Stolen Splendor

by Miriam Minger

  He had never seen such an incredible color as the luminous amethyst pools staring up at him, set off by thick, dark lashes beneath winged brows. He leaned over her, trailing a smooth-tipped finger from the center of her forehead, down the straight line of her nose, brushing the sensuous curve of her lips and resting on her trembling chin. Perfection. And he could wait no longer to possess her. His need was great; it cried out for satisfaction. He had held himself back from his other concubines all afternoon in anticipation of this moment.

  A pity he did not speak her language, he thought, rising to his feet in one lithe movement to tower above her. No matter. What he wanted to do at that moment required no words. It was a language of gesture, expression, touch, perfectly understood by man and woman, master and slave. He held out his hand to her, a commanding motion, his eyes reflecting his immediate intent.

  Kassandra did not move. She did not even blink. She simply stared up at him, looming like a great black falcon above her, her body awash in loathing, fear, and terrifying awe. Everything about him was black, his close-cropped hair, his glistening beard, his eyes, tinged with cruelty and burning lust. Black pelisse, black trousers, black slippers . . . black, absence of color, symbol of death.

  His face was pale against the blackness, narrow with long features, a high forehead, a hooked nose, and generous lips that curved into a cunning half smile. His white hand reached out to her, but she would not take it. She shuddered with disgust and turned away, repulsed, sickened . . . fearfully defiant.

  Halil's smile fled his lips, incredulity and rage welling up inside him. No slave had ever insulted him so before! Nor had any slave ever excited him so . . . His blood coursed hotly through his veins. He would take up her challenge. If she would not accept his hand and allow herself to be led to the low dais, turning her back on the silken comfort of his bed, then he would take her on the floor. She would learn not to defy her sovereign master, her lord—this . . . this slave!

  With a ragged sigh Halil fell on top of her, his lean frame, toughened, scarred from battle, a warrior's body, pressing her into the floor. She screamed, a high, piercing sound, but he only laughed wildly in reply, his Chief Eunuch and numerous guards, standing at attention just beyond the inner chamber, staying their hands upon their scimitars, his laughter assuring them there was no cause for alarm.

  Kassandra struggled and kicked, tossing her head, but her strength was no match for his own. She heard a ripping sound, and inhaled sharply as her tunic and chemise fell from her breasts, baring them to his black gaze. He held her shoulders to the floor, kneeling astride her now, his fingers splayed and biting cruelly into her flesh, while he bent his head and captured a rose-crested nub with his mouth, suckling hungrily, his hideous groans ringing in her ears.

  Kassandra twisted desperately beneath him, crying out again when he grabbed her wrists and wrenched them high above her head, his other hand fumbling with her silken trousers, pulling them down around her hips. His leg delved between her legs, forcing them apart.

  "No!" she screamed, her breaths tearing in great gasps from her throat. She summoned every ounce of her flagging strength in a final effort to thwart him. "No!" She jerked sharply to one side, her arms breaking free of his grasp, her hands flying to the wide sash at his waist, groping, searching for the one thing that would save her, not from death, which would swiftly follow her final act, but from this brutal rape.

  She laughed in frenzied relief, her fingers suddenly circling around the hilt of his dagger. Too late, Halil sensed her intent, and his mortal danger. Before he could stop her, she brought it up high above him, then down, down, the flashing blade slicing into his arm just as he managed to roll away from her, saving his own life by the barest instant. He jumped to his feet, screaming in pain and outrage, shouting curses, his hand pressed to his upper arm, blood trickling between his fingers and running down his sleeve.

  The Chief Eunuch was the first to rush into the inner chamber, his saber drawn, followed by eunuch guards and Janissaries pouring in from the front entrance and adjoining antechambers, scimitars poised. They converged upon Kassandra, who lay on her back with her eyes tightly closed, her breasts heaving, her body wracked by shuddering spasms, too exhausted to cover her nakedness and beyond caring.

  She said a swift prayer, expecting at any moment to feel the sting of many blades cutting into her flesh. And, indeed, if she had looked up at that moment, she would have seen a glittering canopy of scimitars raised high above her, suspended, as the guards looked to Halil for the slight nod that would end her life. All was hushed, deathly still, with no sound but for jagged breathing and the faint ring of steel upon steel as scimitars wavered, brushing blade to blade.

  Halil exhaled slowly, glancing from his arm, the bleeding partially staunched, to the woman lying defenseless upon the floor. He quickly made up his mind. He shook his head, in that small gesture sparing her life. The scimitars were withdrawn, and the Janissaries and guards moved back to their places. Only the Chief Eunuch remained, with another eunuch of lesser rank by his side.

  "Cover her," Halil finally managed to say through gritted teeth, struggling to catch his breath. He watched as the Chief Eunuch lifted Kassandra roughly to her feet and threw his brocade pelisse around her while the other eunuch supported her limp body. She opened her eyes briefly, her gaze widening as if she was stunned to find she still lived and breathed, then she closed them again, her chin dropping to her chest.

  Yes, you will live to regret what you have done, slave, Halil thought fiercely, as if reading her mind. You will wish time and again that you had died this day.

  "Take her . . . to the harem," he said, gasping. "Isolate her from the other women . . . but do not deal too harshly . . . with my tigress. Perhaps a few days without food or water . . . will tame her wild manners."

  "Yes, Sire," the Chief Eunuch murmured, though his expression, usually set and composed, was doubtful. He nodded to the other eunuch, and together they dragged Kassandra from the inner chamber.

  Halil winced, pulling away his hand to examine the oozing wound. His private physician entered the chamber, rushing forward, but he waved him away.

  "It is only a scratch," he said, sinking down upon a divan. His voice fell to a whisper. "Only a scratch."

  Hardly worth the loss of such dazzling beauty . . . and a passionate spirit to match, he mused. Cold cruelty glittered in his black eyes. A spirit that he would break, bit by bit, until she begged for his caress with open arms.

  His full lips drew into a smile, the thought giving him great pleasure. He leaned back upon the divan, allowing the hovering physician to approach him at last.

  Chapter 41

  Frederick leaned well back in his saddle as the Persian war-horse galloped down the steep hill leading from the Ottoman camp, Kassandra's piercing scream echoing in his mind.

  He had heard it carrying from deep within the grand vizier's tent just as he mounted and rode away. The four Janissary guards riding with him had laughed coarsely, praising the prowess of their commander. He tried to blot it out, to think of anything but what was happening to her right now, but he could not.

  Damn it, man, you did what you had to do. It was either this, or your own skin. At least she lives. But his reasoning did little to assuage his guilt, nor did the weight of the gold, hidden in the folds of his trousers, which pressed against his hip. He felt he was choking on guilt, drowning in it, even as he tried to force his mind back to his mission . . . delivering Halil's letter to Mustapha.

  Frederick eased up on the reins when he reached the bottom of the slope, veering the stallion toward the rocky shore of the Danube. The Janissaries pulled up behind him, flanking his rear.

  It was pitch-dark, the moon barely visible in the sky, a pale beacon hidden behind a thick bank of clouds. A swirling fog was settling over the river, reaching out and blanketing the shoreline, making it difficult to pick a path through the rocks and hulking boulders. It was even more difficult to sight the small boat the
y had upturned and secured beneath armloads of underbrush, the boat they would need to cross the river to the fortress.

  Frederick knew it was close by, but with each passing moment he could see less and less. The fog had become so dense, it obscured anything more than a few feet away. He did not see the silent shadows crouching behind a mass of boulders until it was too late, could not even have guessed that a regiment of Imperial soldiers had been sent out along the Danube as advance scouts for the battle to come.

  He and his Janissary guard passed unwittingly right through the midst of them, realizing their danger only when they were attacked with a swiftness that sent them sprawling from their saddles. Three of the Janissaries died at once, quietly, neatly, their throats slit, their lifeblood staining the sandy soil. The remaining guard was wounded, but not mortally, subdued by four silent soldiers.

  Frederick fell hard upon the ground, a soldier immediately astride his chest while two others pinned him down. The white turban was knocked from his head, the cold point of a dagger pressed beneath his chin, piercing the skin. He looked up into the clouded sky, awaiting death. Instead he heard a sharp intake of breath and a deep chuckle.

  "Look at what we have here, Commander," his captor muttered incredulously, peering at him in the dark. "Either this Turk had a blond, light-eyed mother, or I would swear he is no Turk at all!"

  Another man drew close and bent over him, squinting closely at his face. He straightened, quickly voicing low-spoken commands. "Get this man to his feet at once. You three will accompany me back to the camp, while the others hold their position here until we return."

  A numbness washed over Frederick, a swift death denied him with these words. He could not believe how quickly fate had turned against him. His deadly game had been well played for almost three years, and now suddenly he had lost, without even a fight, just as he had attained the wealth that would free him from his role as a spy. That gold was useless to him now. It could not spare him from what lay ahead, a death far worse than anything he could imagine.

  Frederick was pulled roughly to his feet, his hands bound with leather cord, a gag stuffed into his mouth. He waited as a boat was brought from behind the rocks and slid across the gravel into the river. A sharp push propelled him forward, and he stepped shakily into the rocking vessel, strong hands pushing him onto a planked seat.

  "Perhaps you might explain to Prince Eugene why you wear the clothes of the enemy, lad," the officer murmured tersely, settling behind him, a blade at his back.

  After the men heaved the unconscious Janissary guard into the bottom of the boat, they pushed off from the shore and drifted silently downstream. For fear any sound might bring the Turks down upon them, no oars touched the water until they reached the point where the Sava flowed into the Danube. Then they rowed like hell against the conflicting currents, making straight for the Imperial camp.

  ***

  Stefan stepped from Prince Eugene's tent, the council of war having drawn to a close. It was already well past ten o'clock. The camp was hushed, still, but for the intermittent bursts of artillery fire near the Sava, the Turk's remedy for holding them at bay, even during the night. Except for the continuous guard posted around the camp, most of the soldiers were catching a few precious hours rest, which was also his plan. Three o'clock in the morning, when the camp would rouse to make final preparations for battle, would come swiftly enough.

  He drew in a great breath of the damp night air, murmuring a prayer of thanks for the heavy fog that blanketed the camp and the surrounding countryside. He could barely see the lighted windows of the fortress high above Belgrade. Hopefully the fog would hold to serve as their ally and shield in the dark hours before morning.

  Stefan turned and strode toward his own tent, his mind working over the events of past hours, the council of war, the lengthy discussions, planning a course of attack, on and on. Yet one event stood at the forefront of his thoughts. He shook his head, still astounded. He could hardly believe that Count Frederick Althann, the court fop, was a spy for Sultan Achmet.

  It had been the most incredible scene. They had all been gathered about a large oaken table, Prince Eugene and every commander save one plotting the battle that would commence well before dawn.

  Prince Eugene had already discussed with them his decision to launch a surprise attack against the Ottoman lines. The long siege and the constant bombardment had taken a heavy toll on his forces, in both manpower and morale, until the Imperial army was on the verge of collapse. Believing his hand to be forced, he had to choose between retreat, hardly an option for the brilliant general, or striking out in a daring retaliation, despite the heavy odds against them. He had opted for retaliation, with the full support of his commanders.

  At the height of their discussions, they had been suddenly interrupted by a commotion outside the tent. The commander of the regiment that had been sent to scout the Ottoman camp had burst in, followed by a retinue of soldiers, two bedraggled prisoners in their midst. One of them was a Turk, slumped between his guards, his shoulder bloodied and his right arm hanging uselessly by his side, and the other was Count Frederick, dressed as a Turkish officer.

  A stunned silence had fallen while the commander grimly recounted how he had captured the prisoners, then he handed Prince Eugene a letter that had been found on Count Frederick. An aide familiar with the Turkish language was summoned, the general's expression darkening as the young lieutenant read it aloud.

  Never had Stefan heard more overbearing confidence than was expressed in that letter. It elicited a terse response from Prince Eugene.

  "This letter shall be Halil Pasha's undoing," he murmured, his dark gaze falling on every man in the tent. "His misplaced confidence proves once and for all that we must make a stand. It will be the last thing he expects. Cowards? The grand vizier will soon know the meaning of the word when his soldiers are routed and scattered in retreat, his tents razed to the ground!"

  If ever there had been evidence to condemn a man as a spy, and a traitor, it was that letter. Yet through the reading, Count Frederick remained aloof, silent, with a studied dignity, as if that was the only weapon remaining to him. It was clear to everyone that he was hardly the preening fop he had played at court, an ingenious role he had devised to cover a far more dangerous pursuit.

  At last, after refusing to answer any questions, he had been dragged away for torture along with the Turkish soldier captured with him. His death—as for all spies, impalement on a sharpened stake driven into the earth—would come later, after they had gotten any useful information from him that might help them in the battle the next morning.

  Stefan sighed heavily. That had been several hours ago. No doubt by now Frederick hardly resembled the same man. Torture was a cruel, but necessary evil in wartime. The information he had given to the Turks had already cost hundreds of Austrian lives, a price he would pay with his own.

  Stefan slowed his pace as he drew closer to his tent, recalling the piercing look Frederick had shot at him before he was hauled away. A strange chill had coursed through him, but why, he had no clue.

  "Commander von Furstenberg!"

  Stefan wheeled at the agitated cry, but he saw no one through the damp mists. He turned back, continuing toward his tent.

  "Commander . . . von Furstenberg! I must . . . speak with you!" the voice called again, and this time when Stefan turned, he saw a dark form running toward him, taking shape in the mists. He recognized the captain of the prison tent, where not only the prisoners but also unruly and undisciplined soldiers were being held.

  "What is it, man?" Stefan asked as the burly captain drew up alongside him, panting as he fought to catch his breath.

  "I just came . . . from Prince Eugene's . . . tent. He gasped, bending down and resting his hands on his thighs, his chest heaving. "His aide . . . said you had left . . . only a moment . . . ago."

  Stefan nodded. "So you have found me. But what's the urgency here—"

  "The prisoner, sir . . .
Count Althann," the captain interrupted, straightening. "He is asking for you, Commander. He says . . . he will speak to no one . . . but you."

  Stefan's expression hardened. What could the traitor possibly have to say to him? Then he shrugged. He only hoped it was useful information.

  He nodded. "Lead on, man." They set off through the fog, the shorter man fighting to keep up with Stefan's longer strides. When they reached the prison tent, the guards quickly lowered their muskets and stepped aside, allowing them entrance.

  It took a moment for Stefan's eyes to adjust to the dark interior, lit only by scattered oil lamps. Unkempt soldiers were shackled to their cots, a row along each wall, deserters, thieves, ruffians, the lowest dregs of any army. The air was stuffy, smelling of human waste and sweat. The war prisoners were kept off by themselves in an adjoining tent. The morale in this place was low enough already without having to listen to a man's agonizing screams during torture.

  Stefan passed quickly through the main tent, looking neither left nor right, then through a wide fenced area and into a smaller tent. He stopped short, his eyes widening as his gaze shifted from the Turkish guard, lashed and hanging limply from a wooden post, to an outstretched form bound hand and foot, and lying on a blood-soaked cot. He moved closer, his lips tightened into a grim line. It was not a pretty sight.

  Frederick's naked body was streaked with blood and dank sweat, his face black and blue, his eyes swollen shut. His fingers and toes had been mutilated, and scorch marks crisscrossed his chest where a hot brand had seared into his flesh. His left leg had been broken, and twisted cruelly beneath him, shattered white bone breaking through his thigh.

  Stefan fought back a wave of unexpected nausea. He had seen far worse on the battlefield time and time again, but there was something about this man that struck him to the core. His body had been reduced to ruin, yet he lay there with a quivering defiance Stefan had seen in few others, friend or foe.