Captive Rose

by Miriam Minger

  “But that cannot be helped, Father. The caliph needs Jamal until the smallpox has fled from his family.”

  “True.” He pressed his lips together, thinking, then regarded her sharply. “I have decided. From now on you will attend to the crusader only when I cannot, which I hope will be rare. And when you do, I will make it clear to the captain that you must be very well guarded.” He released her, the tightness in his expression easing as if his decision gave him some peace of mind. “Come, my daughter. Patients await us at the hospital.”

  As they walked together down the street, her father acknowledging greetings from passersby, Leila hoped that indeed her visits to the prison would be few. After hearing the crusader’s wild threats and curses, she had no wish to bear the brunt of his desperate, barbarous acts.

  ***

  “So they’re holding you for a bloody ransom, de Warenne,” Guy muttered tightly to himself, wincing at the searing fire in his shoulder as he shifted upon the rigid cots. “The wily bastards.”

  He rubbed his thick wrists, chafed raw from the shackles, his eyes moving from one wall to the next, then to the door, and back to the barred window. Again and again his gaze circled the small cramped cell until desperation clutched at his throat, threatening to choke him.

  By the breath of God, it wasn’t good enough! Whatever the amount of the ransom, he had no doubt that Edward would pay it. Yet it might be days, weeks, maybe a month or more before he was released. He would go mad long before that. He felt half mad already!

  Even now he could feel the rough stone walls closing in around him, suffocating him, like the walls in that tiny prison cell eight years ago …

  Panicking, Guy gasped for breath, feeling suddenly as if a crushing load were pressing upon his chest. He threw an arm over his eyes in an attempt to block out the dark, terrible memories, but they kept coming.

  Memories of betrayal and death and utter hopelessness, of hunger so severe that he had eaten rats to stay alive, hit him with full force, so vivid, so real that he could have sworn he was once again in that same black hellhole. God help him, he had to think of something else fast before the memories completely overwhelmed him. He had to think—”Leila! “

  Guy cried out her name before he even realized it, then whispered it again and again like a powerful chant to ward off the horrible darkness. As he frantically conjured her face and lithe form in his mind, his nightmare visions gradually loosened their icy grip upon him and began to recede.

  Leila.

  He thought of her stunning violet eyes, her seductive rose-red lips, her breasts straining against her clothing like lush ripe fruit. The crushing load grew lighter, and he sucked in great lungfuls of air until he was able to breathe again.

  Leila. His mysterious angel of mercy.

  He could feel the tension ebbing from his body, thoughts of life and beauty replacing images of horror. He recalled her touch when she bandaged his shoulder, gentle yet assured; the soft, melodic sound of her voice; and the heady scent of her perfume.

  It reminded him of the flowers his mother had lovingly nurtured in a walled garden in Wales. Damask roses. The bright pink blooms had burst forth every summer, scenting the castle bailey with sweet and intoxicating fragrance.

  Just like Leila’s. He could smell it even now, a faint whiff of her perfume emanating from the linen bandage as if her touch had left it there.

  Calmer, Guy lowered his arm and wiped the sweat from his face, rational thought returning.

  What cruel fate had brought her to Damascus? She must be French or English, more likely the latter, judging from her excellent command of his language.

  An English rose far away from her homeland, now a Christian slave among the infidels.

  It was an outrage. It made him sick. It made him even sicker to think she probably shared that Arab physician’s bed. A beauty such as Leila could hardly have been spared the base indignities that were perpetrated on the female sex. No doubt she had been deflowered at a tender age by that rutting heathen!

  By God, there had to be some way he could help her. Some way they could help each other, for that matter. There had to be some way they could both escape what fate had brought them. Surely she wanted to return to her own people and leave her wretched servitude behind, and he’d be damned if he was going to wait patiently in this cramped cell for a ransom.

  Tomorrow he would ask for her help, he decided fiercely. Together they would devise a plan.

  Chapter 3

  That evening proved balmy and clear, ushered in by a spectacular sunset that lit the western horizon like orange and crimson fire.

  Now it was dark. Leila stretched languorously on the cushioned divan and gazed up at the starry heavens.

  What a perfect time to relax on her mother’s roof terrace. Not too warm or too windy. Only a gentle breeze played across her pale blue silk damask robe, tickling her toes and delighting her nostrils with the terrace garden’s lush scents.

  Leila laced her fingers together and rested her hands upon her firm breasts. She hadn’t felt such peace in days. She had been so busy at the hospital and visiting her harem-bound patients scattered throughout the city that she had simply been too exhausted when she returned home to avail herself fully of the harem baths. But this afternoon had been blessedly different.

  After noting the sooty smudges under her eyes, and fearing she had been working herself too hard of late, her father had insisted she leave the hospital early. He had even provided a silk-curtained litter to take her the short distance home.

  A luxurious bath after a brief nap had been a balm to her senses. Ayhan and Nittia, her two personal odalisques, had first slathered her skin with an aromatic lemon paste and scraped her completely of body hair. Next they had washed her, poured silver bowlfuls of tepid water over her in the hot steam rooms, massaged her until her smooth white skin had flushed pink from their pummeling, and anointed her with her favorite rose oil.

  She felt clean and fresh and satiated, her body tingling from her scalp to the soles of her feet. The sheer physical pleasure of her slaves’ ministrations left her feeling as if she were floating. Even her long, knee-length hair felt charged and alive, brushed to a high gloss after being vigorously shampooed and dried, then left free to hang down her back.

  Leila coiled a perfumed tendril around her finger. As the silken ebony threads caught the silvery moonlight, she smiled. The glistening reflection reminded her of a poem she had recently received from Jamal, written in praise of her beauty. Recalling its erotic content, cloaked in flowery verse, she was filled with anticipation.

  Truly, she looked forward to the day when they would marry. But not only for the promise of sensual delights. There was a more important reason to consider. She would not be allowed to practice medicine as a full-fledged physician until she was a married woman.

  That was simply the way of things. All decent women in the Arab Empire were under the protection of a man, whether a father, husband, brother, uncle, lord, or sultan.

  She would have been married already if not for her medical studies; she had been of marriageable age since her first monthly flow when she was fourteen. Yet her father had insisted upon waiting until she finished her training, believing pregnancy and children would hinder her progress.

  Now that her apprenticeship would soon be completed, that was no longer a concern. She knew it would not be long before a date was set for the marriage. When she was finally wed to Jamal Al-Aziz, she would have the protection she needed to fulfill her heart’s ambition. Her life would be just as she had always envisioned it. Neat. Well-ordered. Perfect.

  It didn’t hurt that Jamal was everything she wanted in a husband—kind, clever, possessing refined taste and manners. Perhaps one day she would even grow to love him, though to her mind such affection was hardly necessary. Their profession demanded clearheadedness, rational thought, and a firm grip on one’s emotions. Love was no use to her at all. It was more important that they understand and respect each
other.

  And desire each other, she added, thinking again of his provocative poem. Once they were married, she would not hesitate to share his bed. There was not a more handsome man in Damascus, other than the crusader—

  Leila shook her head, forcing Guy de Warenne’s striking blond image from her mind.

  No, she would not think of him now! It was bad enough that the barbarian’s terrible curses and hungry glances had plagued her thoughts all day. She determinedly imagined Jamal instead, with his smoldering brown eyes, midnight curls, and strong, masterful hands which would someday caress her and bring her quivering body to ecstasy just as he promised in his poem.

  Aroused by her wanton thoughts, Leila trailed her gaze about the dark, trellised roof terrace. She was still alone. Her two odalisques had not yet returned from the harem kitchen with the light supper of yogurt, olives, and fruit she had requested.

  Slowly she drew her knees up and squeezed her slender thighs together, tightly at first, then rhythmically, eliciting a secret yearning deep inside her that made her moan and tremble.

  Leila had been educated in many lovemaking techniques so that one day she might please her husband, but she had also been taught to please herself. When she married Jamal she would be sharing his attentions with his first wife and his many concubines; that, too, was simply the way of things. There would be times when he would not be able to respond to her needs, when she must look to her own fulfillment.

  Her small hand crept between the embroidered folds of her robe and she touched her breast, finding the nipple warm and rigid. She ran her palm over the sensitive nub and back again, over and back, but oh so lightly, imagining what Jamal’s caress would be like. She massaged her other breast, sighing with pleasure.

  She could not have been more startled when the imagined caress suddenly grew rough and demanding in her mind. The huge hands she pictured stroking her body were not smooth like a physician’s but callused and powerful. A warrior’s hands. Blazing blue eyes swept over her, devouring her in a glance, and she could feel rock-hard muscles pressing relentlessly against her flesh. She inhaled sharply as the exquisite pressure between her thighs burned ever brighter, ever hotter …

  A keening moan broke from her throat, and she arched upon the divan as intense pleasure engulfed her, agonizingly sweet. She held herself there, scarcely breathing, four fingers pressed hard against the moist, aching cleft of her womanhood until her climax subsided. Exhaling in a rush, she sank onto the cushions and lay there, stunned, shocked, and bewildered.

  How could she have thought such a thing? It was immoral, indecent. A sin! To imagine a man other than her betrothed touching her body, caressing her … That barbarian, no less!

  The tranquility of the evening had been spoiled. She rose in agitation, her silky hair swirling around her. As she angrily drew her robe together and tied the sash, she heard light footsteps behind her.

  “I’m not in the mood for any supper,” she said irritably, thinking her odalisques had returned with her meal. “Take it back.”

  “Indeed. And such a lovely supper it is, too.”

  Leila spun, her eyes widening at the sight of her mother. Swathed in peach silk from her gossamer veil to her tiny, slippered feet, Eve was holding a brass tray laden with food, a silver goblet and pitcher, and a delicate oil lantern which cast a soft golden glow upon her exquisitely beautiful face.

  It never ceased to amaze Leila how youthful her mother appeared. Though Eve was forty-three years old, the two of them could easily pass as sisters. Leila was slightly taller, but other than that their lissome figures could have been shaped from the same mold.

  “Nittia and Ayhan told me I would find you here, my daughter. I dismissed them for the evening. I hope that does not displease you … further.”

  “Of course not,” Leila said, rushing forward. “Let me help you, Mother.”

  She took the tray and set it on the low table beside the divan. The aroma of lamb and spinach-filled pastries reached her nostrils, stirring her appetite, and her stomach grumbled noisily. It was far more substantial fare than she had expected, and it looked very tempting.

  “It seems your stomach is not in agreement with your heated words,” Eve said mildly, seating herself on the divan. “I would swear such a rumbling protest proves you have not eaten since this morning.”

  Leila sat down beside her mother, chagrined because Eve had heard her use such a petulant tone. She waited silently for the reprimand she knew was coming.

  “Harshness does not suit you, Leila. ‘Tis not your normal manner with your slave women, nor a just reward for their faithful service. What has provoked such a display of temper?”

  Leila looked out across the moonlit rooftops, then down at the tray, anything to escape her mother’s inquisitive gaze.

  What could she say? That she was being tormented by lustful thoughts about the crusader? Her mother already knew of their valuable patient, but Eve hadn’t yet heard that Leila had actually spoken with him earlier in the day. Oh, why couldn’t she avoid the unsettling subject altogether?

  “I was thinking of the crusader, ‘tis all,” she mumbled, opting for a version of the truth. “He regained his senses this morning and attacked a guard.”

  “And this has made you angry, my daughter?”

  Leila sighed with convincing exasperation. “Only because Father and I worked so hard to save his life last night. His wound could have opened. He could have bled to death before we arrived, and the governor’s ransom would have died with—”

  “But the wound did not open, did it?” Eve interrupted her sharply.

  Puzzled by her mother’s tone, Leila answered, “No. It is better in fact. The swelling is almost gone.”

  Eve nodded as if she was not surprised by this news. “I prayed that it would be so,” she said more softly. “God is with him.” She fell silent and gazed into the distance.

  Leila felt a tug in her breast as she watched a familiar haunted, faraway look settle over Eve’s lovely face. She was about to ask her what had been bothering her these past weeks when Majida suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs leading to the terrace. The tall odalisque hurried over to the divan and bent down on one knee, taking Leila’s hand in her larger one.

  “Your mother has told you the wondrous news, yes?” Majida asked, her gray eyes shining with excitement. She pressed Leila’s hand to her smooth cheek. “A thousand and one blessings be upon you, my young mistress!”

  Leila was so surprised she could only stare from Majida, who was covering her hand with kisses, to her mother.

  “Majida, please,” Eve began, her voice wavering, “Leila has not …” She faltered, then threw up her hands, her many precious rings glittering in the moonlight. “I have not told her yet.”

  Majida’s mouth fell open in embarrassment. She released Leila’s hand and prostrated herself on the enameled tiles, her forehead resting atop Eve’s slippered feet.

  “Forgive me, O my mistress. Such a flapping tongue! I thought by now you would surely have shared your tidings. I waited by the stairs, impatiently counting the moments, and I could contain myself no longer. I was so happy. Ah, forgive me. I did not mean to spoil the surprise.”

  Eve leaned over and grasped the odalisque’s broad shoulders, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “‘Tis no matter, Majida. Please stand up. I dislike it so when you do this. We can tell her together, you and I. Stand up, dearest friend—”

  “Such a foolish tongue. I curse it! May it shrivel up and fall from my mouth, then I shall stomp upon it!”

  “What utter nonsense. You have done nothing wrong, only given of your heart’s joy. Come. Sit here by me.”

  With a plaintive sigh, Majida rose. She smiled apologetically at Leila as she sat on the edge of the divan.

  “There. That is so much better,” Eve said calmly, though she still appeared flustered. She patted the odalisque’s hand. “Now. Go on, Majida. Tell Leila why you are so elated.”

  Leila stared
at her mother, feeling for some strange reason that Eve was reluctant to share this news herself. She glanced questioningly at Majida, who was again smiling broadly.

  “A date has been set for your marriage to Jamal Al-Aziz. One month hence, my young mistress, you will be a bride!”

  Excitement blazed through Leila. “When was this decided?” she asked, astounded that she had been thinking of such a thing only a short while ago.

  “Late this afternoon,” Eve replied quietly. “Your father received a letter from Jamal at the hospital not long after you left, but since his work will stretch far into the night he sent a message requesting I give you the news. Jamal believes the caliph’s family will be fully cured within a few weeks, and he has requested that the wedding preparations begin at once. He is most eager for the marriage.”

  Leila lowered her head, overwhelmed. Her dream had suddenly moved that much closer to becoming reality. If she was to marry so soon, that meant her apprenticeship was almost over.

  “I take it you are pleased.”

  The sadness in her mother’s voice cut through her own happiness. Leila met her eyes, a stunning likeness to her own, and was astonished to see tears trailing down Eve’s alabaster cheeks. “Are you not happy for me, Mother?” she asked, perplexed.

  Eve did not answer for so long that Leila grew fearful, not knowing what her mother would say.

  “Jamal is a good man, the son of my beloved husband,” Eve finally replied, wiping away her tears with a gossamer silk handkerchief. “If God wills it to be so …”

  Her voice trailed off and she rose to her feet, a tremulous smile on her lips. “We will talk more tomorrow, my daughter. Enjoy your supper and rest well this night. May your dreams be sweet and full of promise.”

  As Eve walked away, her silk garments rustling softly in the breeze, Majida jumped up from the divan to follow, but Leila caught her hand.

  “Majida, please. What is troubling my mother?” Leila whispered fervently, raising her voice when Eve disappeared down the stairs. “You have served her since she came to my father’s house. You know her soul. Tell me. I cannot bear to see her so distressed.”