Emil squatted down to peer into Seana's grubby face, a careful hand smoothing back her wild tresses. “There, little one, little Seana...” he crooned, his voice soft and unthreatening. She trembled under his hand, and his lips folded tight with displeasure. “Why is she terrified?"
The Mistress shrugged her shoulders “Perhaps it is the presence of the eunuchs."
The Bey slanted a disbelieving look at her through his slitted eyes.
"We have done nothing to her, Master!” the woman cried at his skeptical glance. “She is always fearful. We cannot make her understand even simple things like bathing or eating!"
Feeling a tug on his robes, Emil glanced down to see Seana absently playing with the cord of his belt, twisting it about her slim fingers—unaware it was attached to one of those frightening male entities. She hummed in an off-key, oddly-melodic drone. He patted her fingers, stilling their random movements. “In the Sultan's harem,” he said, “she was always clean and presentable. The same will be so for her here."
He gently tilted her face until he could gaze into her blank multi-colored eyes, fascinated by their swirls of gold, green and brown. A small pitying smile came to his lips. “I would you were whole once more, little bird,” he sighed, remembering her as the vibrant, intelligent woman she had once been. For a startled moment, he fancied he saw a flicker of response ... a moment of sanity, but the moment passed when Seana jerked away, chittering gibberish in a low monotone, the blankness returning so completely Emil reluctantly discounted his impression as mere wishful thinking.
Shura, a tall beautiful blonde haseki, pushed her way through the eunuchs and women surrounding the Bey to stand defiantly at his side. Her appearance sent Seana scuttling around, trying to hide from the towering woman, distressed moans pouring out of her slack mouth.
Her mouth twisted in disgust, Shura called after Seana, “You had better move, disgusting one!” The frightened girl scurried away, crawling faster when she heard the up-raised voice behind her.
"Why do you tolerate that defective woman?"she asked Emil scornfully, haughtily. So sure of her standing with him, she neglected to address him by title. “She is touched by her own hand, and can only bring misfortune upon you and this house. She should be thrown into the streets to fend for herself!"
Shura looked around, her glance encouraging others to voice their support of her statements. No one dared to comment, having just observed the Master's obvious preference for the red-headed woman, regardless of her unfortunate mental status.
Emil watched through narrowed eyes as Seana frantically put more distance between herself and the blond beauty. Knowing his current favorite's tendencies toward cruelty, he was fairly sure he had found the reason for Seana's constant fearfulness. He sighed. Shura was innovative and aggressive in the sheets, loving it rough, and he had needed her ferociousness at times, to satisfy his fierce sexual tendencies. However, the pleasure he received did not blind him to her faults.
In the main, the women of his household could hold their own against her, for there was only so much power a woman of the harem could wield. The wife of his youth—the only woman to bear him children, thus hold real power in his home—was long dead. His wife's mother would have nothing to do with ruling his harem, preferring to tend to her own arcane business, so he had made Hakima, his wife's old servant-woman, his kalfa: Mistress of the House.
Shura had no status other than haseki, and if she had ignored his commands, her sexual expertise would not protect her from his wrath.
"Shura, have you been tormenting this poor woman?” he asked in a cold voice.
Shura drew herself up in indignation. “I would not stoop so low, Emil!” she cried. “I caught the little camel spittle pawing through my things, and ran her away from my room, giving her a few solid smacks. I do not want her around me, her presence distresses me."
Emil's face darkened with rage. “I ordered she was never to be struck. You have disobeyed me, Shura, and I am highly displeased."
Shura moved to stand in front of Emil, allowing her breasts to brush against his robes. “I can take away your displeasure, my love,” she purred, lifting her hands to his chest.
He caught them before they could land. “You have borne me no children."
A practiced pout pursed Shura's already full lips. “Not ... yet, my Lord."
"And are you now with child, Shura?"
The woman sullenly shook her head.
"Good! I do not like separating a mother from her child. Kalid!"
An eunuch stepped forth. “Lord...?"
"Take her to Shirka. Tell him to whip her well, and then sell her. See it done at once!"
"As you wish, my Lord!"
No longer interested in Shura's fate, Emil ignored the cries and pleas pouring from her panicked lips. All his attention was on Seana, who, driven by fear, had managed to wedge herself under a small corner table. He tried everything: blandishments and imaginative threats. Nothing drew her forth. Finally, he resorted to bribery. Dangling a pair of ornate shoes before her, he caught her eyes, distracting her with their bright bead-work and shiny threads. Seana caught at the shoes with eager hands, following Emil from under the table while her attention—admittedly of a short span—was focused on the glittering items.
Once he had her out, he handed her over to Hakima. “Care for her well, kalfa. Not only because I command it, but because the Sultan himself might one day inquire after her. I would not be found wanting in his service. I doubt any in this household would survive his royal displeasure."
"Sh-she will be w-well cared for, my Lord!” the Mistress stuttered out, bulging eyes riveted on the girl's playthings, her words tripping over themselves. “I shall personally see to it, if I must do it myself!"
"There is no need to exert yourself, Hakima,” Emil returned, aware of the woman's stunned insight. “Your service and age have earned you rest. You have but to speak the orders. If there are not enough serving-women, you must inform Shirka, and he will supply you with all you need. Likewise, whatever my little bird might require, I want her to have it."
"I ... understand ... my Lord,” Hakima said, bowing low, gaze on those significant pair of shoes. Whether this child regained her senses or not, she was destined to share the Master's bed. Given the important role this woman might one day play, Hakima took a closer, more discerning look at Seana and found that, under all that incrusted grime, her sturdy frame and face was beautiful. The Master had always had a preference for flame-bright hair. In fact, the kalfa saw many similarities between this young English captive and her former mistress.
"Inform Shirka when she is cleaned up,” Emil instructed, “I want her delivered to my private chambers for every meal. She shall eat with me while I am in residence."
"Are you sure, Master?” Hakima asked diffidently. “She does not ... her eating habits are ... uhm ... uncivilized, to say the least. As you can see, she usually wears more than she eats."
"I see she has lost too much weight in just a month. I would monitor what she takes in.” Emil's explanation was a rare departure from his usual stance. He wanted everyone to hear of his concern, and know he meant Seana to be treated well.
Hakima shrugged well-padded shoulders, and spread her hands. “It shall be as you wish, my master."
"Good!” Emil pressed the shoes into Seana's fascinated hands, and moved to the entrance. Before he left his harem quarters, he turned back to add, “See that she wears the shoes!"
When he was gone, Hakima muttered in a harried voice, “Allah, help us all!” Then she resignedly saw to the cleaning and preparing of her new mistress.
Chapter Forty-seven
The Sultan's quarters
Grand Seraglio
Selim had spent all the rest of the morning with Susan, negotiating the terms of her agreement. As a result, Selim had gone about wearing a perpetual smirk. Even the afternoon Divans—which were usually contentious and aggravating—had gone smoothly.
Tubal went from ma
rveling over how reasonably his master was behaving, to cursing his unpredictability when, without explanation, the sultan suddenly called a halt mid-way the lengthy legal proceedings and returned to his quarters, claiming he had important negotiations to deal with for the remainder of the afternoon. His mood continued sublime into the evening, and as a token of his deep pleasure and satisfaction with his new favorite, he allowed Susan a few moments alone to meet Merri at the doors of their private quarters.
Susan gaped at her cousin in wordless awe. Never had Merri looked more beautiful. She realized Merri might complain that the preparations she'd had to endure before being considered presentable to the Emir had been extensive and exhaustive, but she had to admit they'd definitely been worthwhile.
A hot mixture of almond paste, oil, lemon juice and honey—an ancient mixture used in Eastern harems since biblical days—had been used as a depilatory, painted onto on her arms and legs and in the hidden wells of her arms to be peeled off when dried and tacky. Next, she had enjoyed a hot, soaking bath in waters scented with jasmine and hyacinth blossoms, followed by a hot-oil treatment to hair, scalp and skin. A deep, full-body massage came next, administered by a muscular eunuch. She had drawn the line at the scheduled soap-and-water enema, adamant in her shocked refusals.
Fortified by her victory over that relatively minor issue, she had found it easier to resist the traditional henna stain to feet, hands and scalp, and much more importantly, she won the argument over retaining her pubic hair. The odalisques charged with preparing Merri, being zealous in the pursuit of their duty and frightened of what the Mistress might say, had been hesitant to consider these insidious changes. They'd deferred the decision to the Mistress of the Girls. They were surprised—to say the least—when she allowed the deviations. Merri, herself went a long way towards alleviating everyone's concerns by agreeing to take an additional bath thereby insuring she would be as clean as soap and water—outside her body—could get her. Now, standing in the Sultan's doorway, she was as ready as she would ever be.
She stood before Susan, a smile warring with an uneasy frown, her midnight-hued tresses swept back from her face with two jeweled combs, the heavy lustrous bulk of it flowing down her back to swing in the small of her back, brushing her full buttocks. Her diaphanous harem garb was very similar to the set she had worn for that last disastrous rendezvous with the emir; pale lilac and fitted tightly to the abundant curves of her lush form. A wispy veil lay against the side of her left cheek, attached to one of the hook-and-eye fasteners. Her two eunuch shadows would make sure she secured it firmly before escorting her across the gardens to the Prince's apartments.
The Eastern Sovereign's summons had come as an unpleasant surprise. Merri had seen more of the Sultan than she'd liked—once earlier that morning having been enough for her, though he obviously thought otherwise. So, here she was, wanting nothing more than to be gone again. “Why am I here, Susan?” she asked, “And why now, when I was on my way to Jar—to meeting with the Prince?"
"I am not really sure,” Susan answered, “except, the Sultan has expressed two very good reasons—hard as they will be for you to credit."
"Behold me all ears."
"Well ... first, I think he wants you to see that I am all right ... that my spirit hasn't been broken or some such. As you can see, I am in no danger of committing self-immolation ... a sacrificial atoning on the alter of lost virtue as it were—” she smiled at the thought.
"Good heavens, Susan.” Merri said, “How can you joke about something like this?"
Susan sighed. “You will soon find out, will you not?"
Merri shuddered. “Please. Do not remind me of what I must face."
"And that shudder you just gave is the second reason Selim sent for you, to ease your fears of the Prince."
"Selim? My, we have gotten chummy quickly, haven't we?” Merri taunted. “Whatever happened to his title?"Merri's eyes narrowed in unpleasant suspicion. “Just what all has he accomplished in the few hours I've been gone?"
Susan flushed darkly and turned away from her cousin's mockery. Her eyes, before she hid them, were bruised and dulled from deep pain; a pain only Merri, who knew her well, could have so easily afflicted.
"Sue. Oh, Susan, I'm sorry.” Merry went to her cousin. Putting her arms about her, she rocked her younger relative in silence. “I am so sorry,” she whispered after a while.
"It's okay. I am fine.” The automatic disclaimer was as stiff and cold as the feel of Susan's body.
"It is not okay ... you are not okay, Susan. Nothing about our situation is okay."
"My situation is more than ... okay.” she admitted softly, pulling away enough to see Merri's face, knowing hers was naked, openly vulnerable to her cousin's return scrutiny. “I ... love him, Merri. At least ... I believe I am falling in love with him."
Seeing Merri was about to say something, feeling sure it would not be positive, Susan rushed to finish, “It is not just the—the love-making. It is so many things about him."
"Name one.” Merri challenged, crossing her arms.
Susan's eyes sparked in militant fervor. “Well, for starters, before you saw me this morning, you'd heard I struck the Sultan and feared he might have killed me. I had. Yet, he forgave me."
"Oh, for goodness’ sake, Susan,” Merri all but yelled. “The man raped you in front of a room full of eunuchs. You call that forgiveness?"
"It wasn't a room-full, only three—and they could not see anything.” Susan defended. “And he stopped before—” her words stopped at Merri's look of skepticism “He did stop.” she insisted.
"Susan.” Merri said, shaking her head, “You have convinced yourself you love this man because you could not survive what he does to you otherwise."
"I love what he does to me.” Susan blurted out, angry enough at Merri's high-handed pontificating not to care about her cousin's possible reaction to her wanton statement.
Merri's flabbergasted look would have been comical to her under other circumstances.
"Yes. I know I should not.” Susan admitted boldly. “We both know society and custom say I should kill myself because I am no longer pure, no longer fit to be a decent man's wife. Well, I am not such a hypocrite. You know I never cared for society. I was brought up to consider more important things than snobbish approbation. I never cared about snagging a husband from among the ton, and I do not mourn the hypothetical loss of one now."
Susan took a deep, fortifying breath. “Truthfully, had I known what awaited me when I was first summoned to the Sultan's bed, I would have ... I would have run to him, needing no urging.” Susan took an agitated turn about the floor. “I tell you, I never knew there could be so much ... pleasure ... so much ecstasy contained in my body"—she broke off, pressing both hands against her belly as if to capture the joy she spoke of, glancing down as though checking to make sure the abundance did not leak out between her cupped fingers—"yet I overflow with it, explode with streams and streams of it whenever Selim touches me.” Her voice was breathy and soft, her eyes dreamy.
"I am gratified to hear you say so, my ikbal, for I have discovered pleasure has a name, and it is: Sari Kar."
Both girls turned toward the entrance. The Sultan, having entered the room silently, had obviously overheard most of their conversation. Both women colored up. Merri, because he had eavesdropped on such a private talk, and Susan because she had just revealed to the man standing arrogantly in the doorway, just how deeply her emotions were involved. Despite her consternation, when he opened his arms, she flew into them.
Selim enfolded the slim English woman in his arms, bending his head to take her lips, his manhood rising eagerly as soon as he touched her, saw her. It had been thus since he first took her, that sultry afternoon a month ago. He was beginning to believe it might be so for the rest of his life. He had thought himself resigned to caring for another woman who could not, would not love him in return, yet hearing her admit to her feelings for him had set off such a series of
explosive emotions in his heart that he was still reeling. He wasn't sure what the future held for them, but he knew he would never let her go. Never.
"I came to share tay with you and your kinswoman before she goes to become my kinswoman.” Selim sat on a low couch and reclined back, his hands still about Susan's waist.
"I do not care for tea ... I am sure you will understand why.” Merri retorted. She frowned, upset and very uncomfortable at watching the ease with which the Sultan and her cousin touched and caressed each other. “But what did you mean, I am about to become your kinswoman?"
Selim sighed. His whisper audible to Merri, he set Susan away from him. “I cannot think when you are this close to me. I want only one thing ... to be alone with you."
"I ... want that, too.” she admitted in a breathless rush of words, looking reluctant to be parted from him.
Merridyth was grateful her cousin managed to resist the urge to snuggle back against the sultan. She simply found it wrong on so many levels.
Selim closed his eyes to gather his shredding control. “Behave.” he ordered sharply, “Lest we further embarrass young Simsiyah Gul. She hasn't your experience ... yet.” He turned his twinkling gaze toward Merridyth. Stunned, she realized the Turk was extremely handsome. Laughing and relaxed, he resembled his son, to an inordinate degree.
No matter how much he might resemble her beloved, the man standing before her was far different from his son. Unlike Jared, Merri reminded herself, Selim is a manipulative despot, sneaky, conniving ... and those are his better points. She could not afford to lose sight of that.
"You need not worry about the tea,” the Sultan was saying. “I have tasters to assure that no poison or drug is slipped into the food. As for your earlier question, all will be revealed at the appropriate time."
An unseen signal brought servants bearing trays of sweets and the inevitable tray of coffee and tea makings. “If you like,” Selim offered politely, “you may have the coffee rather than the tea."
Feathers in the Wind: The Cygnets Page 31