Silver Angel

by Johanna Lindsey

  It had come about. It was actually happening. No, it's not. It's just a dream.

  "You do not rise until he bids you to."

  "Rise?"

  She was facing a door. Slowly she turned to see Haji Agha's eyes narrowed at her.

  "Shahar, have you heard nothing I've said?"

  "I—I'm sorry, but I don't think so. If you'd like to repeat it—"

  "There is not another moment to spare," he said in annoyance, fully aware she was playing for time. "Just remember to prostrate yourself before him and stay down until he bids you to rise. Do exactly as he says and all should go well. We can only pray he has not become annoyed with the delay."

  "What delay?"

  "He wanted you here immediately."

  "Why?"

  Haji sighed. "Allah only knows."

  Abruptly, he yanked away the short veil that had covered her lower face, then opened the door and escorted her to the center of the large room. Not trusting her to do as he said, Haji tugged on her arm until she sank to her knees. Satisfied to see her lower her head to the floor as well, he backed out of the room.

  It was not out of respect that Chantelle prostrated herself. She had kept her head bowed and her eyes on the floor upon entering the room and would continue to do so for as long as she could, for the simple reason that she didn't want to look at the Dey. In this position she couldn't, and that suited her fine for the moment.

  Where he was she didn't know. He might not even be in the room—she didn't hear him, couldn't sense him. Or could she? Yes, she did feel as if she were being watched, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling.

  Derek remained quiet, not trusting his voice just yet. It seemed as if he had waited forever for this moment, though it had only been four days. Four days of misery and hoping he could later laugh at himself for building something up out of nothing. But it was later now, and there was nothing to laugh at. She was more lovely than he remembered: ethereal, willowy— and his.

  But a virgin. He had to keep that uppermost in his mind, or he would carry her straightaway to his bed.

  "Sit up and look at me."

  Not "Let me look at you"; he was already doing that, damn his eyes.

  Chantelle had tensed at the sound of his voice but didn't move otherwise. Not that she didn't want to. She was just afraid that once she did, her defloration was going to proceed at an alarming pace.

  "You know that you must obey me in all things, Shahar, though all I ask is that you look at me. Is that so unreasonable a request?"

  His voice was calm, gentle even, and yet it was the same voice she remembered from before, slightly husky, with a deep timbre, a voice that could condemn a girl to brutal rape one moment and then rescind the order and ask without really caring if he hadn't redeemed himself in her eyes. This man could never redeem himself in her eyes, no matter what he did.

  But now that she was reminded of what a cold-hearted bastard he was, she felt she could meet his eyes without showing her fear. It was her loathing she wasn't so sure she could hide.

  When she sat back on her heels, she saw not only Jamil but also his two bodyguards, standing with their backs to the wall on each side of a large four-poster bed. Jamil was at the foot of the high bed, resting his hips against it, his arms crossed over his chest, his legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles, the pose so bloody English in its casual nonchalance that Chantelle nearly gasped in surprise. Thank God for the Eastern dress that made the effect incongruous, reminding her that there was nothing English about Jamil. Since he'd been raised a barbaric infidel, blood didn't count.

  "You are allowed to speak, you know."

  Her gaze dropped back to the floor. Her fingers worried at one of the four ropes of pearls Rahine had draped over her head just before she'd been led out of the baths.

  "I have nothing to say."

  "Do not retreat, Shahar. Return your eyes to me, or better yet, come closer."

  "May I walk?"

  "Don't be impertinent. If I wanted you to crawl, I would say so."

  Color singed her cheeks. He would, too, the swine. But she was warned by the abruptness of his tone that she had better keep her flippancy to herself for now.

  With acute dread which was accelerating her pulse, she rose slowly to her feet and closed the distance between them. Still, her eyes wouldn't meet his again, and whether he was getting annoyed with this continued defiance on her part she couldn't tell.

  She watched him push away from the bed so that he was standing when she stopped an arm's distance away. Legs straight and spread, an arrogant stance if she'd ever seen one, his arms unfolded, and then she felt fingers gliding across her cheek.

  Fire was her impression, his fingertips were so hot. Amazingly, she kept from flinching, but her gaze remained locked on the deep V of his white tunic and the large tiger's eye medallion that rested against his skin there. It was bronzed skin and sparingly dotted with crisp black hair near the point of the V, which made her realize with a flare of irritation that he didn't have to suffer his hair being plucked and scraped away. On top of that thought was the further realization that she wasn't completely denuded of hair either, though she was supposed to be. What would his reaction be to that? she wondered, and in the wondering knew that she had already accepted the fact that he would soon be in a position to discover her apparently sinful state.

  "Will you take dinner with me?"

  The incongruity of that question, when she had expected at any moment to be tossed onto his bed, brought Chantelle's eyes flying up to his face. "Dinner?"

  "If you like," he said softly.

  He was staring at her mouth. His thumb moved to trace the line of her lower lip. And then his eyes locked with hers. Emerald fire. There was nothing indifferent about this gaze.

  "Dinner would be nice ... I mean wonderful. . .

  I'm famished, actually," she ended on what she hoped was a note of sincerity.

  He laughed, amazing her. The sound was deep and pleasant, and she imagined that she could feel its reverberation inside her own chest.

  "You are so transparent, Shahar. Did you think I would ravish you the moment you walked through the door?"

  Exactly, but she didn't say so. She didn't have to. The blush soared clear to her hairline this time, visible even with her head bowed.

  "This shyness is allowed, but your eyes are exquisite, little moon. I want to see them."

  And everything you want you get? she thought with annoyance, then tossed caution to the wind and said it in English.

  His emerald gaze narrowed the tiniest bit. "English is unacceptable here, Shahar. Your French is superb, but it is not a language everyone is familiar with. You may use it while you are with me, but otherwise you will practice the mixture of Turkish and Arabic that is the common language of the palace. Eventually, that will be the only language you will speak."

  She said nothing. What could she say? That was tantamount to an order. And she learned one thing. His mother might be English, but she obviously hadn't taught him to speak it. He proved it by his next words.

  "Now, what was it that you said to me?"

  For a split second she considered lying. But his hand had come beneath her chin, forcing her head back up, forcing her to meet his gaze. She decided on the truth, hoping it would annoy him enough to take his hand off her.

  "I asked if you get everything you want."

  He didn't take his hand away. The other hand came up, and he cupped her face in his palms. He obviously wasn't offended, but then the instinct for self-preservation had kept the derision out of her words this time.

  "Of course," was his husky reply. "Everything, Shahar. Why should it be otherwise, when everything you see belongs to me, including yourself?"

  She tried to pull away. He countered by holding her firmly and stepping closer until his hips just touched her. Her nostrils flared with the scent of him, musk and sandalwood, nice, so nice.

  She blinked. Good God, he was hypnotic, with those dar
k green eyes so close, his breath warm against her lips. She groaned, and instantly she was released.

  "We will eat here," he said, walking away from her, as if he hadn't been on the verge of kissing her, as if she hadn't been on the verge of wanting him to.

  "Here," she saw as she followed him, was an enclosed garden just outside the room. The sun had already sunk below the high walls surrounding the little area, but it still shone brilliantly against the palace above their heads, leaving the grounds shaded and cool. Tulips, roses, and carnations abounded in quaint little groupings. A single tree offered an even cooler shaded area, with a bench beneath it. A fountain in one corner bubbled like a waterfall into what she saw was a fish pond made entirely of small blue tiles, large orange fish a striking contrast.

  Large square pillows had already been laid out around an engraved brass table, set up right on the grass. It was peaceful here, romantic even, and the effect of what was nearly an English picnic was relaxing in its familiarity.

  She let him lead her to one of the pillows, but she didn't sink down on it until she knew how close he would be sitting, for with so many pillows there for the taking, she could lean either way to allow more distance between them. She needn't have worried. He moved around the low table until he was directly across from her.

  "What do you think?" he asked when the trays of food began arriving.

  "I think it wouldn't have mattered if I wanted to eat with you or not.''

  She shouldn't have said that. Did she want him angry? But he wasn't. He waved the servants back and filled her plate himself.

  "True," he said after a thoughtful moment. "The asking was a mere courtesy for your benefit."

  "And if I had declined?"

  "I would have insisted."

  "I see."

  He glanced up at her and smiled at the stiffness in her expression. "No, I don't mink you do. I can insist as the Dey, and no one dares to defy me. Or I can insist as the man, Jamil, and see how persuasive I can be."

  Her brow rose skeptically. "Am I to believe, then, that I have some choices? I was told that I did not."

  "On some things—perhaps."

  She couldn't quite bring herself to ask if one of those things was sharing his bed. Somehow she doubted it, and to introduce that topic now would give her indigestion.

  It was a quiet meal, once they began eating. If she didn't know better, she would think Jamil was as nervous as she. On her part, she tried to ignore him, concentrating on the food he had piled on her plate.

  For the main course there was roast kid and guinea fowl, as well as pideli kebab, which was lamb enclosed in flat, oval bread. And if none of those were tempting enough, there was also a turkey stuffed with rice, liver, currants, and pine kernels. The side dishes were just as numerous—sweet peppers stuffed with flavored rice and meat, artichoke hearts, sheep's brain, white beans, asparagus, and two different salads.

  Several drinks were also offered for her to choose from: kanyak, a Muslim's sole vice, which was a combination of brandy and wine; almond milk, made from crushed almonds, sweetened water, and orange blossom extract; a sweet Cyprus wine; and tart cherry juice. She noted that Jamil chose the almond milk, her first indication that he adhered to the Islam strictures that forbade the drinking of intoxicating beverages. She took the kanyak herself, anything to help her get through the rest of this ordeal, and would have drunk the whole bottle, but Jamil allowed her only a glass and a half.

  When the desserts were brought in, Jamil again served her, putting one of each offering on her plate. There was a pastry rolled in sugar syrup, baklava, the one layered with walnuts and syrup; helva, a ground-up compression of sesame, butter, honey, and nuts; and lastly, the jellied sweets called rahat lokum, meaning, "giving rest to the throat," and oh, God, it did. The Turkish coffee was served now, too, brewed by the coffeemaker right there at the table; sweet, hot, with thick foam on top. She was actually beginning to acquire a taste for it.

  Looking around her, Chantelle realized that she had eaten more at this sitting than she had in weeks, but she wasn't thinking of keeping her weight down anymore. It was too late for that. She would have eaten another full course or two, anything to keep the meal from ending. But it was ended. The servants who had streamed in with their heavily laden trays now took everything away.

  Jamil's hookah was brought, but he made no move to partake of it. He was reclining on several pillows, propped on one elbow facing her. His black hair was in disarray from the slight breeze that worked its way over the walls, several locks falling over his forehead. She hadn't thought he would have such thick, luxuriant hair, what with having to wear a turban constantly. She wished he were wearing the turban now. He looked too English by half.

  As if his own thoughts were running along the same vein, he said, "I want to see if your hair is as silky as it looks. Will you come nearer, Shahar, and let me feel it?"

  It would have been churlish to say no. But it was such a simple request, how could she refuse? She came around the table on the pillows, stopping on the one next to the one he leaned on.

  His right hand reached toward her immediately, first removing the jeweled circlet that had rested on her forehead and still supported the longer veil that only half covered her unbound hair. He tossed this aside, and then she felt his fingers sliding along her scalp, but only for a moment. He raised his hand, letting her hair glide slowly through his fingers for at least a foot's length; then he twisted his wrist, catching a handful, but he didn't tug on it.

  Chantelle turned her head to see him rubbing her hair between his fingers, and she was mesmerized for a moment. It seemed such an intimate thing, those dark fingers caressing her hair, and that was what he was doing, caressing, memorizing the feel and texture of a single lock. She was leaning toward him to give him an easy reach. She had the option to move back at any time—or so she thought.

  "I was wrong," he said, drawing her attention back to those dark green eyes. "It's even softer than silk. Is your skin the same?"

  Oh, God, did he want to touch her now? She tried to sit up straight, but he was still holding her hair and wasn't letting go.

  "Come, Shahar, slide onto my pillow," he coaxed her. "You may rest your head on my knee." When she didn't budge, he added, "You must get used to lying next to me, but it is only your skin that interests me at the moment. And you have enough exposed that I will not ask you to remove any clothing."

  That should have relieved her, but it didn't. She knew she couldn't really deny him these little requests, because her body belonged to him. He didn't have to ask for anything. He could just take. Whether she could let him plunge his "thing," as Vashti had called it, into her when the time came, without any resistance on her part, she didn't know, but she had no need to panic yet, not until he suggested they go inside.

  For a man who had wanted her here immediately, he was certainly taking his time with her now. She was grateful for that, and that today, he seemed nothing like the man she had first met.

  "Shahar . . ." he prompted, not impatiently, but to let her know she was not reprieved by her hesitation. He was waiting.

  She moved, twisting to slide over his pillow in front of him. But she couldn't lay her head on his bent knee as he had suggested. That was too intimate by far.

  She rested back on her elbows instead, aware that this position thrust her breasts forward, but unable to help it. She didn't have large breasts, though she didn't think they were that small either. But in comparison to those of his other women, they were small, and so she hoped he would not even notice them.

  He didn't. He was staring at her midriff, and Chantelle groaned inwardly. She supposed it had been too much to hope that when he had mentioned her exposed skin, he was thinking of her bare arms. He wasn't. His hand dropped slowly toward her belly, and when it finally rested there, she sucked in her breath, for it felt so hot she imagined herself branded.

  "What?" he asked, and her eyes flew to his face, finding his eyes had been drawn to
hers with the sound she had made.

  "Nothing," she squeaked and, hearing the sound, groaned in embarrassment.

  "You will come to no harm under my hand, Shahar, but you must relax."

  "I-I can't."

  "Why?"

  His fingers had spread wide over her belly, covering nearly the entire area. And his hand moved now, in a slow, soothing circle. But it wasn't soothing. Her muscles were contracting, as if they could jump away from the contact of his flesh on hers. Even her insides seemed to be leaping in an attempt to escape. . . .

  "Why?" he repeated with more insistence. "Have I given you reason to fear me?" Then he added with a touch of annoyance, "Today?"