, he said to her, “Now, India, go and fetch our evening meal. My headache is gone, and I find I am hungry.”
She slipped from his arms, and hurried from the room relieved. It wasn’t that she wanted to take back her acquiescence. She didn’t. But her mood was lightened by the realization that he would not rush her along passion’s path. What would it be like? she wondered. Would she, too, call out like those silly harem women? She was curious to learn what would make a woman cry with such obvious pleasure. His kiss had been quite wonderful. Much better than Adrian’s kisses, and for a moment she felt guilty, but the feeling quickly passed.
She could see now that Adrian had been an utter fool. The dey was not a cruel man, but he absolutely insisted upon being respected, as was his right. If Adrian had behaved better, he probably would have been ransomed by now, and her family would have known where she was. She knew that her parents would have moved heaven and earth to regain her person, but Adrian had not been wise, and while he might eventually escape his captivity, she would never escape hers.
Was that why she was finally assenting to Caynan Reis’s desire? To save herself? To make a place for herself in this new world? Or was she intrigued by this man who could be so kind and also so cruel? She wondered if another man would have been so patient as he had been. And what would have happened if she had never decided to yield to him? Reaching the kitchen, she found the evening tray with its decanter of fruit sherbet, the bowl of ripe fruits, and a blue-and-white plate of flat, warm bread. Picking it up, she returned to the dey’s apartments.
“I have set up the chessboard,” he told her as she set the tray in its accustomed place and then prepared the basin with its love cloths.
She took her p
lace opposite him, and their game began. She had learned much from him about chess, and while India had always been a good opponent, she had become an even better one over the last few months. Tonight, however, she was distracted, and finally, after her third loss in a row, he called a halt to their play.
Reaching out, he took her hand, and raising it to his lips, kissed the fingertips lightly. Unable to help herself, she pressed her fingers along his mouth again. He kissed them again, parting his lips just slightly to suck upon those slender digits. Startled, she pulled her hand away. Then, stretching his arm out, he touched her lips with his own hand. “Do what I did, India,” he instructed her softly.
Shyly she took his fingers into her mouth, drawing upon them, timidly at first, and then, unable to help herself, sucking more strongly. Surprised, her eyes widened even as she felt her heart begin to race. Her cheeks felt suddenly hot. There was something so sensual . . . so primitive in what she was doing, and while she forced herself to do so, she didn’t really want to stop. She looked at him questioningly as she released his fingers.
The dey caressed her face gently, his knuckles grazing the cheekbone. “Are you hungry?” he asked her.
India nodded nervously, although she really wasn’t, but anything to take her mind from the outrageously erotic thoughts now assailing her. She struggled to her feet even as he stood up. Together they moved to the table where the food was laid out. India poured the dey a small silver goblet of sherbet, handing it to him. It was his custom to help himself to the bread and the fruit. Seated opposite each other, they ate in silence for a time. He plucked a small bunch of pale-green grapes from the bowl, and began to pull the individual fruits from their stems with his teeth, slowly, one by one. His eyes met hers. She watched, fascinated, until the action of his strong white teeth and his swirling tongue that snaked out to catch the juice from the grapes made her giddy.
When he had finished, he took a slice of pomegranate, spooned the seeds from it, and, cutting it into pieces, began to feed it to her. She ate several chunks of the tart-sweet fruit, licking the juice from his hand in an action that surprised her. How bold she was becoming, India thought to herself, and blushed at the small smile that briefly touched the corners of his mouth. Could he read her wicked thoughts? She hoped he could not.
Caynan Reis took one of the damp towels that always accompanied his evening meal, and, leaning over, wiped her hands and face before cleaning himself. Then, sitting back in his chair, he said quietly to her, “Disrobe for me, India.”
She did not argue. Nudity between them was natural to her now. Standing, India loosened the ties on her pantaloons, and they fell to the floor. Picking the garment up, she laid it across the chair.
“Come here to me now,” he said, and when she had moved to stand before him, he took the damp towel and removed the carmine stain from her nipples. “I prefer you as Allah created you,” he told her. Rising, he pulled off his kaftan, laying it next to her garment. Then, reaching out, he drew her into the circle of his embrace so that their bodies just touched. “You have no idea, my precious, how much I desire you,” he said quietly, “but it is important to me that you are not fearful, India, of what will transpire between us this night. Do you understand?”
She nodded mutely, unable to meet his gaze. It was ridiculous that she felt so suddenly shy, but she did.
“I will not hurt you,” he promised her, “and if you become afraid, you will tell me. There is no shame in a virgin being suddenly reluctant, or apprehensive, India. Lovemaking is a joyous pastime, and I would have you gain pleasure from our endeavors.”
She nodded again, aware all of a sudden that he was gently stroking her, his big hand smoothing down her back with a delicate touch. She looked up at him questioningly, and without another word, his mouth covered hers, his lips easing her nervousness, proffering a sweetness such as she had never known. To her surprise she found herself kissing him back, offering herself to him as she certainly never had to Adrian Leigh, and realizing even as she did that she did so willingly. I want him, she thought, and I don’t even really know what it is I want of him.
He took her face between his hands, raining kisses upon it until she truly believed that there wasn’t an inch of skin he had missed. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured against her lips, alighting upon them again as a bee returning to a flower. He nibbled upon them teasingly, then pressed passionately against her mouth, gently but firmly and wordlessly cajoling her to part her lips. When she did so, he ran the tip of his tongue along the moist flesh, then unexpectedly thrust into her mouth to touch her tongue with his.
India gasped, totally surprised by his action. She wanted to draw back, but the writhing tongue encircling hers was frankly the most sensual feeling she had ever experienced. Hesitantly at first, then more boldly, she fenced with his tongue, feeling her body begin to entertain a strange and sultry heat that, while unfamiliar, was, she decided, in the overall most pleasant. She slipped her arms about his neck, drawing him closer until their bodies were pressed tightly against each other.
For a moment his breath caught in his throat as he felt her breasts pushing against him. She had absolutely no idea the havoc she was wreaking. Had she been any other woman, he would have thrown her to the floor and taken her then and there. Instead, he slowly ended the kiss, loosening her embrace, his hands going to her waist to turn her about so he might reach about, taking her breasts in his two hands. They nestled like two white doves within his cupped palms. He brushed his thumbs lightly across her nipples, smiling to himself as the delicate flesh puckered with her arousal.
India closed her eyes as he fondled her. She sighed, and leaned her head back against his shoulder. She had never felt so cared for in her entire life. She was at ease with this man as she had never been at ease with Adrian Leigh. How could this be? She had loved Adrian. Loved? Aye, it was past, she realized, and as she did, she knew that her father had been right. It had just been an infatuation that she had, in her inexperience, stubbornly insisted was more. But it hadn’t been more. Yet what was this that she felt for Caynan Reis? And did she feel anything other than curiosity or budding lust? If she didn’t feel some emotion toward him, then how could she allow him the liberties he was now taking? And she had indeed allowed him. He had not taken advantage of her. Oh, she could not hide behind that old excuse of wanton maidens!
“What is it, India?” His voice sounded softly in her ear, and he then nibbled upon her lobe. “You are distressed. I sense it.” His big hands continued to caress her breasts.
“I wonder what sort of creature I am that I enjoy your attentions,” she said candidly. “I have been taught that the license I now grant you is an intimacy allowed only between husband and wife, yet I permit you to kiss and touch me in a familiar manner . . . and I feel no guilt. How can that be, unless the high moral character that I have always attributed to myself does not exist and I am little better than a lewd trollop offering her favors in the High Gate.”
His hands fell away from her breasts, and, taking her by the shoulders, he turned her about. “Look at me,” he said sternly, and, when she raised her eyes to his, he continued. “This is not your England, India. Your parents have raised you well that you hold such a high moral standard up for yourself, but even in England, such standards are not ordinary despite what king and church may proclaim. You must know that, India. Here we do not count it a sin that a man desires a woman. That is why we are allowed up to four wives at one time, and many concubines to please us.” He touched her cheek tenderly. “Did it ever occur to you, India, that perhaps you are beginning to care for me, and this is why you feel no shame at our behavior?” His mouth brushed over hers lightly, and his deep blue eyes questioned her gently.
India blushed, and a tremor ran through her slender frame. “I . . . I . . . Oh! I hate this feeling of confusion!” she suddenly cried.
“I told you nothing would be between us unless you wanted it as much as I do,” he reminded her, praying silentl
y that she would not elude his passions once again. He was struggling to remain patient.
“But I do want . . . I do!” India said softly, and then she hid her head against his chest Why in God’s name was she behaving like such a complete ninny? What was the matter with her? Did she care for him?
Allah! he thought. Were all virgins like this? Damn the little witch! She had given her consent, and he would wait no longer. Without a word he swept her up into his arms, gaining his bed, his arms still tightly about her as he collapsed against the pillows.
“Ohh!” Her eyes were suddenly wide, and she knew instinctively that there was now no going back. As he slipped her from the comfort of his embrace upon the boldly striped mattress, his look was a look of undisguised passion that even she could recognize, and India thought suddenly of her mother. Had not Jasmine willingly shared herself with Prince Henry Stuart? A liaison that had resulted in her half-brother, Charles Frederick Stuart? And that had been in England!
“What are you thinking?” he demanded.
“That your gaze burns me, my lord,” she dissembled.
He laughed, and once more kissed her mouth lightly. “If you but knew my thoughts, little virgin, you would burst into flame,” he told her. “I cannot ever remember desiring a woman as I desire you, my precious India.” He caressed her face with the back of his hand.
“I am not yet a woman, my lord,” she half whispered back.
“We will shortly remedy that,” he told her, his kisses becoming more ardent as they moved over her face and down the graceful column of her throat, across her chest, and finally to her breasts.
His lips were warm, and seemed to burn her delicate skin wherever they touched. She was acutely aware of everything, her senses suddenly sharpened to every nuance of his passion, even of her own body. Her breasts seemed to be swollen. They almost hurt, and when his mouth closed over a nipple and suckled upon it, a small cry escaped her. “Ahhh, God!” She felt his tongue swirling about the nipple teasingly, and then his teeth gently, very gently, nipped at the sensitive tip. “Ohhhh!” His tongue swiftly laved over the nipple, soothing it, but he hadn’t really hurt her at all. When he lifted his dark head, she eagerly guided it to her other nipple so it, too, might know such pleasure.
Bedazzled Page 18