Feathers in the Wind: The Cygnets

by Camille Anthony

  For one brief minute, she turned terribly sober. “Susan, I feel ... strange!” she blurted out, before bursting into tumultuous, wailing sobs. “What shall I—I do? I know he doesn't love me!” she cried, her wild, inconsolable tears streaming down, sudden and fierce as monsoon rains. “How can I go to him ... and be with ... him ... when I love ... him so?” Merri reached up to grab Susan's clothes, shaking her as she asked, “What shall I do?"

  "Oh, my God!” Susan called for one of the general odalisques to come sit with her sobbing cousin while she raced to find Laihla. “Just lay back, Merri,” she urged, “I'll be right back with help..."

  At the same time Susan was rushing to Lailha's small apartment, the Mistress of the Girls was receiving a hushed report on the scandalous goings-on of the dark-haired English woman. Mistress Liilah had served as the former mistress’ underling for twenty years. Now, thanks to the mismanagement of her predecessor, she occupied the position of power she had never dreamed of achieving. She was determined to let nothing threaten her new standing. So when the hysterical attendants ran to her in a panic, shrieking about how the English girl was balking at the last minute, refusing to go to the Prince, she knew she had to do something. Fast.

  Obviously, the girl was suffering an attack of pre-sex jitters. Well, what else could one expect of an untrained virgin? Liilha tsked impatiently. This was what came of not being firm in the matter of the lessons all odaliques were required to take! What was needed in this situation was some nurturing, and a calming tonic. She whipped out instructions, and the women rushed to do her bidding. She smiled grimly, liking the way they responded to her every order. She intended to revel in those feelings for a long time...

  A growing wave of sound grated in Merri's ears, and she brought her head up to stare blearily at the wavering figure standing over her. She groaned at the familiar pain she was experiencing. She hated the aftermath of tears; her eyes burned and itched, and her head felt swollen and stuffed, like a ten ton olive. “Wha—? Get that light out of my eyes!” she begged, squinting, flinging her arms up to shield her face.

  The Mistress stood glowering down at her. “Less than an hour before you are due at the Prince's apartments, and you are far from ready! Sit up, Simisyah Gül,” she ordered briskly. “We must finish your preparations. The Prince will be expecting your arrival soon."

  "Not going to the Prince,” Merri replied groggily. “Don’ like him ... don’ want him..."

  The Mistress stood aghast. “Not want the Prince? Girl, you must be out of your mind!” Her hands came up to caress her throat. “If the Sultan hears how his beloved son is being insulted, heads will roll—ours being the first to fall!"

  The Mistress gestured to the women accompanying her. “This will not do! If one word of this conversation leaves this place, I will know who spoke it, and well before the Sultan can move against me, I will have my revenge!"

  Her dire threats fell on fertile ground. All the women under her firm control believed her capable of exacting an imaginative vengeance.

  When she indicated she was ready to deal with the wayward girl, one of the servers timidly brought forth the tray loaded with a hot pot of tea, a cup, and a bowl of cinnamon sugar. Pouring the tea herself, Liilha surreptitiously mixed in the powdery contents of a small brown envelope drawn from within her robes. The white dust dissolved quickly. Four heaping spoons of sugar later, she handed the cup over, with the strict admonishment to drink it all up. Confused and disoriented, Merri did so.

  The Mistress of the House stayed long enough to see the servants finish their work on the rebellious woman. She had departed only a few minutes before Laihla and a distraught Susan returned.

  They found Merri lying on the couch, humming to herself. The attendants had been busy, however, and she was now dressed in sheer lilac pantaloons with a matching bolero jacket. The matching set was accented with embroidery stitched in gold thread and revealed her shy belly button, buried in the soft pale skin of her midriff. The flimsy top barely contained her abundant breasts.

  Unaware of the Mistress’ visit, Susan shooed the lingering maids out of the room and bent to examine her cousin, deeply concerned about her. “She does not appear to be as agitated as she was before I came for you,” she informed Laihla, finally finished with her close scrutiny.

  "See how she now lies calm and restful."Laihla pointed out. “Did I not tell you the drug requires some time to fully enter the body?"

  "Yes, it is as you said it would be.” Susan sighed in relief. “I am sorry to be such a timid mouse, but I have never done something like this before. I find myself in agreement with your other suggestion, also,” she said slowly. “I will give Merri the remainder of the powder you supplied. It would be horrible if the drug wore off before she and the Prince managed to ... uhm ... come together—"

  "I see how you became confused. I told you I had obtained enough for two drinks, and you should return for the second package, should the first dose prove ineffective."

  "You must remember I am not fluent in Turkish yet. Neither are you very good at English,” Susan retorted, barely holding one to her frazzled temper. “It should not surprise either of us when we run into problems trying to communicate.” Susan looked around for a pitcher of water. “I wish I had kept the teapot. There is nothing to heat water in."

  "It will not matter.” Laihla took the glass Susan held. “She is deep enough under that she will not notice what this tastes like, and it will dissolve in tepid water just as well."

  She glanced at Merri, judging her susceptibility to the drug infiltrating her body. “She must be naturally resistive,” Laihla decided, producing the second package. “This drug is usually effective immediately. Give her this whole one, instead of the other half package. It should keep her relaxed and sedated until after her rendezvous with the Emir."

  Susan took the innocent looking packet, tore the flap off, and held the open envelope poised over the glass of water. “Are you sure?” she asked.

  "If she was acting as you described—?” Laihla spread her hands in a what-have-you gesture. “Dare you take the risk that she might emerge too soon and insult the Prince or the Sultan with her words or actions? And think hard before you answer,” Laihla cautioned, “for any insult to Selim is bound to be fatal."

  Susan stared down at the small packet for a long moment. With a heavy sigh, she poured the entire contents into the water. With a sweep of the spoon, the innocuous-looking powders swirled into the waiting liquid, turning the clear water cloudy before the largest particles reached the bottom of the glass.

  Merridyth attempted to refuse the drink. “I'm not thirsty,” she protested, turning her face away, and pushing the cup back at Susan. “I already had tea."

  "Please, Merri,” Susan urged gently, flashing an urgent look at Laihla over her cousin's head, “drink this and we will leave you alone."

  "Promise?” Merri asked querulously.

  "Yes, dear heart,” Susan assured her.

  "Oh, all right, then! Give it here,” Merri demanded peevishly, then haphazardly tossed the lukewarm liquid down her throat. “Ughh! That was really nasty, Sue!"

  "I know it is,” Susan commiserated. “Drink it all up anyway."

  "Yuck! Here, I'm done.” A yawn cracking her jaw, Merri subsided back onto the couch. “Lands sake, I am sleepy. Haven't been able to sleep much lately, you know."

  "She'll not be sleeping much tonight, either, the lucky girl!” Laihla said in a low aside to Susan, sounding envious of Merridyth's approaching tryst with the handsome Lord. “From the gossip I have heard of the Emir, he is reported to be quite ... potent between the sheets!"

  Grand Seraglio, later that evening...

  Jared Michael Randolph Jamal Tyson—spy extraordinaire, eighth Duke of Wyndmere, Prince of a Turkish Sultanate—no longer knew, with any clarity, who he was. Pacing the polished marble floors of his spacious apartments, he awaited the arrival of Merridyth, worrying the internal itch like a dog worrying a bone; c
oming back to it over and over, wearing it down inch by incremental inch.

  Stripped of his pride and position, who was he? Where did he to fit in? What was expected of him? More importantly, what did he expect of himself? It seemed everyone held the answers to his questions. Everyone except him.

  To the Sultan, knew he was a pawn first, then a son—someone to relieve the boredom of ultimate power; a new plaything he thought could be made to dance and prance at his will. To the other Turkish Royals and court hangers-on, he was a curiosity and a wonder—someone who continually went head-to-head with a demi-god to emerge unscathed time after time.

  To the three desperate English women who sought their freedom and a way to regain their interrupted lives, he was doubtless, a disappointment. The three women resided in the harem of the Sultan, by Turkish law, his property. As earnestly as he wished to help them, he was trapped by the same circumstances as they. Looking to him as their savior was a futile exercise on their parts, for getting them all out of the harem was impossible.

  Lady Seana was, regrettably, not a problem. To the Turks, she was as one dead. They would no sooner harm her than spit upon their prophet.

  Lady Susan was another matter, though. He feared for her, having several times caught a certain look in his father's eyes when they rested on that young lady. Selim yearned for an English rose, perhaps as a replacement of the one he'd lost so many years ago and Susan was blessed, or cursed as the case may be, to have the coloring reminiscent of traditional English beauty.

  Jared closed his eyes and breathed deeply, directing a silent apology towards Susan for, unless he were to voice an interest in her there could be saving her from the Sultan's lust—and he dared not do so, because Jared had also seen his father's face light up whenever he so much as spoke Merrydith's name.

  Something primitive and atavistic raged in him at the thought of another man—especially his father—coveting the woman he considered his. A cold, tight pain flared within Jared's breast. Selim had best content himself with Susan, for he would never be allowed to have the true object of his wicked desires, Jared thought savagely. I would kill him first before I let him touch her!

  Merridyth owned his soul and Jared wanted no other. His feelings for Merri-with-an-"i” had grown beyond the pale concepts of right and wrong. She was his alone, soon to be his mate in every sense of the word. When it came to Merridyth, he was not an English Duke or an Eastern Prince, but a man, one deeply in love, were he to acknowledge the truth.

  For Susan, he could do nothing ... but what wouldn't he do for Merridyth? Jared didn't know his limits when it came to that. What did he expect of himself? And how much of his ideals would he betray to keep her...?

  Jared's pacing stopped at the open window facing the courtyard of the Valide Sultana. Selim III's mother—his grandmother—was long dead so the apartments allocated the mother of the reigning Sultan stood empty. His apartments, reached only by traveling the “Golden way"—the corridor Merridyth would use to come to him this night—faced the same courtyard, from the opposite direction. Resting his arms on the carved wooden sill, he leaned out at the window, eyes turned inward as he examined his soul...

  During his thirty-two—almost thirty-three relatively short span of years—Jared had been many things: A son, a duke, a spy, a prince, and a lover. Randolph Tyson, seventh Duke of Wyndmere had been his father in every sense of the word. Though his had not been the genetic material from which Jared had sprung, he had supplied all else.

  When he was twenty-seven years old, the man he had loved and admired above all else had succumbed to an unexpected heart-seizure, leaving Jared his title as the eighth in a line of illustrious Dukes, his wealth—along with its encumbering responsibilities ... and a gaping, hurting, father-shaped hole that could never be filled.

  For the hundredth time, Jared wished he had been present at his father's side before death claimed him. There were so many things he'd never had a chance to say to Randolph, so many answers that only his father could have given him. Jared missed him even more, now he knew the true depth of his father's love for a son not of his own body.

  As a spy for his country, Jared had been one of the best, ferreting out the closely-held secrets of many governments. Known to his opponents only as the Zephyr, he had been as elusive as a capricious breeze; his influence felt everywhere, his presence impossible to detect. As an added tweak of the nose to his enemies, he had taken to leaving an eagle's feather as his calling card. In all his years of service, never had he come close to being caught, something Pitt and the others in the War Offices should have taken into consideration, even if those blind idiot judges of the House of Royals could not!

  English society expected its scions and favored sons to “sow their wild oats” and during his youth he'd plowed his share of fields. Women were drawn to his looks, his money, and his prestige, and he'd been young and wild, indulging his sexual urges frequently and indiscriminately. In retrospect, he'd had no unfortunate consequences from his self-indulgence, though he had come close once...

  A middle-aged Cyprian had attempted to blackmail a young, inexperienced Marquis as insurance for her later years, when her already fading looks would be completely gone by claiming he'd sired a child on her. Luckily, Jared had gone to his father, and the Duke, no slouch in such matters, had quickly scragged that scheme. Setting up an elaborate counter scheme, he'd easily proven the woman had previously duped other lords with the same story. In truth, she'd bought a babe from a gin-sotted prostitute and passed it off as hers and the lord's. The woman had quickly retracted her claim when threatened with prison. She'd accepted a ticket to Australia, where any woman—faded looks or not—was desperately welcome.

  The long-past incident had taught Jared a much-needed lesson. He was glad now, that no woman could say, with truth, that he had fathered a child upon her. He had always known his duty to family; known he would eventually have to marry and set up his nursery, yet, while he'd continued to enjoy the charms and arms of many women, his heart had never been engaged. He had begun to despair of ever finding a woman he could love, when, ironically, in the midst of betrayal and tragedy, across a crowded courtroom, his eyes had lit upon Merridyth—and his world had come to a screeching halt!

  "Master!"

  Jared jerked about, startled out of his private thoughts. Seuliman stood in the doorway. The servant appeared agitated about something. “Yes, what is it?"

  "The hanim has arrived!"

  Jared's heart leaped in his chest, took up a pounding, beating pulse that echoed at his temple and in his groin. “Is everything prepared? Seuliman, tell me everything is in order!"

  "All is as my Master has ordained,” the servant replied, ticking points off his fingers. “The tray of cheeses and sweets; the scented candles in the bed-chamber; the flowers..."

  Jared's body smoldered with gathering heat. “Excellent!"

  He shook inside, excitement and anticipation setting him on edge. There's no need to feel like an untried youngster, he chided himself. Indeed, it is my Merri—being a virgin—who is the one totally lacking experience. When he thought of what she must be feeling at this moment, awaiting his arrival in the outer chamber, his passion cooled in sympathy, and he was able to reign in his rising excitement.

  She will be terrified, he reasoned, but I will teach her there is nothing to fear from a man and woman's coming together. No matter how long I have to keep my passions in check, he promised himself, I will handle her gently, initiate her slowly.

  "Let us not keep the hanim waiting, Seuliman!” he declared, then added quietly, pitching his voice low so as not to be heard from the other room, “Instead of serving us this evening, I want you to retire to the Eunuch's dorm tonight. The hanim will be under enough stress without the added discomfort of an unnecessary witness. I will take care of serving the refreshments, as I want her to be as comfortable as possible—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I know it is not what you are used to, and if it is an inconvenience t
o you, I am sorry for it.” His smile was rueful. “I must confess even I find it difficult to perform with an audience ... and I am no virgin."

  "Master has no need to explain himself to this lowly slave,” Seuliman replied with an obsequious bow, “but ... is the Master certain he will not need my services? Perhaps to hold the woman's legs open for you, should she prove unwilling or to assist in tying her to your couch?"

  Ice water dribbled down Jared's back, horrified disgust stiffening his spine. He could feel his facial features hardening into a chiseled sternness seen only by his Country's unfortunate enemies. “If you ever,” he growled in warning, teeth clenched in effort as he teetered on the edge of control “...ever repeat such obscenities in my hearing, I will rip your tongue out!” His voice shook with, his mind reeled with the grim realization that Merri and Susan, and the other woman whose name he could not recall, were all subject to the callous treatment Seuliman had so carelessly verbalized, treating these things as common occurrences. As though, Jared thought, any one might order a servant to hold down a fighting, frightened, unwilling woman while he blithely raped her, stripping away her dignity, her self-respect ... her very humanity. Making her nothing more than a warm hole to wet his cock in!

  Shaking and begging for his life, Seuliman threw himself to the floor, covering his head with trembling arms. “Mercy, my Lord, mercy—!” he cried, squirming about, trying to present a moving target, yet not quite daring to evade his angry master's wrath.

  Jared sighed, his anger draining from him as he watched the pitiful actions of the slave. He was left with an aching bitterness, an acrid taste in the back of his mouth. How could he be angry with the poor sod before him, who had been trained in the practices of the Seraglio all his life? Moreover, could he hold Seuliman to blame, when he was just as guilty, if only by omission...?