Deep inside, Merridyth felt her heart breaking as her long-held dreams shattered in the face of this overwhelming evidence. He must have been working with the Turks all along, Merri decided. After all, here he was, the Sultan's son, pampered and indulged—obviously holding a privileged position among the Beys and Nobles. He had been a traitor from the beginning, and she had been duped by a pair of golden eyes and a fine physique.
"Too bad, missy,” Susan snapped, interrupting Merri's tortured thoughts. “Do you really expect me to act as though everything is normal when that man admitted who he was? Merri, we were abducted from our homes, subjected to humiliating experiences, and it was all for the benefit of a man who states he is an Eastern prince, and in the same breath, claims to be an English peer.” Susan planted her fists on her hips. “You definitely owe it to me, to tell me something."
"You're right—” Merri conceded, sighing. “You are deeply involved, and have every right to know what is going on. I will tell you what I know,” she added with a grimace, “which, considering recent disturbing developments, does not seem to be as much as I had thought."
"Whatever you tell me will be more than I know now,” Susan pointed out. “So start talking, and do not leave anything out.” She ignored Merri's heavy sigh, and plopped down beside her. “I'm ready to listen."
"In ‘98, I attended a trial. It was not an outing of my usual sort, for as a rule I do not enjoy watching people suffer so; I imagine it must be painful to have one's personal business and life on display to the masses. I did not truly wish to attend, however, it was Rebeccah Henderly's dearly held desire to go, and her mother would only allow her inclusion if I were a member of the party. For some reason, Lady Henderly always felt I was an uplifting influence on Rebeccah—” Merri shook her head ruefully.
"At any rate, we attended the trial. It was there I first saw the Duke of Wyndmere on trial for treason. They said he spied for the Turks, selling them State secrets. Oh, Susan—” Merri jumped up to pace about the room with agitated steps—"I took one look and—"
"And what...?” Susan prompted impatiently when Merri's words abruptly stopped. “You took one look, and what?"
"I fell in love. Deeply, eternally...” she sighed. “At least, I thought so at the time.” Merri spoke quietly, starkly, her words trailing off as she followed a dark vision into the past. She stopped her frenetic pacing to stand in front of her cousin, and looked straight into Susan's eyes, her own gaze steady, revealing a vulnerable nakedness she rarely exposed. She did not attempt to avoid her cousin's searching look, but allowed her to plumb the depths of the pain that lurked behind her silvery grey pupils.
Susan lowered her eyes, the feelings she saw in Merri's unguarded gaze, disconcerting. “You were young. It was almost three years ago, Merri,” she said, offering the only comfort she could. Moisture gleamed in her clear green eyes. “It is no sin to believe yourself in love."
"Ah-h, but it was not love, Susan. It was all just an illusion,” she admitted firmly, convinced of her culpability. “My dreams and hopes were a fantasy, my shining knight a chimera. I believed him innocent, you see, solely because it suited me. In my naiveté, my arrogant assumption that I had to be right, I dismissed unimpeachable evidence, overlooked the studied opinions of heads wiser than mine, even ignored my own misgivings ... did everything except admit that I wanted him to be innocent—whether he was or not—because with one glance, I'd fallen into a brain-fever masquerading as love. I spent the following years measuring every male acquaintance against his standard—my standard, and every single one of them came up short."
"So you have high standards. We both do—"
Merri barked a bitter little laugh. “I hope your standards are a mite more realistic than mine, cousin, or you are apt to find yourself alone and unmarried. No man could measure up to what I expected, for the simple fact that I had set my standard way too high."
"Why are you blaming yourself? Why are you being so hard on yourself? I suppose you are not allowed to make mistakes like the rest of us. You had no way of knowing for sure that the Duke was guilty. He could as easily been innocent, like you said—"
"Susan, please.” Merridyth threw up her hands in disgust. “His own best friend testified against him. Perhaps, had I been thinking clearly, I might not have dismissed that telling fact. Regardless, the fact that he is here, in this, of all places, convinces me of his guilt."
Merri sat down heavily and put her face into her hands. Tears leaked through her splayed fingers. Beside her, Susan tentatively massaged her tense shoulders. “Please, Merri, do not do this to yourself,” she begged, almost in tears, herself.
Merri scrubbed at her eyes before dragging her hands down her cheeks, obliterating all sign of her tears. When she finally spoke, her voice was flat, her tones deadened. “I haven't done this to myself, Susan. I've done it to you. And Seana. When will you realize that we were kidnapped because of the Duke? He had us brought here. Well, he had me brought here, and you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, with me."
"I know I said something like that earlier, but I find it hard to believe."
Merri nodded dispiritedly, in answer to Susan's disbelieving gasp. “Believe it because it's true,” she said, staring down at her clenched hands, unable to meet the condemnation in her younger cousin's eyes. “He told me so, himself, boasted of the fact that I had been brought here for his pleasure. If it weren't for me,” she finally gathered the courage to meet the other woman's eyes, “you would be home where you belong."
Susan shook her head. “Oh, Merridyth, how many times must I say this before you'll believe? You. Are. Not. To. Blame. Seana and I were not the only ones snatched away—"
"Seana. Oh, God, Su—” Merri rocked back on the bench, horror and dismay evident in the lines of her recoiling body.
"Don't you dare try to take responsibility for what happened to Seana,” Susan warned in a firm voice. “That is the outside of enough."
"But—"
"I said, no.” Susan wagged her forefinger in Merri's face, daring her to continue. The dejected girl subsided, deciding it was better to keep her opinions to herself. She had no need to continue verbalizing her guilt. She sat, her attention turned inward, castigating herself. She should have known. Perhaps, if she hadn't shown herself so sympathetic towards the Duke at his trial, thing might have turned out differently...
"That's it. I am totally fed up.” Susan grabbed Merridyth by the arm and began hauling her out of the curtained area of the new women's dormitory.
"Susan, stop. What are you doing?"
Susan turned to the older girl. She planted her fisted hands on her hips, her breath small explosive huffs as she fought to control her anger. “I am taking you to talk to Laihla, who just might be able to get through to you. Then I am going to assist you in dressing. You may want to sit here moping about something you had no control over, but I recall your appointment with the Sultan. If you miss that, you surely will have something to cry over."
"Oh, my gosh ... the Sultan!” Merri wrung her hands. “I was totally insulting to the Prince. The Sultan is bound to be angry with me. I've completely ruined our chances of keeping Seana with us."
"What is wrong with you?” Susan frowned, voice filled with frustration. “I have never seen you like this. Merri!” The shorter woman snapped, grabbed her cousin by the shoulders and administered a punitive shake. “Pull yourself together. You are allowing this man to have untold power over you. The Merri I know would never stand still for that, even if she loved him ... and you keep saying that you do not—"
"I do not."
"Then prove it,” Susan said, ticking points off her fingers. “Get dressed. Talk to Laihla. See the Sultan. Do what you have to do, then fall apart afterward, if you still feel the need."
Merri shook her head in wonder. “When did you become so strong and assured?” she asked.
"Well,” Susan allowed, “I suppose I can be calm because it wasn't I naked i
n the pool, being pursued by an amorous male ... a very gorgeous amorous male, at that."
"I'd gladly change places with you."
"Somehow, I doubt that.” The blond woman murmured under her breath.
"What did you say?” asked Merri, suspicious of Susan's mumbles.
"Never mind,” Susan retorted smartly, pushing a change of clothes on her flustered companion. “Just get dressed and out of here."
Chapter Thirty-seven
Jared stormed into his chambers, calling for Seuliman before the door had shut behind him. The servant came running, clearly alarmed at the note of savagery in his master's voice. The eunuch skidded to a halt as the irritated lord flung his sodden clothes about the room as he quickly undressed.
Seuliman tracked his master's progress by following the path of his wet footprints. “Master Jamal, have you met with an accident? Why are your outer clothes so wet? Did you fall into a fountain?” The harried servant followed along behind the younger man, stooping to pick up the offending articles. He bumped into the prince, who had stopped, frozen in place, the strangest look on his stunned face.
Jared had called himself Jamal since shortly after his arrival over two years ago, yet his servant's use of the name just now, had jarred him. After some thought, he realized he had reverted to thinking of himself as Jared, an English peer, Duke of the Realm. His lips curled up in amusement; just one more thing to lay at Merridyth's door.
"Never mind that, Seuliman,” Jared instructed brusquely. “Just lay out some fresh things for me. And hurry. I need to see the Sultan shortly; he's expecting me before the morning divan, which is about ready to start.
"You have an audience with the Sultan?” Seuliman gasped, the dripping clothes falling from his slack arms.
Jared laughed at the eunuch, who'd already forgotten his orders due to the excitement over possibly attending his master in the official public chambers. It wasn't often his servant could interact with so many people coming and going, where there was so much information to gather. He figured Seuliman could hardly wait to accompany him.
"Western or Eastern wear, my Lord?"
Before answering, Jared glanced down at himself to find he was still semi-hard from just thinking about the woman he'd left in his father's harem. He dragged his thoughts away lest the memories had him pulsing and swelling to his limit.
Flicking an admonishing finger at the bobbing head of his eager member, he spoke in low, self-mocking tones. “Down boy! There'll be no relief for you any time soon.” In a slightly louder voice he ordered his man to prepare the clothes he'd become accustomed to. “The Eastern robes with the silver trim, I believe, Seuliman. They'll hide a multitude of sins ... or sinful thoughts."
Seuliman's gaze went to his master's protruding thoughts and prudently turned his erupting laugh into a cough. “At once, Lord."
The prince threw himself down dejectedly onto a low, pillow-strewn couch, to wait while Seuliman gathered his court dress. Closing his eyes with a sigh, he leaned his head against the back of the couch, relaxing his tight throat muscles, and reviewed his meeting with Merridyth ... Merri—with an “i".
There had been thunderclouds in those fine grey eyes of hers, he mused, no softening, no love—just a lot of fear. It was only natural, he reasoned. She had been through many harrowing adventures, all against her will. He had not meant to frighten her, but from the moment she'd spoken, and her husky voice had washed over him, he'd lost all control. Despite her fear and anger, he hadn't been able to keep his hands off her.
She, meanwhile, had managed, in a ridiculously short amount of time, to make him sad, angry, amused, aroused and ... confused. Sad, to see her fear and know he was the cause; angry that she couldn't seem to see to the heart of him, as he could see to hers; and—gods—she amused him with her candor, her dogged, head-on approach at obstacles, her refusal to back down. He laughed painfully, remembering her acidic comment: Do me a favor and hold your breath ... for three days.
Jared shook his head, bemused. He had been aroused since early morning. Ever since seeing her, touching her, breathing her. His body burned and throbbed with constant readiness, painful and aching. No woman had ever had such an effect on him, and he almost resented her power over him, especially as she did not seem to be as effected as he was.
Perhaps, he argued to himself, her control came of not knowing what was in store for her. After all, fear of the unknown tempered her passion. He, on the other hand, had memories of her soft flesh; soft arms, softer lips and, oh, what a plump bottom and soft bosoms. He sighed, dreaming of all he wanted to do to her lush untapped body.
She was the one for him. He knew it like he knew his own name. Also knew she had cared for him once, if only enough to defend his honor before her peers. He would make her care for him, come to love him by being caring and loving towards her. With such treatment, she would soon overcome her maidenly fears.
Meanwhile, Jared couldn't stand the thought of Merridyth remaining in his father's harem. He intended to request—demand if necessary—the right to move her into his empty women's quarters.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Tubal puttered about the emptying divan, shooing out the last of the stragglers. All the while, he surreptitiously darted worried looks towards his beloved Lord and Master. Selim had been distracted during the morning courts, which was, in itself, highly unusual, for the Sultan took the duty of officiating over high legal matters very seriously. Tubal wondered if the son had again said something upsetting to his father. It hadn't looked so, but Tubal had not been close enough to overhear their intense, hand waving exchange, and so could not be sure.
Tubal chuckled to himself, shaking his head. Both men, though separated by age and cultures, were so much alike he marveled over them daily. Both enjoyed the lean, powerful build of their Turkish-Ottoman blood made rich by the contribution of the blood of Circassian slave women added to the ruling gene pool over several hundred years. The two men shared sharply chiseled features enhanced by elegant, Greek-influenced noses and piercing clear gold eyes. Among the Ottomans, those warm honeyed, tiger-gold eyes were a recurring mark of the ruling family, so it was no surprise to Tubal that Jamal's eyes matched the Sultan's exactly. The servant lovingly recalled a young lad who had once given him a polished topaz stone. A memento, the lad had said earnestly, a reminder. Not that Tubal had ever needed anything to remind him of Selim, the son of his heart.
Casting a frowning sideways glance at his silent master, Tubal completed another sweep of the room shooing out the opportunistic petitioners. I just refuse to ask. If Selim wished to keep things to himself, that is fine with me. Besides, I have other tasks with which to occupy myself.
Selim broodingly watched as Tubal made yet another aimless circuit about the emptying room, almost tasting the man's curiosity. Tubal hated being left out of any knowledge loop and was champing at the bit to discover what his and Jamal's conversation had been about.
A sharp-edged smile lifted one corner of Selim's mouth. With hooded eyes, the Sultan gleefully regarded his servant, knowing he would not have long to wait before Tubal's patience ran out.
He anticipated garnering quite a lot of amusement from his servant's predictable antics—his eyebrows drew down into a fierce crease, twisting his handsome features into a dark scowl—a far pleasanter feeling then the ones he had felt during his talk with Jamal. That boy found the strangest things over which to concern himself.
Since ascending the throne, everyone actively courted his good will and Selim had quickly grown unaccustomed to being the center of anyone's regard. Now here was Jamal, a man worthy of respect in his own right, and one with whom Selim desperately wished to make a good impression. The task was proving to be more difficult than he had at first expected. His son was not so easily impressed.
Having gone to great lengths to supply the boy with a suitable mate, Selim expected praise and thanks. Instead of being appropriately grateful, Jamal was throwing up barriers as fast as he, Selim,
attempted to tear them down. The boy could not deny he wanted the luscious English woman as his own, yet he was still insisting she be allowed to come to him without coercion. As if a mere woman could choose in such matters.
Well, Selim determined, I may not be able to convince my wayward son of what is proper and good, but I can certainly control the responses of the woman he has chosen as his own. She will bow to my wishes, or she will have the rest of her life to regret the foolishness of her rebellion.
Tubal finished clearing the room and came to stand at Selim's side. He fidgeted, twitching at his robes of state, adjusting and readjusting their fall. He cleared his throat a few times, and shuffled his feet. “You are a cruel and fearsome master! You know how I burn to know what transpired between you and that boy of yours,” he blurted out finally. “Why do you always make me ask?"
Selim threw back his head and laughed. At least some things never changed.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Thank you for your consent, but Raeburn and I are content to announce only our betrothal, as neither one of us wishes to marry without your presence. Arnold's exact words were: “I've waited this long for you, I can wait a little while longer. Just so all those vultures out there know you're spoken for.” Speaking of betrothals ... I have heard nothing from you since my letter regarding the fate of that poor girl, Merridyth. Have you been able to find any clues that might help locate her? I realize you may already have a packet to me in route, I just could not wait longer to write you. If you find her, do not hesitate to send her home to me. Even if you do not wish to be personally involved, I would shelter and care for her, for her kindness to me when I most needed it. On a business note: Jason reports a marked decrease in the wool tally from Willow Walk Estate. Also, a very poor showing of salable produce from Glen Morag, despite the large amounts spent this last year in improvements. Since my bout of influenza over a year ago, the doctors have curtailed many of my pursuits. I find it difficult to be restricted so severely, yet I feel our estates would fare better if I were to make a circuit as you or I were wont to since the days after your father's death. At least the formal notice of betrothal will serve some purpose (besides my niggling pleasure), as Raeburn has offered to make the trips for me, and knowledge of our coming marriage will ease the tenants’ minds about dealing with a stranger. Together, we will keep the home fires burning.—Mum
Feathers in the Wind: The Cygnets Page 22