“I am not ready to wed yet,” Karim replied. “I enjoy my life as it is now. Perhaps if my time with Zaynab is successful, I shall take another maiden or two to train.”
“How large is your harem?” Donal Righ asked.
“I have none,” Karim answered him. “I am not home enough, and left to themselves, women grow restless and treacherous. They need a man’s strong hand to guide them constantly. When I marry, I will build a harem.”
“Ye are probably wise,” Donal Righ agreed, and then he chuckled. “Ye have too old a head for such a young man, Karim.”
“Let Zaynab and Oma have the privacy of your gardens, Donal Righ,” Karim requested. “The journey home to al-Malina will take several weeks, and they will be confined upon my vessel. I cannot allow them the freedom of the decks, lest they inflame my men.”
Donal Righ nodded. “Aye, the voyage will be hard for the lasses. They are used to the land. The trip from Strathclyde took but a few days, and they were rarely out of sight of land.”
“They will not see land for many days,” Karim said.
Regan and Morag were informed by Erda that they would once again be permitted the freedom of Donal Righ’s small garden. Delighted, they hurried downstairs to spend the day in the sunshine, sitting upon one of the little marble benches, chattering and speculating about the mysterious al-Andalus to which they would soon travel.
In mid-afternoon Alaeddin ben Omar appeared, telling Regan, “My lady Zaynab, Karim al Malina desires your presence. He awaits you upstairs.” The black-bearded sailor bowed politely.
Regan thanked him and departed the garden.
Alaeddin ben Omar grinned at Morag. Reaching out, he tweaked one of her braids, and she giggled. Taking her hand in his, he began to stroll the garden with her. “You’re a pretty girl,” he said to her.
“And yer a bold rogue,” she answered pertly. “I may be convent raised, but I know a rascal when I meet one.”
He chuckled, the sound a warm rumble, and in that instant Morag lost her heart to him. “Aye, Oma, I am indeed a rascal, but one with a warm heart. You seem to have stolen it away from me, my pretty one. I do not think I want it back.”
“Ye’ve a silver tongue, Alaeddin ben Omar,” she told him with an inviting smile, and then she bent to sniff a rose.
When she stood straight again, he was directly before her. “Are you aware, my pretty one, that yer name, Oma, is the female of Omar?” Reaching out, he stroked her cheek, and Morag’s eyes grew wide.
Nervously she stepped back a pace. His touch had been tender, yet it had sent a small shock through her. Her heart beat faster as she gazed into his black eyes. He reached out again, but this time it was to draw her into the shelter of his arm. Morag came perilously close to swooning. The shepherd lads on the hillside outside the convent had never been this daring or bold with her. “Ohhhhh,” she exclaimed as his mouth touched hers in an exploratory kiss, but she did not struggle or draw away from him. She was curious about what would happen next, and she felt safe with this big man.
From the windows above the garden, Karim al Malina watched his first mate as he began his seduction of the young girl. He had never seen Alaeddin so gentle, so patient with a woman. He suspected his old friend was possibly biting off more than he could chew this time. The adoring look on Oma’s pretty face portended something more than just a quick passion.
The sound of the door opening behind him caused him to turn. A smile lit his handsome features. “Zaynab,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Aye, I did,” she admitted. The truth was, she had never felt so well rested as she had this morning when she awoke to find him gone from her side. She smiled slightly.
“Shall we continue our lessons then?” he said. “Remove your garments for me. I would begin to teach you the art of touch. The skin is a very sensitive instrument of the amatory arts, Zaynab. To learn how to properly caress it is important. You must learn to touch yourself, as well as your master, in such a way as to inflame the other senses.”
Regan was slightly taken aback. He spoke in an everyday voice. There was absolutely nothing suggestive in his tone. Slowly she drew her garments off. To refuse would be ridiculous, she knew. He had shown her last night that he expected immediate obedience from her. She had spent part of the morning trying to mend the chemise he had torn from her last night, but the garment was ruined, and she was embarrassed to have been so wasteful. As she drew her undertunic off she sneaked a peek at him from beneath her thick golden lashes. He wore only white pantaloons, and in the daylight his body was very beautiful. She blushed at the thought. Could a man be considered beautiful?
He watched her disrobe through dispassionate eyes. She was absolutely exquisite, but he believed that all of his old training had reasserted itself once he had decided to take on the task of training this girl in the erotic arts. The first thing he had been taught by the Passion Masters in Samarkand was that you absolutely did not become emotionally entangled with a student. The woman being trained must be completely and thoroughly dominated, but tenderly, not harshly. As for the man training her, he must always be patient, kind, and firm, but never must his heart become involved.
“My lord?” She was completely nude now.
He focused his attention upon her once again. “Making love,” he began, “can be done at any time of the day or night, although there are some who are overly prudish and think passion can be attained only in the dark. Because you are fearful, I have decided that if I begin your lessons in the daylight, and you can fully see what is happening, you will lose half of your fears. Do you understand?”
Regan nodded.
“Good,” he told her. “Now, before we begin your experiences with touch, you must accept the name that has been given you. You cannot retain what is to us a foreign name.”
“I will lose myself if ye take my birth name from me,” she said desperately. “I dinna want to lose myself, my lord!”
“You are far more than just a name,” he said quietly. “A name does not make you who you are, Zaynab. You will never return to your homeland. Your memories will always be with you, but you cannot live your life through those memories. You must leave that life behind, and with it the name your mother gave you at birth. Your new name indicates your new life, a better life, I believe, than the one you lived before. Now say your name, my beauty. Say, my name is Zaynab. Say it!”
For a moment her beautiful blue-green eyes filled with tears that threatened to spill over onto her cheeks. Her mouth was mutinous, her look defiant. But finally she swallowed hard, and said, “My name is Zaynab. It means the beautiful one.”
“Again,” he encouraged her.
“I am Zaynab!” Her voice was stronger now.
“Good!” He gave her his approval, pleased that she had obeyed him without further ado. He fully understood the difficulties for her in putting aside her past, but he was pleased she had shown the wisdom to understand that only by putting herself in his hands could she hope to survive in this new world into which she was being sent. “Come here to me now,” he commanded her. “Remember that I will not force you, but I am going to touch you. You need not fear me, Zaynab. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.” She would not be afraid, and if she was, he would not see it in any gesture, or in her eyes. I am Zaynab, she thought, beginning to forge this new identity for herself. I am a creature to be cherished and admired. My survival depends upon what this man can teach me. I do not regret the life I have left behind. I would not want a man like Ian Ferguson for a husband. Nor did I wish to spend my life in a convent praying to a God I do not even know or understand. I am Zaynab, the beautiful one. She caught the shudder about to overtake her as he put an arm about her and drew her close.
He felt her suppress her distaste and was silently pleased. He tipped her face up to his, the back of one hand brushing along her jawbone and across her cheekbones. A single digit ran down the bridge of her straight little nose, then played acros
s her lips, teasing at them until they parted slightly. He smiled into her eyes, and Zaynab felt her breath catch in her throat “You see the power of touch,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Aye.” She nodded. “ ’Tis a strong thing, my lord.”
“When done properly,” he corrected her. “Now, to continue.” He pushed her head aside with the back of his hand, and his lips found the tender spot just below her ear. “The mouth may be used in touch as well as the hands,” he explained, “and the tongue.” He licked the gardenia-perfumed flesh of her neck in a long, sensuous stroke.
Zaynab shivered, unable to help herself.
“You are beginning to experience arousal,” he told her.
“Am I?” She wasn’t quite certain what he meant.
“What caused you to shiver?” he asked her.
“I am nae certain,” she answered him honestly.
“Look at your nipples,” he said.
She did, and was surprised to find they were small and tight like frosted flower buds.
“What did you feel when my mouth touched you?”
“I tingle, I think?” She struggled to recall.
“Where?” His azure eyes bored into her.
“A-All over,” she admitted.
“Arousal,” he said in plain tones. Then, to her surprise, he picked her up and carried her across the chamber to the bed, where he gently laid her down. “We will continue our lesson for today here,” he said. “I wish to get you used to a more intimate kind of touch, and it will be easier if we are here, and not standing.”
He is not going to harm me, she forced herself to remember.
“I am going to touch your breasts,” he warned her, immediately caressing a small round orb with his long fingers. His hand closed over it, tenderly kneading the soft flesh, and she murmured, a faint sound of nervousness. He released his hold upon her and began to stroke her bosom with light, almost tickling touches. He put a single finger into his mouth, his eyes never leaving her as he sucked upon it; and then he began to encircle a nipple with the wet digit, around and around and around until finally the nipple was slick with his saliva. Then bending his head low, he blew softly upon the wet nipple.
This is really very pleasant, Zaynab thought to herself, and then she asked him, “Can I do the same thing to ye? Will it gie ye pleasure, my lord?”
“Did I give you pleasure, Zaynab?” he asked her.
“I think so,” she admitted.
“In time I will allow you the freedom of my body, but not quite yet, my flower. We will take your lesson a tiny bit further today, however.” He lowered his dark head again, but this time his mouth closed over her nipple, and she gasped loudly.
There was pleasure! she thought, startled. The mouth that tugged so insistently upon her breast was stirring up feelings she had not even known existed, nor would have even considered she possessed. “Ohhhh!” The sound escaped her before she might contain it.
He recognized her tone as one of enjoyment, and not fear. Immediately he transferred his attentions to her other breast, and within moments her young body was arching against him, against his mouth. He was pleased. She was quickly losing her fear. The damage was not as severe as he had previously believed. Finally, when he determined she had had enough teasing, he raised his head from her pretty breasts and kissed her mouth lightly. “I am pleased with you, Zaynab,” he said with a warm smile. “You have done well this afternoon. If you wish to dress and join Oma back in the gardens, you have my permission.”
“Ye dinna wish to continue?” Her whole demeanor was one of disappointment.
“We will practice again tonight,” he said calmly.
“Ohh.” She arose from the bed, and dressing quickly, left him.
Karim al Malina chuckled. It had been a long time since he had schooled a maiden. He had truly believed himself in complete control. And indeed he had been, until she evinced pleasure at his homage to her charming breasts and pressed against him. His manhood had in that single instant gone from well behaved to a raging hunger. It had been all he could do in that moment not to take her there and then. She did not realize it, but she would have been willing.
Instead he had continued suckling upon her perfumed flesh almost as a self-discipline for himself. Then he’d dismissed her as her master would one day dismiss her when he had taken his pleasure of her lovely body. It had not been easy. He realized now that he’d been foolish to stop training Love Slaves simply because Leila had killed herself over him. It had unnerved him, true, but he should have taken another maiden to school immediately.
His education with the Passion Masters in Samarkand had been a valuable source of income, permitting him to purchase his freighter, I’timad, and sail it where and when he wanted. It allowed him to pay his crew in the periods he chose to remain ashore, so that they would not sail with another vessel. In the years since he purchased his vessel, he’d assembled a band of sailors whose temperaments suited his and each other’s. Without his other source of income, he had had to spend more time at sea in the past few years. Donal Righ had not discussed what he would pay him for training Zaynab, but he knew his father’s old friend would be very generous.
As Zaynab reentered the little garden, Alaeddin ben Omar was just leaving it. She nodded to him, but said nothing. She found her servant upon a marble bench, flushed and breathless. “He seeks to seduce ye,” she said by way of admonishment.
“Aye, he does,” the other girl admitted, “but he’ll nae succeed, my lady Regan, until I wish to be seduced.”
“I have accepted the name of Zaynab,” her mistress told her then. “It is foolish to oppose these Moors, as we are being taken to their al-Andalus to live out our lives. I shall nae call ye Morag again, my good Oma. Dinna think me cowardly for giving in to them.”
“I dinna think ye craven, my lady Zaynab. I think ye verra wise,” Oma told her. “Alaeddin says we shall also hae to learn their language if we are to get on. It is called Romance.”
“I shall request of Karim al Malina that we be taught together,” Zaynab replied, “but we shall speak our own tongue from time to time, lest we forget it. Besides, it is unlikely anyone else will know it, and we may communicate in secret when we need to do so, Oma.”
In early evening the two girls went to the baths, where Erda was awaiting them. “Have ye heard?” she asked them. “Ye’re to set sail in just seven days’ time for al-Andalus. I heard the master speaking with the handsome Moorish captain, Karim al Malina, this afternoon.” She peered at Zaynab closely. “Is he the magnificent lover he is reputed to be, my girl? Ye should certainly know by now.” She chuckled.
“My lord Karim hae nae made love to me, ye nosy old woman,” she told Erda. “There is more to the art of seduction than a man’s member nesting itself within a woman’s secret garden. That is the final outcome. One must begin at the beginning,” she finished loftily.
Oma’s jaw dropped with surprise at Zaynab’s words.
Erda, however, rolled her faded brown eyes. “Listen to the wench,” she said in outraged tones. “Three weeks ago she did not know what a bath was, and now she thinks she’s a houri! Well, ye’ve got a lot to learn, lassie! A wee bit of humility might be a good first lesson.”
“Ohh, Erda,” Zaynab relented, “I dinna mean to offend ye. Will ye forgive me, old woman? Please?”
“Well, perhaps I might,” Erda allowed, mollified. Then she said brightly, “Don’t be disappointed, lassie. He’ll make love to ye soon enough.”
Oma burst out laughing at the look on Zaynab’s face, and even Zaynab was unable to withhold her own amusement.
“Yer a dreadful old thing, Erda,” she scolded the bath mistress, who cackled in toothless appreciation.
They bathed and then ate a simple supper with Erda in the women’s quarters. When they returned to the chamber at the top of the house, Oma said, “I hae been told yer to remove yer garments and go to sleep. Erda says those were her orders for ye.”
“Will the l
ord Karim come tonight?” Zaynab wondered aloud.
“I dinna know that,” Oma replied, helping her mistress off with her clothing and into her bed. “Sleep well, my lady.” The door between their chambers closed.
Zaynab lay quietly. The house seemed very quiet tonight. In the garden below she could hear the soft chirping of the summer insects. If she closed her eyes, she might be back at Ben MacDui. For the first time in weeks there was no sadness in the memory. Her fate had not lain in the land of her birth, she now realized clearly. “Farewell, dear Gruoch,” she whispered to herself. “May yer life be a happy one, my sister.” Then she closed her eyes again and drifted into a light sleep.
* * *
He stood over the bed, upon the dais, looking down upon her. He had seen many beautiful women in his time and in his travels, but this girl was probably the most beautiful of them all. He wondered if all the maidens from Alba were as fair as she was, for he had never before seen a girl from that land.
She had told Donal Righ the story of her life, and Donal Righ, in his turn, had passed it on to him. It was amazing that her mind was whole, he thought. He was not surprised by her fear of men or her inability to feel love. She had never really known any. Now he would teach her all the skills of passion at his command, that she might gain favor with the Caliph of Cordoba. He wondered if Abd-al Rahman would appreciate Zaynab. He was a respected ruler, and a patron of the arts, but now, in his later years, there were rumors that it took more than just a beautiful woman to please him. He knew this was why Donal Righ had besought him to train Zaynab as a Love Slave.
Karim quietly drew off his clothing and lay on his side facing the girl. She stirred restlessly. He ran a single finger from the pulse in the base of her throat down to her sweet cleft. She murmured, and he drew the finger back up her body. Her eyes opened and she recognized him. Leaning over, he began kissing the nipples of her breasts, each in turn. He then began to bathe her with his hot tongue, moving from her breasts to her chest; gently forcing her head back as his tongue swept in long, leisurely strokes up her slender neck and back down again to her breasts.
The Love Slave Page 10