“Have you noticed how everyone stares at us?”
“They are staring at you, child,” Cassandra Pemberton returned, not at all disturbed by what was scarcely a revelation. ‘Tis not often the people of this city look upon a strange female’s face, let alone one of such youth, light skin, and fair hair.”
“I have heard that the Circassians in the Sultan’s harem are fair.”
“Wherever can you have heard such a thing?” Miss Pemberton cried. “Who would dare speak to you of harems?”
“Ah . . .I do not remember, Aunt Cass,” Penny lied. For only the night before she had shamelessly eavesdropped on Viscount Lyndon and his friends, Mr. Yardley and Mr. Timmons, as they had discussed some of their adventures at a party given by the Dutch Ambassador and his wife. The young men had, in fact, teased the viscount about his amorous adventures, for it seemed the women of Constantinople were as enchanted by blonde hair, fair skin, and blue eyes, as were the men. There had even been one remark Penny did not quite understand, as it seemed to imply that Jason Lisbourne had been thoroughly shocked to receive amorous offers from men as well as women. Surely, she must have misunderstood.
“I have decided,” Aunt Cass pronounced. “Tomorrow we will visit the Grand Bazaar.”
Penny threw her arms around her aunt and hugged her.
Through the many years Penny had known her Aunt Cass, there had been more than a few times when she had questioned her aunt’s temerity. But reason had always prevailed. She was a child. How could she doubt her aunt’s good judgment, the decisions of a head far older, wiser, and more experienced than her own? But within moments after Faik and Abdul had helped them down from the carriage . . . in fact, the very moment they walked through the ornately carved stone gateway into the Grand Bazaar and were confronted by a teeming mass of people unlike anything she had seen before, Penelope feared they had made a grave mistake.
She had wanted to come here—oh, quite desperately she had wanted to come here—but the color, the noise, the pungent odors confronted her like some great snarling beast out of legend. Constantinople’s Grand Bazaar made London’s Covent Garden market look like a quiet day at a village fair. Dutifully, she followed in Aunt Cass’s wake, as Faik went before them, clearing a way through the crowd, and Abdul brought up the rear, making a valiant effort to keep the foreign ladies from being jostled.
Penny attempted to take up as little space as possible as she kept her eyes on Aunt Cass’s serviceable tan gabardine walking dress and watched the determined swing of Miss Pemberton’s equally plain parasol. Gradually, as they moved away from the gate, the crowd thinned a bit, and Penny could see some of the wares being offered along the alleyways of the Bazaar. She even dared raise her eyes to the vaulted ceiling above, which protected both vendors and customers from sun, wind, and rain. When Aunt Cass paused to examine some jewelry, Penny took a deep breath and allowed herself to enjoy the beauty of the intricate gold filagree and the sparkling depths of the gemstones. Yet, in the back of her mind, doubt clung. She would never be as intrepid as Aunt Cass. The Grand Bazaar, despite all its marvels, was not at all like viewing the wonders of Constantinople from the safety of their carriage.
With a wave of Cassandra Pemberton’s parasol, their party moved on. Penny’s fears disappeared in a welter of sparkling brass and copper, of antiquities ranging from ancient earthenware pots to plates, ewers, trays and goblets that might once have been the property of a Byzantine Emperor. Suddenly, Penny breathed in the familiar odor of leather. But the smell, they discovered as they entered this next section of the Bazaar, was almost the only thing that was familiar. There was no sign of smooth English saddles, belts, and boots. Every bit of leather was crafted into a work of art in designs so intricate Penny could only gape. There were book bindings that took her breath away, and a high-pommeled saddle, every inch embossed in an exotic pattern, that she would have purchased on the instant, if only females were allowed to ride astride. And if such a huge saddle were not so difficult to transport. And if she had any money of her own.
Faik, after finally managing to pry his charges loose from the leather crafts, ushered them into a han, one of several open courtyards scattered about the Grand Bazaar. The two women indulged in tea and pastries far sweeter than they were accustomed to, while listening to the soft tinkling rush of a fountain.
“Aunt Cass,” Penny inquired after surreptitiously brushing crumbs from her lap, “what was that very odd pipe I saw you examining?”
Penny recognized her aunt’s look. It was the one she received every time she asked an awkward question, the one Aunt Cass put on while she thought: Oh, dear, what shall I tell the child? Surely, at sixteen, she should be past all that, Penny grumbled to herself.
“That,” Cassandra Pemberton responded briskly, “is a hookah. It is for smoking.”
“Smoking? How can someone smoke with a device like that?” Penny demanded. Then added, more thoughtfully, “And what do they smoke?”
“I am sure I do not know.” Miss Pemberton sniffed, recalling with some anguish the time she had tried it in Morocco, back in the days of her youth and foolishness.
Penny gave her aunt a sharp look and was wise enough to say no more.
As the ladies finished their last cup of tea, Faik and Abdul descended from the gallery above the courtyard, from which vantage point they had been keeping watch. The ladies, after lingering over ancient illuminated texts in the book bazaar, indulged their senses in an orgy of sniffing and tasting as they wandered through an area filled with open sacks of spices and teas. By this time Faik had hired a boy to carry the ladies’ packages, but when they arrived at the next section of the Grand Bazaar, it was apparent one child of about twelve years would not be enough. For spread before them were fabrics of every quality and description, from the thinnest, most diaphanous white silk for veils to brocaded silks, interwoven with gold and silver thread. The piles of textiles seemed to go on forever, winding through the labyrinthine corridors of the bazaar in an overwhelming array of color. There were linens and muslins of every weight, velvets of such deep pile Penny could not keep from petting them. Silk satins so heavy they could only be for used for draperies, or perhaps an empress’s long, flowing train.
Even Miss Cassandra Pemberton was awed. “We will have to come back,” she pronounced. “Obviously, fabrics require a day unto themselves.” She waved a hand, which might almost have been described as agitated. “Faik, we will continue on and ascertain what more must be reserved for a special excursion.”
“Jewelry?” Penny inquired hopefully.
“Possibly,” Miss Pemberton conceded. “I have never cared for it particularly, but you are reaching the age where you will need a few good pieces. And I pride myself that I am knowledgeable enough to tell the genuine article from bazaar fakery.” Once again, she waved her parasol, and their small cavalcade moved on.
As they passed by more antiquities, they caught glimpses, through arched colonnades, of sparkling gold, silver, and gems. Yes, there was little doubt jewelry, both antique and newly crafted, would require a separate trip. And then they came to carpets, and Miss Pemberton realized it was quite possible she would have to hire at least half the hold of a stout merchant ship to take their treasures back to England. Although carpets, too, would require yet another separate trip, neither Penny nor her Aunt Cass could pass on by. The area was vast, rounded arches dividing the space into smaller rooms, many with domed ceilings. The ladies oo-ed and ah-ed and touched the heavy pile, the incredibly tight weave of carpets of every shade from brilliant burgundy and gold to soft pink, blue, and cream.
Penny ran her fingers over a small fringed carpet of azure blue and biscuit and discovered that it was silk, not wool. Her lips turned up in a whimsical smile. Perhaps this was a magic carpet. If she were to sit upon it and make a wish, where would it take her? Into Jason Lisbourne’s lap?
Shocked by such a wayward thought, Penny dropped the carpet, blindly following the direction in which she had
been wandering. No pastels in this room. The carpets were dark and masculine, in strong shades of black and red and gold. Carpets for the floors of rooms where only men gathered. They were, somehow, too harsh for female taste.
Penny wrinkled her nose, lifted her eyes from the riotous display of color . . . and found herself alone. She turned, gazing at the many arches lining this particular room. Through which one had she come? Which led back to Aunt Cass, to Faik and Abdul? To safety?
The nearest, of course, silly, she told herself, and started toward the rounded arch.
Something descended over her head, over her arms. Rough hands seized her, clamping tight over her mouth and around her waist. The something tightened around her face. She couldn’t breathe. Her feet lifted off the floor. Penny kicked out wildly and was rewarded with an oompf from her captor. And a blow to the back of her head. She knew no more.
~ * ~
Chapter Six
“Faster, man faster!” Viscount Lyndon barked at his driver, hoping the urgency of his tone would convey his meaning, even if the words themselves meant nothing. Jason Lisbourne, usually engulfed in the mindless cloak of invincibility common to youth everywhere, was unsure why the urgent tone of Cassandra Pemberton’s note should have filled him with dread, but the moment he read it, he had canceled his plans for the evening and set out for Miss Pemberton’s villa, situated almost halfway up the southeastern slope of the District of Pera.
The child. Young Penelope. She must be the source of the problem. Nothing else would have reduced Miss Pemberton to near incoherence. And he, of course, was the only family connection available. It was only natural she should turn to him, though what he could do—Jason pounded his fist against carriage frame—he did not know. Surely Lord Elgin . . .
But a half hour later, as Miss Pemberton finished pouring out the whole terrible tale, with wailed interjections—primarily apologies—from Faik, Viscount Lyndon, for the first time in his life, knew despair. He had heard many tales in the last few weeks of the great value placed on beautiful virgins with blonde hair and blue eyes. In a city the size of Constantinople, where women were hidden away behind impenetrable walls, the task of finding her was impossible. She was lost.
“Nakshedil, wife of our former Sultan Abdulhamid—may Allah give rest to his soul—is a Frenchwoman,” Faik was saying as Jason’s attention returned to the conversation. “She was taken by Barbarossa’s pirates and given as a gift to the Sultan. He was so enchanted with her, he made her one of his wives.”
“Aimée de Rivery,” Cassandra Pemberton murmured. “I have heard the story. She is still at the palace, then?” she asked, her tone taking on slightly more animation.
“Ah, yes, Miss,” Faik replied. “She is much respected by the Sultan, who has allowed her to teach him her language and bring other ways of the French to the palace.”
“Is it possible,” Jason asked, “that Miss Blayne might be considered a suitable gift for the Sultan?”
Faik shrugged. “Only if she is bought by a man who wishes to gain the Sultan’s favor.” Faik paused, lowered his voice, speaking to the viscount alone. “Miss Blayne is most beautiful, my lord. She would bring a great price. It is more possible her buyer would wish to keep her.”
“Should we go to the slave markets?” Jason demanded.
Faik’s doleful voice dropped to whisper. “Such beauty would never be sold on the open market.”
“Speak up!” Cassandra Pemberton demanded. “She is my niece. I wish to know the worst of it.”
So Jason told her, somehow finding calm, coherent words to outline the seriousness of the situation, while managing to leave some lingering hope. “I will go directly to Lord Elgin,” the viscount assured her. “He will, I know, initiate every diplomatic channel that might be useful. And Faik will begin inquiries among the guides. There have to be rumors about what happened to her. She is too great a treasure for someone not to let a tongue slip, bragging of today’s work. I assure you, ma’am, everything possible will be done. I pledge myself to your service.”
For the first time in her life, Miss Cassandra Pemberton knew what it was to be grateful to a man. This boy, who had barely reached his majority, was revealed as more of a man than any she had previously encountered. Her eyes filled with unaccustomed tears. Her head dropped into her hands, and the sobs came at last.
Viscount Lyndon, after calling for Miss Pemberton’s maid, took his leave, sweeping Faik along with him. When seated in the carriage, the viscount turned to the guide. “I am a liar, am I not, Faik? There is no hope at all.”
“Sometimes Allah is merciful, my lord,” Faik intoned.
There were some who might say God had been merciful to Aimée de Rivery, Jason thought, but a position as one of the wives of the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire was far from the life planned for the French schoolgirl. And it most assuredly was not the life intended for Penelope Blayne. Yet any fate for a captured beauty, other than being an odalisque of Sultan Selim the Third, was worse.
Jason Lisbourne closed his eyes, rested his chin on his fist, and wondered if Lord Elgin would be as adept at locating lost maidens as he was at “rescuing” Greek antiquities.
Penny roused to the horror of finding herself encased in a tomb. All was dark, she could not move. Yet she was moving. The wiggling and jiggling, the close confinement, brought on a bout of nausea, which she firmly repressed. She was so tightly wrapped up that breathing was nearly impossible, and the thought of being ill under these circumstances was too horrible to contemplate.
Tentatively, she flexed her fingers and toes—ah, they worked!—then forced her mind to think. The Grand Bazaar. Carpets. That was it. She was rolled up in a carpet, being carried over someone’s shoulder. She must scream! But when she tried to draw breath, she encountered carpet fibers that clogged her nose and filled her mouth. She managed little more than a muffled squeal before the effort tumbled her back into unconsciousness.
A thump woke her. The dizzy whirl of the unrolling carpet. The blessed rush of air. She lay quite still, struggling to find her wits; yet, when the world steadied, she was afraid to look. Whatever awaited her here in this room could not possibly be good.
Two men dragged her to her feet, held her up between them. Although she could not understand a word being spoken around her, pride and unsquelched curiosity forced her head up. She stuck her chin in the air and glared at the man who seemed to be giving the orders. Richly dressed, from the broad turban above his bearded face to his heavily embroidered gold satin robe, he lounged on a brocaded divan set on a raised dais. His dark eyes assessed her with a gleam Penny had never before seen in a man’s eyes. Part hard-headed business, she guessed. And the other? She suspected it was that unknown—lust.
Hands—all-too-willing hands—ripped at her gown. Penny screamed and fought. Laughing, the men brushed aside her feeble efforts with insulting ease, quickly finishing their task. Chemise, garters, stockings, half boots. Most horribly humiliated, Penny stood before her captors, with one arm clutched over her breasts, and one small hand splayed over her most private part. She could feel a flush rushing up from her toes to stain her cheeks and dizzy her mind. This could not be happening. It simply could not. She was not here. She must have sampled one of the hookahs in the bazaar, and this was all a mad hallucination.
By some miracle, her degradation was brief. After having his two henchman turn her slowly around so he could inspect every inch, the man on the dais gave a nod of satisfaction and barked a command. An older woman scurried forward and threw a linen robe around Penny’s shoulders. The man on the dais waved his hand and two guards, armed with long curved swords dangling from their belts, seized her arms. Penny found herself trailing after the older woman, her feet skimming the floor of the audience chamber. Behind her, she heard the chink of coins. No doubt the sound of her captors being well rewarded for their efforts.
As they followed the older woman across a courtyard, the guards slowed their pace, allowing Penny’s feet to touch
the tiles, an intricate mosaic so hot, she was thankful for the drops of moisture spilling onto the walk from the central fountain. As they continued on in the shadows of a colonnaded loggia, Penny was actually grateful for the strong hands holding her up, for pride dictated she not fall to her knees, and she very much feared she could not stand by herself. The sun spots, which had danced before her eyes as they crossed the open courtyard, had not gone away. They flitted before her, like a legion of fireflies.
She must bear up! But despair shook her. This afternoon had been the worst of her life, and she greatly feared it would only grow worse.
The older woman swept aside heavy velvet draperies hanging over an archway, then seized Penny’s arm in a grip almost as strong as the guards’, before waving the men to positions on either side of the arch. Inside, the steaming, moisture-laden air hit Penny like a blow. Head swirling, she staggered. More hands clamped down on her arms, and, suddenly, Penny found herself seated on a surprisingly plain wooden stool in a setting so exotic she could not quite take it in. Scattered about the room were women with skins of every shade, from midnight black to brown to warm tan. There was even one with skin almost as pale as her own. Some of the women were sitting on stools exactly like her own. Others perched on a stone dais near the center of the room, a few with small children at their feet. Others lounged on stone benches along the walls. Some of the women wore thin robes of fine white linen, transparent from the dampness. Others wore nothing at all.
Thoroughly shocked, Penny ducked her head . . . until, at last, simple curiosity triumphed over her innate English modesty. She raised her eyes, blinked, and took another look. The misty vapors filling the room originated from four huge sinks set against the walls. Above each one, a large pipe poured out what was most certainly hot water. Merciful heavens! This was a bathing chamber! Perhaps not so very different than the olden days in Bath, Penny reasoned, for Aunt Cass had told her that bathing in the nude, even with mixed sexes, had once been the custom in Bath’s warm sulphurous springs. And had not the Romans spread their intricate plumbing designs to the East, as well as to the West? Constantinople was, after all, the final capital of the Roman Empire.
The Harem Bride Page 6