Silver Angel

by Johanna Lindsey

  "No? I should be grateful, I suppose, that someone wants me dead?"

  She would never be able to escape now, but worse, she wasn't sure she wanted to, not after last night. She didn't want Rahine to know that, however, not after she had predicted just that happening. Chantelle didn't have the temperament to hear a smug "I told you so."

  How had Jamil done it? How had he gotten around her anger and hurt and made her want him again? And so much! Dear Lord, they had made love all night long. After how close he had come to death, it was as if she couldn't get enough of him. If anyone had been ready to beg for mercy, it was Jamil.

  She should be utterly ashamed, but she wasn't. At some point during the night, she had forgiven him for Jamila, and he had assured her it wouldn't happen again. She would believe him because she wanted to, because she wanted him. It couldn't be any simpler than that. Like a silly twit in love, she had gone and become contented with her enslavement. Was she in love? Good Lord, that would be a ridiculous thing to do. Love a man who owned forty-eight women? Best not to delve too deeply into that.

  Then Chantelle was reminded that during all those pleasant hours she had spent with him last night, she had never gotten around to asking him about the attempt on his life. Was it related to her own near brush with death?

  "-don't you think?"

  "I'm sorry, what?"

  "I said you should be grateful you're still alive. It was very close for a while today."

  Chantelle made a face. "I was there, remember?"

  "Has anyone ever told you that you don't make a very good patient?"

  Chantelle finally smiled grudgingly. "Am I being especially trying, Rahine?"

  "And impertinent."

  "No one else is around, madame."

  Rahine had to suppress her laughter this time. "You are incorrigible. Very well, you may call me Rahine—when no one else is around."

  "Then will you call me Chantelle—when no one else is around?"

  "You are supposed to forget your previous life," Rahine began but was quickly interrupted.

  "Did you?"

  "I—think you need your rest."

  "Not yet." Chantelle sat up more against her pillows. "First tell me who that man was last night who tried to kill Jamil."

  "We'll never know that."

  "Then you don't know why he attacked him?"

  Rahine stared at her for a moment in amazement. "Do you mean to say . . . but you must have heard something about Jamil's troubles since you have been here."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "But I mentioned it to you myself, didn't I, the night you drove him to recklessly leave the palace? I told you he had put his life in danger."

  "That's all you told me. But I beg to differ that I drove him to leave the palace that night," Chantelle added tightly. "I'm not responsible for his hot temper."

  "Whether you were or not is a moot point now. But he was set upon that night. It was inevitable, since they watch the palace constantly. By Allah's grace, however, Jamil wasn't harmed that time. Even without a weapon, he disarmed one assassin, and the other was too cowardly to face him alone."

  "Assassins? This sounds like a conspiracy," Chantelle said in alarm.

  "So it is, and it began nearly a half year ago with the first attempt on Jamil's life. There have been numerous attacks since then. Twice now they have even gotten as far into the palace as his private apartment. Whoever wants him dead seems to have an endless supply of fanatics willing to brave impossible odds to collect the promised reward."

  "Then you don't know who it is?"

  Rahine shrugged. "Everything points to Selim, Jamil's younger half brother, because he went into hiding about the time of the first attack and he still hasn't been found."

  "Fratricide?" Chantelle frowned in distaste. "That's-"

  "Fairly common in the Turkish empire, my dear, where children are exposed early to the rivalries and petty jealousies of the harem. But as I said, everything points to Selim. That doesn't mean that it couldn't be someone else, although Selim is next in line to succeed Jamil."

  "But Jamil has sons," Chantelle pointed out, though that subject wasn't one of her favorites.

  "True, but they are all much too young. This is not England, child. A brother who has reached manhood will nearly always be chosen over a son too young to rule. Of course, there have been extreme cases in which a mother has bought the support of the army to elevate her son, but that has never happened in Barikah."

  "Then Sheelah-"

  "Never Sheelah!"

  Chantelle frowned at the interruption and obvious support for Jamil's first wife by his mother. But then her eyes widened.

  "Noura has the second oldest son, doesn't she?"

  "Yes, but . . . that is ridiculous, Shahar—"

  "Chantelle."

  Rahine pursed her lips. "Very well—Chantelle. Speculation of this sort is pointless. And besides, Jamil has yet another half brother under Selim. Do you realize how many would have to die before Noura could come to power through her son? It would be much too obvious, even if the other deaths could be made to appear accidental, especially if Jamil should die first."

  A chill passed over Chantelle, hearing it said so plainly. If Jamil should die. . . . She hadn't known he was in such danger.

  "I wish you hadn't told me about this."

  Rahine shrugged. "You asked, child. But I really thought you knew about it already. Why do you think we were so intent on keeping you from angering Jamil? His temper has been abominable these past months due to the restrictions imposed on him by this threat." Rahine leaned over to squeeze Chantelle's hand. "We have you to thank for taking his mind off it, even if you have done so in an unacceptable manner."

  Chantelle knew very well she was referring to her defiance, even up to last night. Did Rahine also know it had ended last night? Of course she did. She knew everything.

  Cheeks heating with color, Chantelle was ready to change the subject. Rahine did it for her. "I really shouldn't have stayed this long. You are to have complete bed rest for a week—"

  "A week!"

  Rahine couldn't help smiling. "At the very least, several days without exception."

  "Jamil isn't going to like that."

  "How so?"

  Chantelle looked away in embarrassment before answering. "He promised me he wouldn't summon anyone else."

  Rahine's brow shot up because she knew Jamil was dining with Sheelah at this precise moment. How could he possibly have made such a promise? But to be fair, he hadn't exactly broken it. He hadn't summoned Sheelah but had gone to her instead. Had he thought no one would know of it just because he could reach his wives' apartments without entering the main harem?

  When Rahine said nothing, Chantelle glanced back at her. "Does he keep his promises, Rahine?"

  "When at all possible, yes, of course he does." What else could she say?

  Chapter Forty-one

  Derek gently cradled the infant in his arms. It was getting easier. He could even smile now about how nervous and out of his element he had felt the first time he had held one of the babies, and there were three still in swaddling.

  Rather than disrupt the harem as he had done today, over the past weeks he had had Jamil's children brought to his apartment in groups of two and three at a time. Getting to know his nieces and nephews had relieved the tedium of the long afternoons when his lack of activity was most acutely felt, but he surprised even himself by how much he enjoyed the time spent with them.

  The little girl in his arms had flaming red hair like her mother's, and bright emerald eyes. She was adorable, but then all of Jamil's children were. And what was so fascinating about them was that Derek could see himself in each one. His own children would look like this, especially like those who most resembled Jamil. And if he had been born first, instead of a few minutes after Jamil, he would likely have just as many children by now, instead of none.

  It was ironic and lamentable that he was b
eing coerced into marriage to get just one great-grandson for Robert Sinclair when Jamil had given him sixteen great-grandchildren, four of them sons, but none of which the Marquis could officially acknowledge without bringing the scandal of Melanie Sinclair's enslavement down on his name. England thought that Lady Melanie was dead. Rahine had long since given up that name.

  But that was beside the point, and he was experiencing a moment of bachelor's indecision, was all. It was time he married. "Lamentable" was much too harsh a word for it, and only his long years of delightful lechery making a last protest. And he hadn't truly been coerced. He hadn't even protested overmuch, not with Caroline as the obvious, compatible choice.

  With his copper-haired Caro as the mother, his own daughters could look exactly like the infant he was holding. In a complete reversal of mood, he decided he couldn't wait. And then he wondered what his and Shahar's children would look like, and he frowned. Jamil possessed no blond concubines, so he could make no comparisons for likeness. And he shouldn't have had the thought in the first place.

  "Are you still worried about her?"

  Derek glanced up to find Sheelah staring at him, and he quickly smoothed out his features. "Not at all." He handed the baby back to her nurse. "I have been assured Shahar will make a complete recovery."

  "I'm glad."

  She was sincere, he realized. What an amazing difference between her and his little English, who stubbornly denied her jealousy even as she seethed with it. Sheelah truly accepted Jamil's other women. She would accept anything if it made him happy.

  Bloody hell. He should never have let Omar convince him that he couldn't continue to ignore Sheelah without arousing suspicion. She would expect him to stay and make love to her tonight. He wasn't about to get anywhere near her. Nor could he allow the two of them to be left alone together, even for a moment. That was why her three children were present, as well as their nurses. He refused to let them leave. He wanted witnesses so that Jamil could have no doubts that Derek had stayed here only for dinner.

  But Sheelah wasn't going to understand. She knew Shahar was unavailable tonight. He was here. To her way of thinking, he had no reason to leave. So when he did leave, she was going to be hurt.

  Damn Omar for putting him in this situation. "Sheelah, I thank you for the superb dinner, but I— I must go now."

  "No, wait!" She came around the table so quickly, she was practically in his lap before he could stop her. "Let me help you, Jamil. Your distress is my own."

  "I know that," he replied, gently taking her hand from his cheek and returning it to her lap. "But I cannot—"

  She pressed her lips to his. He drew back instantly, panicking in the worst way. The nurses giggled across the room. Sheelah misunderstood.

  "I'll send them away—"

  "No! What I mean is—" He collected himself with an effort. "I don't want this, Sheelah, not tonight."

  "Not to-"

  She didn't finish, her large sapphire eyes widening, her mouth dropping open. What the devil had he said, Derek wondered, to get this reaction? And it was worse than he thought.

  "You are not Jamil," she said in an incredulous whisper. "Who are you?"

  Bloody hell. "Are you mad, woman?"

  Sheelah bowed her head, contrite. "I'm sorry, my beloved. Forgive—" Her head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. "No, you are not Jamil. I know the man I love with all my heart too well. He comes to me for comfort. You refuse—"

  "Be quiet," he hissed. "Do you know what kind of rumors you could start with such nonsense? Look at me and tell me who else I could be."

  "I don't know." Tears were gathering in her eyes. "Just tell me—tell me he is not—"

  Derek put a finger to her lips. He glanced at the others in the room, but they were still far enough away not to have overheard. He looked back at Sheelah, his expression softening. Damn women's intuition. He couldn't leave it like this.

  "You have nothing to be distressed about. Nothing. Will you believe that, Sheelah?"

  She nodded and rose with him to walk him to the door. "I do not understand."

  "You will. Just be patient and all of your questions will have answers." And then he gathered her close for a moment. She was his sister-in-law after all. "You know you are loved, Sheelah. Have faith in that."

  She gave him a hesitant smile in parting, enough to convince him he had relieved her mind, if not her suspicions.

  Chapter Forty-two

  A chair arrived along with today's summons. Chantelle found that amusing, but also a little embarrassing. She wasn't an invalid. She felt fine now. But Jamil obviously didn't want her overtaxing herself on the long walk to his apartment, and she knew why. So would everyone else who saw her carried through the harem. But of course, every woman summoned was expected to share Jamil's bed. She would have to get over these feelings of discomfiture each time it was her turn, especially if Jamil kept his promise and she was the only one.

  When she arrived just after evening prayer, it was to find Jamil not alone. The old man she had seen the other night was there, arguing with Jamil about something. When she had described him to Adamma, the girl had thought he sounded like the Dey's Grand Vizier, the second most important man in Barikah. She hoped not, remembering the way he had glowered at her that night. He did it again now, plainly annoyed that Jamil had motioned her to stay when their business wasn't finished.

  "I don't see that it makes any difference, Omar," Jamil was saying. "He was my brother. I have to go-

  "No one will expect it, not after this most recent attempt on your life. And you, you didn't even know—"

  Jamil made a sudden slashing motion with his arm and Omar glared once again at Chantelle. "Send her away until we are finished."

  "No. We are finished now. It is my duty to attend the funeral, the Dey's duty," Jamil emphasized.

  "Duty be damned. The Divan has voted unanimously against it. You must heed the advice of your councillors!"

  "Must?"

  Omar threw up his hands. "Allah save us from a man who loves danger. Do you think these fanatic assassins will respect the sanctity of the funeral procession? No, they will be in the crowds, just waiting for you to appear. They cannot afford to let such an opportunity pass. Nothing else has been able to draw you out of the palace."

  Chantelle frowned. She had heard that before, those exact words, or almost those exact words.

  "Jamil?"

  He didn't even glance at her. "Be patient, Shahar. This will only take a moment more."

  "But, Jamil, I've heard that before."

  Now he turned around. "What?"

  "What he just said to you, that nothing else has been able to draw you out of the palace. Only she said 'him,' instead of 'you.' "

  "You are not making much sense, Shahar. Come here and tell us what you are talking about."

  She approached, but reluctantly. Omar wasn't frowning at her now. Jamil was. She should never have interrupted them. From what she had just overheard, apparently one of Jamil's brothers had died. He had to be upset already. But there was nothing for it now.

  "Well?" he demanded.

  "I am sorry about your brother," she began, but he waved that aside, so she told him what she remembered. "It was a few days ago in the baths. I was alone in the steam room when I heard someone outside. It was a woman and a man, I think. I never heard his voice clearly, but she called him Ali. I assumed he was a eunuch. I could hear the woman plainly, though, because her voice was raised in anger. She told him she didn't want any more excuses, that it should never have taken this long. And then she gave the man something and told him to sell it. She said, 'If that doesn't buy some courage, I'll have to—' But the man interrupted her then, and ... oh, my God!" Her eyes flared in sudden understanding.

  "What?"

  "None of it made sense to me, so I forgot about it, but I didn't know someone was trying to kill you then."

  "So? What you have said does not signify, Shahar. The woman could have been talking about anyt
hing."

  "I know that, but . . . was your brother young? Was he just a boy?"

  "Yes, but what has that to—"

  "How did he die?"

  Chantelle could see he was fast losing patience with her by the tightening of his mouth, but he answered her just the same. "He appears to have suffocated. But whether he choked on a piece of food—he was apparently eating at the time—or whether someone smothered him to make it appear so has not been determined."

  "Do you think it was murder?"

  "He was not a strong boy. It would not have been at all difficult for a man to hold something over his face until he expired. There was an emergency that drew his servants away. When they returned, they found the table in a shambles and Murad lying beside it, dead."