Panther's Prey

by Doreen Owens Malek

  PANTHER’S PREY

  Doreen Owens Malek

  –

  Published by

  Gypsy Autumn Publications

  P.O. Box 383 • Yardley, PA 19067

  –

  Copyright 1996 and 2012

  By Doreen Owens Malek

  www.doreenowensmalek.com

  The author asserts the moral right to

  be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher.

  First printing April 1987

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  With a note of thanks to

  Vito W. Caporale,

  my Professor of Ancient History

  at William Paterson College,

  who made the past come alive for

  me and stimulated an interest in it

  which remains to this day

  BE SURE TO READ

  THE PANTHER AND THE

  PEARL, THE PREQUEL

  TO PANTHER’S PREY,

  an Amazon Best Selling Historical

  Romance in the United States and

  the United Kingdom.

  “In the Ottoman Empire of 1885,

  the Pasha of Bursa could have

  anything he wanted…except her”

  The American Beauty: When an innocent excursion to Constantinople took an unexpected twist, Sarah Woolcott found herself a prisoner in the harem of young and virile Kalid Shah. Headstrong and courageous, Sarah was determined to resist the handsome foreigner whose arrogance outraged her—even as his tantalizing touch promised exotic nights of fiery sensuality.

  The Turkish Prince: Never had he encountered a woman who inflamed his desire like the blonde Westerner with the independent spirit. Although she spurned his passionate overtures, Kalid vowed to tempt her with his masterful skills until she became a willing companion on their journey of exquisite ecstasy!

  “Ms. Malek’s marvelous storytelling gifts

  keep us deliciously entertained!”

  — Romantic Times

  The Hunter and the Hunted

  “What are you going to do with me?” Amy demanded, tugging on the ropes that held her bound to the pole.

  Malik Bey said nothing, merely walked in a circle around her, surveying her as if she were the blue ribbon heifer at the county fair. The scrutiny made Amy intensely uncomfortable and she was finally able to look away from him. At that moment he stepped forward and lifted her chin with his finger.

  He studied her face, and at such close range Amy was able to study his. He had the longest eyelashes she had even seen, so thick and dense that they made his eyes seem huge in his olive-skinned face, and when his lips parted, she had a glimpse of strong white teeth. He stroked her chin absently with his thumb, looking her over, and she shivered at the touch, mesmerized by his stare. Then she realized that she was submitting to this humiliating examination without a struggle and she jerked back from his angrily. He smiled slightly, which infuriated her even more.

  “You’ll never get away with this,” she hissed.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  About the Author

  See all of Doreen Owens Malek’s Kindle eBooks

  Coming Soon from Doreen Owens Malek

  Chapter 1

  Constantinople, Ottoman Empire

  July,1895

  Malik Bey crouched behind an outcropping of rock and watched the plume of smoke from the train coming closer. Below him the open, sandy plain spread away to the horizon, narrowing on the right to the depot he could just see in the distance, its tin roof reflecting the sunlight. He had chosen the station well; it was isolated, and the train stopped long enough to take on new passengers and to refuel. His men could surround and board it before the conductor or any of the travelers knew what was happening.

  One of the horses neighed and Malik looked behind him, shaking his head. Anyone might be in the hills above them; silence was essential. The offending handler controlled his mount and Malik glanced back at the train, now coming around the bend and looming larger. He looked up at the sun, which would be in the conductor’s eyes and aid the bandits in their task. The train should be loaded with business people, embassy aides and tourists, all on their way to Constantinople and all in possession of jewelry and money.

  Gain was the goal, after all.

  Malik had no ethical qualms about robbing the train, no more than he would have about strangling the Sultan, if he could get his hands on him. Malik would do whatever was necessary to free the Turkish people from the oppressive grip of Abdul Hammid IV, the absolute dictator of the Ottoman Empire, which included Turkey and all of its dependent territories. If stealing was required, Malik would become the best thief in the Empire, and if killing was required, he would become the best assassin. Liberty was the objective, and nothing else mattered.

  The train began to slow down and its whistle blew loudly. Malik raised his hand, signaling his band to get ready. He grabbed his horse’s bridle and mounted in one smooth motion, raising the scarf around his neck to cover the lower part of his face. Only his large, dark brown eyes showed above the printed cotton, eyes marked by glossy black brows and lashes the same shade as his anthracite hair. Malik was remarkably handsome, which he could have used to better advantage if romantic pursuits were important to him, but he lived for his quest of a free country.

  Revolution was his constant occupation.

  The train let off steam, hissing as it glided closer to the station. Malik cantered into position at the head of the group of mounted men, his hand still raised, watching the scene below. When the moment was right be lowered his hand abruptly, and the bandits thundered down the slope, horses’ hooves kicking up showers of dust as they rode.

  The passengers on the train looked up in alarm as the horsemen materialized from the hills, seemingly by magic, swarming around the train as it inched toward its destination. The conductor pulled the emergency cord but the Turks boarded before the train had even come to a standstill, leaping from the well trained horses which trotted away a few paces and then waited for their masters to return.

  Malik waited until he saw the two men who had been designated to handle the conductor land on the train, then he burst into the caboose through its rear door. He ignored the screams of the female passengers and drew his pistol on the first man who stood to face him. The hero subsided, sitting back down slowly, his eyes as wide as his plump wife clutched his arm fearfully.

  Malik grabbed the empty sack tied to his waist and shoved it in the face of his would be attacker. “Give me all your money and valuables and no one will be hurt,” he said in English, for the couple looked Western. They scrambled to obey, dumping everything in the cloth bag, and Malik moved carefully down the aisle, stopping frequently as the travelers stripped themselves of their belongings and cash. His men did the same in the other cars, and Malik was not forced to repeat himself, not
even for the Turkish passengers, who already had the idea and knew more about the local bandits than the tourists. As he came to the end of the car he saw an old man who looked far less prosperous than the rest extracting a few coins from his frayed pocket with trembling fingers. As he extended the money to Malik the younger man pushed his hand away.

  “Keep it, grandfather,” Malik said gruffly in Turkish. “It is for you that I fight.”

  He turned to face the full car and scanned the faces quickly again, looking for women young and pretty enough to bring a good price on the slave market. There were none. He was strapping the sack, now heavy with booty, to his belt once more when his lieutenant, Anwar Talit, dragged a struggling teenage girl through the door from the next car and said, “What do you think?”

  Malik looked at the young woman, who was small and plain, with wispy brown hair tucked into a chip bonnet. She stared back at him in terror.

  Malik shook his head, glancing through the train’s grimy window for his horse.

  “She’s young enough,” Anwar protested.

  “Not worth the trouble,” Malik said decisively, and Anwar released the girl, who almost fainted with relief. One of the other passengers caught her as she sagged to the floor.

  “Are the others finished?” Malik asked Anwar.

  Anwar nodded.

  “Any women worth taking?”

  “No, that one was the best of the bunch.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Both bandits leaped from the train and dashed for their horses. The passengers reacted in various ways to having survived the incident with their hides intact. The men blustered and coughed, avoiding each other’s eyes, and some of the women whimpered or sobbed, but it was clear that the outcome could have been much worse. Grandfather’s pocket watch or a ruby ring was nothing to give up in exchange for a steadily beating heart.

  Malik vaulted onto his horse and trotted in a circle around the stopped train, marshaling his men and making sure they were all mounted and ready to go. Then he shouted for them to head for the hills and they streamed after him at a gallop, vanishing as quickly as they had appeared.

  * * *

  Amelia Ryder glanced out at the roiling water through eyes that were misted with tears. She was about to dock in Paris, and then take the Orient Express south to Constantinople. She had never been out of Boston, and this trip to Turkey should have been the biggest adventure of her life. But the reason for the journey was her parents’ death, and their will specified that she be relocated half way around the world to live with an aunt she barely remembered.

  It wasn’t fair. She was almost eighteen anyway, her birthday was in just ten months, but the court appointed guardian had insisted that custody of the “minor child”( just hearing herself referred to that way made Amy furious) should go to her father’s sister. And her father’s sister, Beatrice Ryder Woolcott, just happened to live in the capital of the Ottoman Empire with her rug dealer husband, whose cousin Sarah was married to some local Turkish ruler. It was all too foreign and bizarre, Amy didn’t want any part of it, but here she was anyhow, on her way meet Aunt Bea.

  Amy had fought this fate with as much initiative as she could muster, but due to her age and inexperience that was very little. She had testified at her court hearing that she would much rather live with her best friend Abigail Cutter’s family until she turned eighteen, but the judge had ruled, predictably, in favor of her father’s will. So she was packed off on this trip in the company of her mother’s friend Mrs. Spaulding, both of them still in a state of shock over the Ryders’ sudden death in a carriage accident.

  One moment Amy’s young, healthy parents were alive, on their way to an evening concert at Symphony Hall. The next a runaway horse on a rain slicked street where the gas lamps were out had ended their lives. And Amy had been forced to withdraw from Miss Pickard’s Finishing School in Brookline and leave her old life behind for a new one in the mysterious East.

  For years Amy had heard her parents discussing Bea’s husband James and his cousin Sarah’s involvement with the “pasha”, whatever that was, in hushed whispers, as if it were some scandal to be shoved under the carpet. Apparently this pasha had “bought” Sarah from the Sultan while she was visiting James and tutoring the Sultan’s daughter, and then the pasha had kept Sarah in his harem against her will. Amy remembered how the horrified sympathy of her family had turned to shock when they heard that Sarah had fallen in love with her purchaser and married him! And now the courts were sending Amy to live in the midst of these people! Did it make sense? Of course not, but it was happening. All because Bea Woolcott was Amy’s only surviving relative and an underage young woman could not be trusted to live alone or without the supervision of family. It was twisted logic but it had come to rule Amy’s life.

  “You’d better fasten your cape, my dear, the wind is picking up,” Mrs. Spaulding said at her side.

  Amy obediently tied the grosgrain bow at the neck of her blue wool traveling cloak, leaning on the railing and gazing out across the gray water. She wondered how long it would be before she could see land. She would only be in Paris for two days, but Mrs. Spaulding had promised that there would be enough time for Amy to see some of the sights before they had to board the train. The judge had given Amy an advance on her trust fund to pay for her passage to Turkey and for Mrs. Spaulding’s round trip. Amy got the rest of the money on her next birthday, and until then she had to do what she was told like a good little girl.

  “And button your gloves, Amy, this sea mist can chap your hands,” Mrs. Spaulding added.

  Amy sighed, closing her gray cotton gloves at the wrist, wishing that her companion would develop laryngitis. Mrs. Spaulding meant well, but she took her duties too seriously, barking orders at Amy as if she were training a dog. Amy couldn’t wait until the older woman was on her way back to Boston, even if it meant that she herself was left alone in Turkey with the shadowy Aunt Bea.

  A gong sounded behind them on the deck of the ship and Mrs. Spaulding said brightly, “Tea time.”

  Amy turned from the trailing and followed Mrs. Spaulding’s sweeping skirt across the deck.

  * * *

  “Will you stop pacing around the room, Bea?” James Woolcott said irritably to his wife. “Amelia is not due to arrive at the station until tomorrow, wearing a hole in the carpet now isn’t going to change anything.”

  Beatrice dropped into a chair and sighed heavily. “What am I going to do with a teenage girl?” she asked despairingly. “I haven’t the first idea of how to entertain her.”

  “You won’t have to entertain her, Bea, she is going to live here. It won’t be a continuous garden party.”

  “But she’s left all her friends behind, she’ll have no one to talk to about her problems, her dreams. A girl that age needs conversation, companionship.”

  “She can talk to you.”

  “She hasn’t seen me since she was five, James, since we came to Turkey when you started your business here.”

  “So it may take some time, but you’ll get to know each other eventually. Fretting about it in advance isn’t going to help.”

  “What could my brother have been thinking?” Beatrice murmured, almost to herself. “He knew I had no children of my own, how could he imagine I would be suited for this task?”

  “He was thinking that you were his sister and he wanted Amelia to be with family if anything happened to her parents. Now go upstairs and finish arranging the vases of flowers in Amy’s room. I’ll send Listak along to help you. We do want Amy to feel welcome, don’t we?”

  Beatrice nodded, her marcasite earbobs jangling. She tucked some stray ginger hairs into her chignon as she stood, saying, “Did you order the goose from the butcher in the Kapeti bazaar?”

  James nodded. He had already answered that question twice, but reminding Beatrice of that fact wasn’t going to help her state of mind. He waited until she had left the room, her striped bombazine skirt whispering along the bare floorboards be
tween the rug in the salon and the tile in the hall. Then he sat down in the chair she had vacated and loaded a pipe.

  He was a little more concerned about Amelia’s imminent arrival than he had allowed his wife to know. He really wasn’t comfortable with shouldering the responsibility for his brother-in-law’s child either, but James was a very practical man. He saw no help for the situation so he had decided to accept it as graciously as possible.

  No one had anticipated that the provisions of the Ryders’ will would ever be enforced; Amy’s parents had both been under forty and the idea that they would die together in their prime was so remote as to be almost unthinkable. But it had happened, and now a grief stricken, unhappy girl was on her way to his home, saddled with a fate she had even tried litigation to avoid.

  James lit his pipe and drew on it, reflecting on the years he had spent in the Ottoman Empire, years which had made him a rich man despite the difficulties of running a business in a foreign country. He had dealt successfully with the hostile climate, the language barrier, and the mercurial rule of a despotic Sultan, not to mention his cousin Sarah’s complicated involvement with the Pasha of Bursa, and had emerged a winner. He had augmented his original rug exporting business to include woolens, pottery and native handicrafts, and he was now one of the wealthiest foreign residents of the Western empire. He would not be inconvenienced by an underage chit who was going to be free to leave his care in less than a year.

  James saw his duty and was willing to do it. He’d provide a home and supervision for this girl until she came into her trust fund and, hopefully, got married to some suitable young man. They were less plentiful in Turkey than they were in Boston, but he was already working on that, making sure Amy would receive invitations to the homes of the embassy attachés and military officers stationed in the area. From the daguerrotype he had seen the girl was very pretty, and she had had the best of private educations in New England. Unless she had an insufferable personality she should be married by the time she was twenty, and James’ problem would be solved.