“I will walk slowly. You needn’t worry about falling”—Laila held her arm out in an offer of support—“it is a few steps to the benches.”
She took Laila’s arm and made her steps slowly. She slid her feet more than walked, unwilling to risk a fall. Soon enough they were situated on one of the stone benches. It warmed her bottom. Tilting her head to look over the edge of the seat, she saw mother-of-pearl inlaid into the whole length of stone that was embedded into the floor. There was so much steam swirling around them she couldn’t make out the pattern of the tiles beneath.
“You must take off your undergarments now.”
“I can’t possibly.”
Laila shook her head, clucking her tongue. The guards made their presence known again. Elena crossed her arms over her bosom, her reddened flesh beneath the chemise surely visible in this humidity. Her anger had simmered away, and in its place, fear rose again. The stress of the last few weeks must have taken its toll on her mind.
“You must cooperate while you are bathed. You have to be prepared properly before Amir receives you.” The words held more meaning than a simple bath.
“Then why should there be men present?”
“They will pay you no heed.” Laila stood, pulling up Elena’s chemise.
When Elena refused to raise her arm from her breasts, one guard stepped forward and pried her fingers from her middle and held her arm straight up. She cast her gaze to the floor when the material was removed, staring at the humid air hovering around her ankles. Laila pasted a thick substance onto the hair at her armpit with a flat wooden spoon. It was hot and Elena felt a slight tingling burn. Time ticked by—it felt like a moment trapped in an eternity of disgrace—before Laila scraped it off. It burned more when she did that, made the skin feel raw, like spilling hot tea on the back of your hand.
“This is what we do the first time; it is easiest to remove hair with the rusma, but it discolors your skin and hurts if you use it too much or leave it on too long.”
Elena cried silently as she was forced to raise her other arm for the same treatment. She looked to no one, not that she saw much of her surroundings through her tears of shame. She could only imagine what they would do with her more private area. Sweat and steam beaded all over her body, dripping into her eyes, stinging them.
Laila carried on. “After this, Maram, another sister here, will thread what hairs grow back. It is quick. Not as quick as the paste, but safer.” Laila placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. “Stop crying, my sister.” Her voice held new warmth. “You will get used to this.”
“I won’t. I can’t possibly live this way.” Her words came out a blubbering wail. She clamped her mouth shut and bit her lip to still the tremor.
“But you have no choice. You can never leave. The only way to find yourself in the land beyond is with your dying breath. Think of your child. He is the only child you will know. We are not permitted motherhood here. You are blessed in life. Never take that for granted.”
Elena choked on a final sob and looked up with a nod. “How can you not have children if you are slaves of a . . . a bawdy nature?” She tripped over the last few words and looked away from the woman, swiping away the wetness on her cheek, though it did no good when the whole of her was sticky from the steam.
“Ah, I see how little you understand. There are ways. When we go to the bathing room I will show you how to use the sponge. It collects a man’s milk, so it cannot plant within your womb. If his seed is persistent, we use strong herbs to purge our body of the union.”
Laila took Elena’s arm in her grasp, lifting it level to her eye, and inspected it closely.
“You have no hair on your arms, this is good. It always hurts to take it from the body here.” The warm hand of the man holding her tilted her head back. “No hair in your nostrils, either. That hurts the most. It will sting a little to remove from your legs, though. I ask you now, will you cooperate to have the hair of your woman’s mound removed?”
Elena took a deep breath and answered with as steady a voice as she could muster. “I—I will. If you’ll send away the men.” She gave a pointed glare toward the dark-skinned, fat one who stood in front of them. He looked uninterested in the task at hand and paid her no mind.
“They will stay in the room, but I will send them to the farthest wall. They are not men. You must remember this. All in the harem quarters are either woman or eunuch. The only man permitted in our living quarters is Amir.”
“Will I truly be expected to keep Amir company tonight?”
“Maybe tonight, maybe in a few days. Much depends on his business outside the harem. You have no need to fear him. Perhaps that is something you can only understand with time. But remember, he brought your child here.”
Elena nodded her agreement with that. “How many women live here?”
Distracting herself with conversation was easier than paying scrupulous attention to Laila’s ministrations. The hair being scraped off her lower legs burned a great deal. It felt as if a layer of skin had been torn from her.
“Thirty-six. His harem is not so big as the one I grew up in. Of course this is different, since other men may purchase us. But only from time to time.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand the inner workings of a harem.”
“I will explain it all in due time. I can tell you that this is a kinder existence than being forgotten, should you have one man for a thousand women. That life is much more lonely.”
Elena gasped. She seemed to be doing that too much. A thousand? How was it possible that one man could have so many women at his disposal? How could any woman tolerate living that way? She’d only ever wanted to spend her life with one man—Griffin. She remembered him fondly, but when he’d left England for whatever reason, she’d been forced into marriage with an altogether different kind of man. Both those men were now gone from her life and in their place was another person wanting to force her hand to his own advantage.
“Stand, my sister.” Laila’s words pulled her back to the present. “You must take your pantalets down. Do not blush so. This is not something I haven’t seen before. It will be done before you know it.”
Elena looked wearily around her. The men had retreated, and she wondered if that was the reason her fear had abated slightly. How could she ever get used to the eunuchs’ presence during ablutions, if one could call it such? Laila started to pull her pantalets down when Elena stalled mid-thought. She lowered one hand to cover herself and looked about nervously.
“Lie on the bench.” Laila tapped the seat beside her and Elena sat. “You don’t need to be shy. Put one leg on either side and lie back.”
“Might I have a moment to collect myself?”
Laila gave a sultry chuckle. Elena did as directed, one arm across her breasts and the other clenched in a tight fist as she spread her legs to rest on either side of the stone slab. Laila didn’t give her a moment to change her mind, smearing the paste over the hairs at her center.
“Spread your legs farther. You do not want this on your inner pink skin.”
Since she did not obey quickly enough, her legs were pressed wider, small fingers covering the hair lower down, even around her rear entrance. Elena was shocked into stillness, her breath frozen in her lungs. Then the scrape of a shell pressed against her skin, leaving another burning patch of tender flesh in its wake. Warm water was poured between the folds of her sex while impersonal fingers washed away remnants of rusma.
“You see . . . we are done.”
Elena lowered her hand to touch her center. She kept her eyes squeezed shut. The skin was bare, sensitive. She was like a prepubescent girl with no hair to identify her as a woman. What kind of perversity was this? She spread her fingers out to cover her nakedness. She opened her eyes. Laila stared down at her.
When she found her voice, she said, “My name is Elena . . .”
“Pretty name. But you will want to change it. A new identity will free you from your
old life. Now come, we have to go to the bathhouse. The water will soothe the afterburn.”
CHAPTER THREE
Griffin Summerfield,
Marquess of Rothburn
Spring 1846
Isle of Corfu
Griffin watched the women through a gauzy-white silk screen. All the patrons were situated in a wraparound balcony that faced the baths below. The harem girls lounged, played music, and braided each other’s hair. They were posed so strategically, it was almost enough to fill any man’s fantasy seeing them this way.
And wholly unrealistic. This had so obviously been staged for the benefactors of the auction. Not that he cared it was staged.
“What do you think, my good man?” Asbury asked.
Griffin leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I see no difference in the women here from the beauties found at any established bawdy house.”
“True. But you don’t get quite this variety in Europe unless you go to one of the opium dens.”
Griffin turned and gave his friend a look that said otherwise.
“Fine, you’ve probably had your fair share of Orientals traveling China. And I’m not likely to forget how I found you.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to forget, merely thought you shouldn’t be one to judge. I think you’ve supplied all those opium houses back home.”
“When did you become such a priggish maid? Good God, Rothburn. You’ll recall who supplied me with opiates to sell in the beginning.”
“I have come to my senses since. You will eventually, too.”
“Well, if the variety of women here isn’t as pleasing, just know they are a sight bit cleaner than where you were playing. They’re also willing to do anything you fancy.”
“I can imagine.”
He looked away from Asbury and back to the voluptuous harem girls on display. Asbury had brought him here in hopes of lifting Griffin’s ennui, and annoyance with society in general. He wouldn’t disappoint his friend. He’d indulge in whatever the island had to offer. Better that than slipping back into that dark, welcoming well of excess dissipation again.
A distinctive laugh caught his attention and had his gaze narrowing on the scene below.
He searched out the source; it came from the veiled bronze beauty. That sound took him back in time. There weren’t many women who expressed a free exuberance like that. He remembered the husky deepness of a laugh like that on another night—from another woman—some ten years ago. It was one of those contagious laughs that had everyone in a room turning, and every man rising in salute.
He leaned forward with his elbows planted on his knees and studied her.
There was the shy tilt of her head when she listened to another talk, the soft but clear timbre of her voice as she spoke Persian—which seemed the common language in the palace. The inborn grace with which she sat poised so ladylike made her seem as delicate as an orchid in bloom, so easily destroyed if not properly cared for. There was something about the way she brushed her hair from her brow, as though it were done up in some other fancy style society women liked. The motion stilled his breathing altogether.
It occurred to Griffin that his imagination had finally gotten the better of him. After dreaming about Elena Ravenscliffe for what felt like a lifetime, he found it hard to identify the tangible reality from what could only be an illusion in front of him.
He stood, edged around the other men in order to see her from another angle.
She laughed again, halting his steps. He put his hand out on the rail to steady himself and leaned in close to the screen. There was no mistaking what he knew for the truth.
He knew her as well as he knew himself. His memory was like that of a bloody elephant. There were some things he wished he could forget. He might have fared better had he been able to forget her in the first place. He shook off the thought.
How had she ended up in a place like this?
When he’d moved back to England after his uncle’s death, the first thing he’d done was look for her. That had to be some five years ago. His sources had said she was still married to that lowly baron with an estate up north. Perhaps Griffin had given up his search too easily.
Lady Elena had proved impossible to find once she and her husband moved abroad. Her husband had sold his properties in York and left for Constantinople hastily. Griffin had been disinclined to ferret out any other information. Really, he’d recognized it as a hopeless venture to pursue a married woman.
What could have happened between then and now to bring her to a place like this?
How had such a fine young English lady come to sell herself into such a degenerate life? He supposed she wouldn’t be the first to find herself in such a situation. Well, now he’d know all of her sordid tale. Once he talked to the owner of this fine establishment.
Griffin turned away from the screen and looked for the man who had escorted them up to this section of the palace. Griffin had made his selection. Now it was time to see what his little lady friend was worth. For the first time in years he felt like smiling; he had reason to express himself happily. He’d had to pull himself through a long path of self-destruction to make it to this point. Was this some sick ironic award for moral behavior? It didn’t matter. It was what it was. After all these years, she was finally going to be his.
Asbury slapped him on the back. “I see I’ve brought you to the right place, my friend. Hope you aren’t taking up too many old habits.” There was censure in his friend’s voice. He didn’t want to hear it but the reminder was for the best. He had a feeling old habits were going to be hard to ignore.
“There’s not much else to do.” Griffin folded his hand. Standing from the card table, he bowed and took his leave. He was done gambling for the night. “I’ve found a beauty to occupy my time. I’ll bid on her tomorrow night, when she’s on auction.”
“Which one’s caught your eye?”
“That’s for me to know.” Griffin gave a slow smile. Asbury’s only response was to laugh.
That secret was his for now. The beauty could be none other than Elena, his fiancée for all of a day before he foolishly left her side, and she became vulnerable, unable to protect herself from the greedy clutches of the Baron of Shepley.
They walked toward some empty chairs off to the side of the room, and away from any ears. It was decorated like any Englishman’s establishment back home. Leather furniture—mostly chairs—a billiards table, gaming tables, Turkish carpets underfoot, heavy smoke from pipes and cigars that filled the dimly lit chamber. The walls were paneled with dark wood, and the room had been fitted with bookshelves. Though not many came here to read. Only a dozen gentlemen were there now, most of them trying their luck at cards.
Earlier, when he’d gone to inquire about the bronze beauty, the owner, Amir, had asked Griffin not to say anything about paying in advance. It didn’t matter either way to Griffin, so he’d readily agreed so long as he could have her history. Amir had given Griffin some cock-and-bull story of her being part of his brother’s harem in Turkey before she was sent to this island. There was a great deal of assurance as to her abilities in the arts of seduction, like so many of the women brought up in these settings. It made him want to snort in disbelief.
Griffin didn’t believe the concocted story for one second. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard a cleverer spouting of lies. She was no more a harem girl than he was an impoverished lord.
For now, he’d comply with house rules. And tomorrow, he’d finally know if he’d gone mad with his obsession for Elena, or if he’d been handed a second chance to court her. It would be a very different sort of courting they did this time around. He should be ashamed of his ungentlemanly thoughts. What he should be doing was attempting to remove her from this place. He might in the end, but not before he heard her version of the tale of how she came to be here.
“You always were a devil, Rothburn. It’ll be interesting to see which girls stand on auction tomorrow. I’ve my eye on a few.
One I’ve yet to win, she’s damnably expensive. The others . . . well, we’ll see about the others.”
A slave brought over a tray with brandy.
Asbury waved her away, knowing how Griffin felt about the stuff. He rarely touched it—hadn’t for some years now—and for good reason.
He’d traded one addiction for another since he’d built up his empire in the silk trade. He had been schoolmates with Asbury; they’d attended Eton together. Griffin had disassociated himself from his old life when he’d left England, including all his friends. He’d wanted to bury the past when he couldn’t have the one woman who had had a stronger effect on him than any opium he’d tried.
When he’d heard of her nuptials, through his uncle, he’d headed to the East: trading, whoring, luxuriating in depravity for some years. Then along came Asbury, his long-ago friend, who pulled him from the swarm of naked Asian beauties he’d been tasting in the opium den. Asbury had cleared away the fog clouding Griffin’s mind. Told him to pull it together or he’d beat the snot out of him. There was no doubting Asbury, always a man of his word. If Griffin had slipped over the years, and there were a few occasions he had done just that, he thought of the trouble Asbury had gone to and forced himself out of the grasp of obsession.
If Griffin were a weaker man, he’d blame his fall on his uncle. But he knew better; he was his own man, the type of man who relied on one constant or another, be it in the form of a healthy addiction or not. He had pulled himself out of every overindulging vice he’d relied on over the years, all of them pursued in the hope of erasing the one woman haunting his mind. Strange that she’d had such a strong pull on him, like the talons of a falcon with a bleeding rabbit in its sharp clasp.
And now here she was. Causing new wounds to open, while old ones tried to heal beneath.
“She’s really got you interested, this ladybird.”
Griffin snapped his head up, and pinched the flesh at the bridge of his nose.
“You surprise me, Rothburn. You rarely take such a quick liking to any woman.”
The Surrender of a Lady Page 4