Hart, Mallory Dorn

by Jasmine on the Wind

  "That is when they come for me." He nodded, stretching his arms up and then lying down so that his head was pillowed in her lap. "But not tonight anymore. I hope." He turned his head to face her. "It is past midnight. When I returned I thought surely you would be asleep, but I'm glad you weren't. I am too keyed up to sleep."

  "Tell me about the council meeting."

  He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out wearily. "The meeting was tempestuous. Even men who were most adamantly opposed to surrender are now for it as their stomachs shrink, yet Muza Aben will not soften. I told you of the secret delegation Boabdil sent to Their Majesties? They returned this evening with extremely liberal surrender terms, which Boabdil laid before the council. The cadis, the muftis, the aristocrats and officials listened gray-faced, hopeless, some wiped away tears. But not Muza Aben. Ranting that Allah would sustain them, he swore that his army would hold closed the gates of Granada to the death of the last man and stomped from the chamber, followed by Reduan and the rest of his officers. The Sultan sat helpless and so did the council, left as they were with a signed surrender document but no means to implement it."

  "But if the citizens want to surrender?"

  "They don't! The perversity of the people of Granada defies all understanding. There is something in the Arab mentality I just cannot fathom. Mostly it is Muza Aben; he harangues them daily, he lifts up their spirits with tales that help will yet arrive from Egypt and the pashas of Africa, he whips them into indignation at the council, castigating the members as wailing women. He shores up their pride so that they feed on anger. You have heard them screaming defiance at the Sultan until the Nubians drive them away from the Alhambra gates."

  "But for all his ferocity Muza Aben cannot nourish them. From where do they draw their strength?"

  "I don't know. Desperation, maybe, and the unyielding preachers in the mosques. They grow weak on small rations and yet they cling to their bitter, unyielding general. Groups prowl the streets in search of the last crumb, the stray cat. I bring food to Ali and Azahra in small packets lest some neighbor grow jealous of a large bundle and steal it. And now that there is little to preserve, even the snow gatherers are not allowed out. I wish it were all over. Without couriers I have little purpose here," he said morosely.

  Silver bracelets glinting in the moonlight, she caressed away the locks from his forehead, and he nestled his cheek even closer into the comforting curve of her silk-clad belly. She would have been content just to smooth the faint frown lines between his brows with her fingers and sit stroking him, but both curiosity and the fact that she knew he wanted to talk drove her on.

  "What says the Great Sultan to all this?"

  "He secludes himself and agonizes. For his people's sake he has signed a treaty which exiles him forever from his homeland, and yet they revile him and reject his sacrifice." He suddenly put aside her stroking hand and sat up, and by the brooding hunch of his shoulders she saw his reluctant sympathy for the tormented man who somehow drew moral support from him. "He has terrible dreams. He believes Allah is punishing him for his rebellion against his father. He is bitterly jealous that the people acclaim Muza Aben but he has not the power to arrest him and rein in the army. Only the hope of protecting the city from Malaga's fate sustains him."

  Francho stared up at the little diamond points of light spangling the velvet sky, but he saw instead the Sultan slumped and staring at the brilliant pattern of his Persian carpet and then raising a worn face to Jamal ibn Ghulam, his candid companion, his honest bulwark, the talented killer of his pain, only to see his musician staring at him with stricken eyes, eyes which the Sultan did not realize hid culpability and a heart that could find no comforting words which would not be false.

  Boabdil had grimaced sadly. "We make a fine pair, my minstrel, you with your guembri and songs of old triumphs and heroes, and me with my dreams of ruling a peaceful land. We battle the dragons of reality with too fragile staves." He turned his head away from Francho, staring emptily into a corner of the dimly lit salon where M'jambana dozed lightly. "I had somehow hoped Los Reyes Católicos would accept my allegiance and whatever they demanded in tribute and leave me the pretense of my throne for my lifetime. But they are adamant. I and my house are to be sent into the shame of exile. You, however— you are a man whose artistry makes him truly the solace of kings, and you could surely find yourself a place with the Christian Court. You are free, friend ibn Ghulam, to follow the fortune of your talent; I release you from all obligation, and I urge you with my kindest heart to go your own way."

  Francho's throat was dry. He had no choice but to lie, both out of the cowardice of affection and because he could not bear to bring further hurt upon the luckless Boabdil, whose rigid set of shoulders under the rich tunic seemed to brace him against the strain of one more loss. "I will come with you, Excellence," he said huskily.

  Boabdil's eyes moved toward him slowly, the tragic gaze finally locking with his. "You are throwing your life away, Jamal. There is naught before me but degradation and oblivion."

  Francho shook his head as if doggedly determined. "I will follow you, my Sultan, that is my wish. There has been much pleasure for me in your service." This much at least was true. "I will go where you go. My mind is set." The gratitude in Boabdil's eyes shamed him, made him bite the inside of his lip even as he smiled at the man.

  Now, frowning out into the warm November night with Dolores beside him, he was pursued by the image of Abu Abdullah, almost surely the last of Granada's Sultans, clasping him by the shoulder and uttering a simple, "Gramercy, ibn Ghulam." When, in the end, Boabdil and his train rode away from Granada, he would finally know his cherished minstrel had deserted him. Perhaps he would have even been told by then he had harbored a Christian spy who had constantly betrayed him. War was war and could not be made less ugly, Francho understood, but he hoped he could give himself the privilege of not being present to view the Sultan's last degradation.

  Dolores resolved not to question Francho anymore about the Sultan, for it was plain he was suffering for his part in the downfall of a ruler for whom he held affection as a man. To break the heavy mood of his last utterance she shrugged, pretended insouciance, and loosed a trill of laughter. She tugged at him until he unfolded himself and stretched out again and then playfully rolled on top of him, giggling loudly to hear his fake grunt as if her weight were too much for him.

  "Shh, little wanton, you'll wake the palace."

  "Shh, yourself. I see you no longer care that I am your faithful slave woman to do with as you wish." She looked down at him, and her loose, jasmine-scented hair spilled silkily to either side of his face. She wriggled her hips on his provocatively, shamelessly, and the hard, solid feel of his body under her ignited her. "It seems all you wish is to talk and talk."

  "And who says this?" The muscular arm that went around her pressed her closer against him. In the flickers of moonlight she caught a glimpse of his white smile and a hunger for her sparking the dark sapphire depths of his eyes, and she experienced the joyous little leap of her heart that always answered it.

  "I do," she responded lightly, flicking the barbarous silver hoop in his ear with her finger. "I say it."

  "Not true. I have no desire to talk. In fact, all I wish right now is sleep."

  "Oh!" she squealed and tried to break away, but the other arm came about her and he rolled on his side so that she was tenderly cradled in his arms. After so many months of lovemaking he had no doubts as to how to fuel the fire that raced ever hotter between them.

  He nuzzled her nose with his, and the warmth and intimacy of his breath, the soft tickle of his beard, aroused her. She especially loved it when they went slowly, he murmuring to her, drawing out the excitement, both of them discovering refinements in the senses of touch and smell and taste that made the inevitable plunge into rapturous abandonment all the more exquisite. But sometimes, as now, when overwhelming and blind desire engulfed her artful lover, the hot-blooded maleness of him intoxicate
d her and swept her along with him, and she was joyous just to give him what he sought.

  His hot kiss consumed her as he gathered her to him, his arm purposefully pressing up between her legs and giving wings to the physical love that opened her heart and her body to him.

  "Not here? On the grass?" she gasped as he freed her lips for a moment.

  "Yes here, why not? There is no one but us...."

  But us and God, she thought, both shocked and titillated at the thought of coupling in the open, sheltered only by a tree and the warm, shadowed night. In a hurry he yanked off over his head his long, loose shirt of white cotton. She waited, for he liked to undress her. With quick, knowing hands he drew off her jacket and bodice and laid her down on the coverlet, passing one warm hand in a brief caress down the side of her throat and along one breast, teasing the sensitive nipple a brief moment.

  She lifted her hips to help him as he pulled off her pantaloons—and then inhaled sharply at the intense pleasure that streaked through her, for holding her hips elevated, he had applied his mouth to her woman's place, drawing her soul there with hot, luring kisses, his tongue flicking out to lick and play with her until her body began to shake and she thought she would go mad. He moved up her quivering form, kissing and licking her all the way, whispering "darling, darling" against her skin, kissing her breasts from their fullness to their pink nipple tips, encircling each nipple with his lips so that she moaned and convulsed and engulfed his head with her arms so that those lips would never stop, never stop loving her, wanting her, never stop opening the gates of Heaven for her—

  "You belong to me," he whispered fiercely, passionately, "you belong to me, Dolores. Here, in the open, in the view of God..."

  He invaded her welcoming body with so driven a need to possess her that her breath was expelled in a great gasp, but in the next moment she was matching his ardor, making little cries of arousal, moving with him more and more urgently, her exaltation in joining this one man in the supreme act of human love, finally delivering her into the delirious explosion that was a small dying just as he fastened frantically onto her mouth and shuddered through his own great release.

  Waiting some moments for his panting to subside, he finally raised his head and muttered, "You are insatiable and a wanton. You will kill me with your siren's spell." He bit her ear gently and flopped on his back beside her.

  "Not yet," she promised, floating in a ravished happiness. "Not yet, mi alma."

  They lay still for a while, letting the mild breeze cool the fever of their bodies. She settled her head into the hollow of his shoulder, and his arm went around her to hold her there. But in a few minutes it slid away, and his breathing turned deep and even in sleep. She raised herself up on one elbow and looked down at his finely cut, handsome features, the olive skin drawn over cheekbones shadowed by his dark lashes. Sleep smoothed out the rugged alertness from his bearded face, the constant mild frown. He looked younger. "I love you so much," she whispered to his unhealing ears. She remained gazing at him, but as the seconds passed the joy of their loving seemed to seep away, to be replaced by a pervading sadness.

  Silently she got up, gathered her garments, and, after covering his big, sprawled body with his shirt, padded back to the chamber. Sitting on the divan she pulled the sheet up about her and hugged her knees.

  Papa el Mono's daughter was not stupid. She would not fool herself into thinking this happy eight months of intimacy, the light-hearted days, the passionate nights, were more real to him than his yearning for Leonora de Zuniga, the love of his heart. His very inability to utter the word "love" to her made it easy to interpret the absent look in his eyes, his removed air as his gaze followed a swallow winging east toward the Christian camp, or the occasional sigh he tried to hide.

  Yet, unless he had iron compartments in his heart, there were times when he touched her face and body with such sweetness and reverence that she could swear he loved her too. She shook her head in sad bewilderment. Still, even if she could give the people of Granada the strength to endure another year of hunger, she would not. If this was to him a mere fleeting attraction of time and place and warm flesh, then let it be over as it would and let her suffer the pain and be done with it. Although she dreaded to live without him, her love, her lover, her dearest heart, nevertheless she had a pride in herself, and when the world reappeared on their doorstep she was determined to accept the end every bit as controlled as he.

  Lost in her melancholy thoughts she did not realize he was standing in the shadows by the door studying her profile until he clucked softly.

  "Such heavy musings, doña, so late in the night? It must now be Dolores, for Karima would be soundly sleeping."

  She looked over her shoulder and smiled. "And so she will be in a moment. What awakened you?"

  "The lack of you. I suddenly knew you weren't there." He came toward her, unself-conscious in his nakedness, just as she unselfconsciously allowed her eyes to wander adoringly over his sinewy physique. He sat on the edge of the divan and reached out to trace a finger along her forearm. "What were you thinking?" he asked in a gentle manner, and his very tone told her he knew.

  She shrugged. "I was just thinking how like a dream it seems, everything that came before Granada. The Court, the Queen, Seville, the Duke, Torrejoncillo..." She smiled in order to keep it light.

  His response came with as light a note. "I imagine you will go back to Medina-Sidonia once the surrender takes place."

  The very casualness of how he disposed of the months of shared life between them caused her heart to lurch; if she had been standing she would have staggered under his cruelty. As it was she quickly lowered her eyes so he would not see her shaken reaction to his offhand admission that the future held nothing for them. "Yes, I suppose I will," she finally got out. "If he still wishes. He has always been very kind. A woman without family needs a protector."

  "You could marry instead," he said mildly.

  She had never told him that her relationship with Don Enrique was purely platonic despite the gossip, nor of the Duke's offer to her of marriage when death removed his wife, for these facts formed a shred of independence from him to which she clung. "And whom would I marry?" she asked slowly, careful to keep her voice steady.

  "There are fine men, respected knights or even younger sons of the nobility who would be eager to court you if Medina-Sidonia's obvious patronage did not discourage them. It would mean security for you and a position of respect." Now he had the grace to begin to look uncomfortable.

  She could not control the brittle snap to her tone. "Ay, María, Don Francisco, for one so anxious to see me safe, you do not aim very high for me. Please do not trouble yourself over me. I have managed to survive successfully and alone, so far, and I will continue to do so."

  "Don't be angry. Do you think me inhuman? Of course I trouble about you, Dolores."

  Finding her balance again she smiled coolly and laid the tip of her finger on his lips to silence him. "Then you must not. I truly don't want you to. When we leave Granada I have plans of my own. We will do our best to put this—lovely interlude—behind us as quickly as we can."

  But he gripped her arm and pulled her face closer to him. "Can you think it will be that easy, heart of stone? Are we nothing more to each other than just lustful strangers thrown together by fate? Yes, Leonora de Zuniga has my love, this you have always known, and she awaits me for I have begged her for her hand. But—" The blue eyes glittered under his frown, his fingers hurt her arm. "But there is a strong bond between you and me which was always much greater than just the affection of a shared past—a kind of love, perhaps, and this has given me much happiness. How you fare will always concern me, whether you welcome my interest or not. I want to see you safely guarded by an honorable man who will give you a name that is real."

  She fought the aching lump stuck in her throat with sarcasm. "A small country gentleman, of course, who will take me far away from Court, mayhap? So that the good Leonora's dear lord
will have no reminder of his dalliance and betrayal of her in Granada, of his ardent months spent making love to another woman?" She pressed closed her lips and jerked her arm away from him.

  "I ought to slap you for that." He glowered. His open hand swept back.

  Bridling, she sat straight up, daring him. "Go ahead, sir knight, slap me, but the truth is the truth. And I owe you no more submission. You'll find I've finally remembered how to fight back." Her threat and her stubborn chin and clenched fists were absurd, but defiance was all she had to counter his wounding rejection of whatever kind of love it was he thought they shared. But her preparation for battle broke the shell of his anger. His mouth relaxed and a slow grin spread over his face. For a moment his irreverence with her wrath ruffled her further, and then she realized he was not laughing at her but because even in her anger she was beguiling him. She could not define the emotion she saw in his eyes, but somehow she was embarrassed and confused by it. She pouted, discomfited, and felt the heat of a blush stain her cheeks.

  Launching himself at her he bore her down on the pillows, and before she could pull away passionately kissed her brow, the tip of her nose, and both corners of her mouth. The corners of his own mouth still quirked; he murmured to her, "Please, querida, let us not quarrel. Let us take the joy of what we have both created while it still exists and not drag in the future. Futures have a strange way of confounding every plan..." He stopped in mid-sentence, unsure, his smile fading, his eyes wandering over her face.

  Her lips parted under his wondering gaze—it was the smitten gaze of a man who loves, her heart cried out to her before she could smother such wishful thinking. Diantre! She was a grown woman, she had fallen deeply in love, and in the way of women she had followed her heart. That was all there was to it. So leave him be. She laid her palm on his cheek. "You do not regret?"

  "No, mi cara, not ever. Will you?"

  "Never," she whispered.

  He lay silently by her side, and she fitted herself against him in the way they usually rested. A breeze had blown up, and there came the rustling of the hibiscus bushes outside. In her mind she imagined the waning sliver of the moon shimmering and drowning in the carved marble bowl of the small fountain in the garden, much as she was drowning in the fleeting joy of her love's presence.