“Unlike many Europeans and Americans,” Alev continued, “we bathe every day, sometimes more than once. It is a very pleasant ritual, often taking hours.”
Charlotte thought of her own bath and shivered with residual pleasure. She’d never had a more sensually soothing experience.
They walked under another great archway, ornately decorated, and entered a huge room.
“This is the hamam, where we gather to socialize, sew, play games, watch various entertainments that are arranged for us—things of that nature.”
The walls of the hamam were high, like those of a great room in an English castle, and beautiful weavings hung between towering, arched windows. Here, too, women lounged on beautiful couches, or talked and laughed softly in little clusters, but there was a new element.
A handsome black man stood on a dais, arms folded, watching the goings-on with a placid expression.
Charlotte tugged at Alev’s sleeve. “A eunuch?” she asked, recalling the stories she’d read.
Alev smiled. “Yes.”
God knew, she’d never have laid eyes on a real, live eunuch in Quade’s Harbor—wait until she told Millie about this! “Is he a servant, like Pakize?”
Alev laughed and shook her head. “No. Except for Khalif himself, and the sultana valide, his mother, no one has more authority in the harem. Rashad keeps order among us mainly, and arbitrates disputes, so that Khalif and the sultana needn’t be bothered.”
After the hamam, Alev led the way to a spacious courtyard, where palm and date trees offered blessed shade, along with a single stately elm. Here, still more women sat on benches, embroidering or simply keeping quietly to themselves.
“Why does one man need so many wives?” Charlotte whispered. She was looking at the elm tree as she spoke. It was close to the stone wall, and might lend an avenue of escape, should the need arise.
After all her cordiality, Alev was impatient with the question. “They are not wives,” she said tersely, reining in Charlotte’s attention by her tone alone. “Some of them will never be called to Khalif’s apartments. Others will be sold or traded or given as gifts. Only the special ones become odalisques, let alone favorites or kadins. “
The words “sold or traded or given as gifts” stuck in Charlotte’s mind like stinging nettles. “You are slaves,” she said. “All of you, no matter how much favor you might enjoy!”
Alev returned Charlotte’s gaze with coolness. “If we are slaves, so are you,” she said, in an even tone. “No matter what your captain may have told you.”
A chill spiraled down Charlotte’s spine, but she refused to give in to her fears or sacrifice her principles to circumstance. “You should revolt, all of you,” she whispered. “You should stand together, all the women of the harem, and—”
Alev interrupted with a roll of her eyes and an impatient sigh. “You Americans are such rabble-rousers. You have no concept of tradition. Well, let me tell you something: If I could snap my fingers and be back in England in the next instant, I wouldn’t do it.” She took Charlotte’s sleeve and tugged her away into a quiet corner of the courtyard. “You mustn’t ever speak of rebellion again,” she warned, in deadly earnest. “If the sultana hears of it, she will have you punished. Here, we do as we are told.”
“If you do as you’re told,” Charlotte countered, “why do you need a eunuch to keep the peace?”
Alev’s nose was within inches of Charlotte’s, and her breath smelled of sweet spices. “Those who do not behave themselves are soon sorry for it,” she said, and then she turned in a whirl of robes and walked away.
Charlotte stared after her for a few moments, feeling a confusing mixture of liking for the other woman and anger, and then turned her gaze back to the tall elm tree next to the wall.
Patrick sat cross-legged on a thick cushion in Khalif’s quarters, his second cup of boza in one hand. The tangy, slightly fermented drink was one of the many things Patrick enjoyed about visiting the palace.
“So she was originally to be sold to Raheem,” Khalif said, frowning. He wore ordinary clothes, much like Patrick’s, instead of the robes and turban a stranger might expect, and his dark hair was cropped. His black eyes showed concern.
Patrick nodded, then smiled. It seemed he smiled whenever he thought of Charlotte, provided she wasn’t there to see. “One of my men won her, gambling, and presented her to me as a gift.”
Khalif sighed and came to sit facing Patrick on another colorful, fringed cushion. “Do you know of Raheem, my friend?”
“I’ve never met him,” Patrick responded, with a shrug. He knew Raheem was a pirate and a no-good in general, but in this part of the world, those traits were common.
Khalif still looked worried, distracted. “He is a very brutal and vengeful man,” he reflected, apparently saddened by the pirate’s shortcomings. “If his men took your Charlotte from the souk, it was probably because Raheem had ordered them to bring him a light-skinned woman. No doubt he is furious that his desires have been thwarted.”
Patrick frowned and set aside his cup. It wasn’t like Khalif to be troubled about such matters; he had a kingdom to rule and he took his responsibilities seriously. Although the sultan was by no means a cruel man, he simply didn’t have the time or energy to concern himself with every kidnapping that took place in his domain.
“Are you afraid of this man?” Patrick asked, and he smiled when, in the next instant, he saw rage kindle and then blaze in Khalif’s eyes.
Khalif muttered an Arabic curse, one of the many he had taught Patrick when they were rooming together at Westhaven School for Boys just outside of London. “I fear no one,” he glowered, “and least of all an ignorant pirate such as Raheem. But I can see that you care about this girl you speak of, and I must warn you as a friend. Raheem will stop at nothing to avenge what he surely sees as an injustice. He would not be above slitting the woman’s throat and having her remains delivered to you in a basket.”
Like Khalif, Patrick feared no other man—not, at least, for himself. Charlotte had added a disturbing new dimension by her appearance in his life, however; she had endeared herself to him just enough to become a liability. “I’ll protect her,” he said angrily, all his masculine instincts roused. He even laid his hand on the hilt of the knife he carried in a leather scabbard attached to his belt.
Khalif raised his eyebrows. “Yes, if you are with her when Raheem strikes. But you are often busy with your trading, Patrick—can you drag a woman with you wherever you go and watch over her constantly?”
Patrick found the idea of having Charlotte at his side oddly appealing, considering that she was one of the most irritating females he’d ever had occasion to deal with. “No,” he said. “What are you suggesting?”
“That she stay here in the palace,” Khalif replied, reaching for the gold-inlaid carafe to refill both Patrick’s glass and his own. “Just until you’ve completed your business in Spain.”
The idea made Patrick’s throat constrict with fury, and jealousy stabbed his middle, sharp as a dagger, but then he reminded himself that Khalif was one of his oldest and most trusted friends. Still, he had to ask, “Just exactly what role would Charlotte play in your harem?”
Khalif chuckled and lifted his cup in a salute. “You are flushed with angry emotion,” he pointed out, “like a boy challenged in the schoolyard. I will not summon your little friend to my couch, Patrick. My honor is more important to me than my life; you know that”
Patrick looked away for a moment, ashamed of his primitive response to his friend’s kindly suggestion and annoyed at Charlotte for turning him into a fool. “If I had a sister,” he said truthfully, “I wouldn’t be afraid to entrust her to you.”
The other man stretched out a hand to slap Patrick’s shoulder affectionately. “It is understood, then. You will leave the girl here for the time being.”
Patrick considered the promise he’d made to Charlotte, that she would sail with him when the Enchantress raised anchor, and wei
ghed that against the fact that she would be in danger the moment she stepped outside the palace. It was true enough that he had some important trading to do before setting out for the other side of the world, and he simply would not be able to supervise Charlotte every moment.
“Yes,” he finally replied, his voice gruff with reluctance. “Charlotte will stay until I’ve seen to my business on the Continent.”
Khalif nodded and made an innately Arabic sound meant to convey approval. “I will have her sent to your apartments tonight, so that you may tell her good-bye,” he said.
Patrick felt an overwhelming sadness at the thought of turning his back on Charlotte, and he knew she would see his decision as a betrayal. “I want one promise from you,” he went on, setting his glass aside and standing, along with his host. “Charlotte is not to be punished at the whim of some eunuch—or of your mother.”
The sultan sighed with a sort of ancient wisdom, an affectation that made him sound much older than his thirty-four years. He’d been doing that since he and Patrick had met, when they were both twelve. “She must follow the rules of the harem, like the others, but I will see that Charlotte is disciplined by no one other than myself.”
Patrick had to agree; he knew Khalif was being generous. While the women of this particular harem were pampered and even cherished by their sultan, strict order was kept, and rebellions, minor or major, were dealt with by every means from a severe tongue-lashing to beheading. The culture was ancient, and so were its traditions; he could not rightly expect ingrained customs to be overturned for the sake of one saucy American wench.
Khalif slapped Patrick’s shoulder again and laughed. “Do not worry, old friend. I will not separate the young lady from her head, or have her stripped and beaten at the gate, I give you my vow.”
Patrick sighed and summoned up a sheepish grin. “I wouldn’t speak so rashly if I were you—you don’t know Charlotte.”
Charlotte sat down on the stone bench underneath the elm tree and leaned back against it, looking up through the leafy branches at an aquamarine sky. She would not be so foolish as to attempt an escape now, but she needed to make a plan. If Alev was right, and Patrick had lied about his intentions, drastic measures would have to be taken.
One by one the other women who had been enjoying the shady courtyard went back into the palace, each casting a curious look in Charlotte’s direction. When she was finally alone, she hiked the skirts of her robe and shinnied up the trunk of the elm.
It had been years since Charlotte had climbed a tree—before she left Quade’s Harbor to be educated in Paris, in fact—but it all came back to her. In two minutes, and with only a few scrapes on her knees and the insides of her thighs, she had gained a high branch.
Clinging to the gnarled old trunk with one arm, she turned to look out over the wall, and the startlingly beautiful spectacle of a turquoise sea met her gaze. A few hundred yards from shore, the Enchantress rocked gracefully at anchor. There was nothing to be seen in three directions except for more ocean, so Charlotte eased her way around to look to the south.
Desert, for as far as the eye could see.
Charlotte sighed with discouragement and, in the next moment, nearly fell from the tree when a female voice screeched at her from below.
She did not understand the language, but the tone was plain enough. She was to climb down, immediately.
Flushed with indignation at being treated so summarily, Charlotte nonetheless complied with the dictum. When she reached the ground, she found herself face-to-face with a small, robed woman with a huge beak of a nose.
The crone shook a henna-stained finger under Charlotte’s nose and carried on her shrill diatribe.
Charlotte’s patience, already taxed by events of recent days, suddenly snapped. “Now, just a minute! Whoever you are, you will not speak to me this way—”
Just then, Alev came to Charlotte’s side and silenced her by putting an arm around her and squeezing hard enough to compress her shoulder blades into one crackling mass of bone. She spoke rapidly, and from her tone Charlotte knew Alev was trying to placate the old woman.
Finally Alev turned to Charlotte and said sternly, “If you would not be beaten with a strap, you will stop being so—so stubborn. This is the sultana valide, Khalif’s mother, and she has great power here!”
Charlotte’s natural impulse was to rebel, for she had never in her life been beaten by anyone. The very idea rankled, and yet some sense warned her to listen to Alev and keep her opinions of this backward society to herself.
“Make a curtsy and tell her you’re sorry,” Alev instructed, giving Charlotte a subtle but bruising pinch in the upper arm to emphasize her earnestness.
After swallowing a throatful of scathing invective, Charlotte managed the slightest of curtsies and muttered an apology.
Alev began to chatter again, elaborating, no doubt, making Charlotte’s words seem much more abjectly remorseful than they had been. Finally the sultan’s mother narrowed her eyes at Charlotte in eloquent warning, then turned and tottered away on her ridiculously high sandals.
“You actually want that dreadful woman for a mother-in-law?” Charlotte marveled, shading her eyes to watch as the little crow disappeared into the palace.
Alev made a sound of pure exasperation. “No,” she answered, rather sharply, “but I must win her approval if I would have Khalif for a husband. What were you thinking of, climbing that tree?”
Charlotte gave Alev a look meant to let her know she considered the question a silly one. “I was trying to see over the wall, obviously. It seems to me it would be easier to escape Devil’s Island than this place.”
The other woman took Charlotte’s arm and hustled her toward the high, arched doorway the sultana valide had just passed through. “Holy Mary, Mother of God!” Alev exclaimed, apparently having forgotten, for the moment, her conversion to the Islamic beliefs of Khalif’s people. “Are you insane? First you speak of rebellion, then of escape! Do you want to be punished?”
Charlotte tried to pull free of Alev’s grasp, but the pregnant woman was stronger than she looked and she wouldn’t let go.
“Of course I don’t want to be punished!” Charlotte hissed. “But you insist on overlooking the fact—like that cranky old biddy just did—that I’m a guest here. I don’t belong to the sultan, or to any man, and I won’t be ordered about and bullied as if I did!”
For the second time in their brief acquaintance, Alev rolled her eyes. “It is true what they say about Americans—they are hardheaded and impossible to reason with, if you are any example.” They were inside again, in the cool, spice-scented hamam. “No more arguments now; you have been summoned to the sultan’s quarters. We must see to your appearance.”
Charlotte stopped, digging in her heels. “What?”
“Khalif has sent for you. You must not go to him with your hair all tangled and full of leaves and your robe torn and dirty.”
Charlotte drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. She clearly had little choice in the matter; therefore, she would go to the sultan with dignity. Surely Patrick would be there, too, and offer his protection.
It was Khalif, Charlotte reflected as she walked beside Alev, who needed protecting. As soon as she saw him, she meant to tell him exactly what she thought of his barbaric behavior.
Half an hour later, dressed in a clean, canary yellow gown, her hair brushed and braided and woven through with pearls and ribbon, her body perfumed, her wide eyes accented with kohl, Charlotte followed the eunuch, Rashad, through a complicated series of hallways. After many twists and turns, which collectively convinced Charlotte that it would be simpler to find her way out of a maze, they walked beneath a doorway as high as some she’d seen in European cathedrals.
The colors in the room were wondrously bright, the walls were covered with spectacular tapestries and weavings. A man wearing a red silk robe and a jeweled turban stood on a dais edged with hundreds of tiny mirrors, his arms folded.
C
harlotte gulped. The sultan was handsome, just as Alev had said. He was also more intimidating than Charlotte could ever have imagined.
“Come forward,” he said.
Charlotte looked around desperately for Patrick, but saw no sign of him, and her heart sank to the pit of her stomach. In that moment, it seemed a certainty that Alev had indeed been right: Patrick had abandoned her to an unthinkable fate.
4
CHARLOTTE TOOK A FEW WARY STEPS FORWARD, IN OBEDIENCE to the sultan’s command, but she did not lower her head or avert her gaze. Scared as she was, she would not assume a submissive attitude.
“Your name?” the sultan asked. Khalif was breathtakingly handsome, with his ebony hair and shining, dark eyes, and she could see why Alev found him so attractive.
The captive raised her chin. “Charlotte,” she replied in a clear voice.
Khalif smiled indulgently. “Charlotte,” he repeated, as though tasting the name. “Charlotte Brown? Charlotte Clark? Charlotte Smith, perhaps?”
“Just Charlotte,” she said. She had not revealed the Quade name to Patrick, and she had no intention of giving it away now. It was better, by her reckoning, if her family could be kept out of the whole nasty episode until she could go home and explain everything to them.
The sultan sighed philosophically and descended the three steps of the dais to stand directly in front of Charlotte. “Very well, then. For now, you may keep your little secret. Tell me, what do you think of my palace?”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes, braced to defend her virtue, but Khalif made no unseemly move. “It’s like something from a storybook,” she said, in her straightforward way. “I have never seen such luxury, or such—”
Before she could finish the sentence, a servant appeared in a second enormous doorway and announced someone’s arrival. A moment later, Charlotte saw Patrick striding toward them, looking for all the world like a pirate in his breeches and flowing linen shirt.
Taming Charlotte Page 5