She was amazingly competent, highly knowledgeable in areas of which he had little or no understanding. The men about her did her bidding unquestioningly, and listened to her with open respect. Had she not been his sweet Skye in the privacy of her cabin, Niall would have been genuinely frightened of the Amazon who commanded this small fleet. Fortunately, Niall Burke had a sense of humor, and he quickly realized he was going to need it.
Though he shared the captain’s quarters with her, he slept alone in a single bunk in a small side cabin with the wolfhound Inis as his companion. The great dog had attached himself to Niall with a singular devotion that delighted Skye, for Inis had hated Dom. Lord Burke amused himself by training the dog. It was intelligent, but lacked manners. Niall also spent a good deal of time in the company of the same Captain MacGuire who had returned him to the MacWilliam several years back.
It was MacGuire who began to teach Niall the rudiments of seamanship, for as he succinctly put it, “The O’Malleys are all half fish, and if you’re to wed one, you’d best understand why they love the sea even if you don’t.” Niall Burke listened, learned, and began to have great admiration for those who made the sea their life.
He spent the evenings with Skye, though she would not share her bed with him. “I am not a passenger on this voyage,” she told him. “If I were needed in the night, and we …” Her blue eyes twinkled, and he laughed in spite of his disappointment. To reward his patience she flung herself into his arms and kissed him ardently, her soft breasts pressing provocatively against his pounding heart, her little tongue darting teasingly about his mouth. Niall pushed her back, and kicking her legs from beneath her, they fell to the big captain’s bed. Skye felt her shirt buttons opening as if by magic, and his mouth burned into the soft flesh of her breasts, nuzzling against a suddenly hard nipple, sucking until the throb between her legs was almost unbearable.
Then he lifted his head, and his silvery eyes stared down at her with tolerant amusement. “You’re captain of this ship, Skye, but I will, if you don’t mind, be captain in our bedchamber. If you tease me like that again, I’ll have you on your back before you can say ‘Sail ho!’ Do you understand me, sweetheart?”
“Aye, Captain,” she answered, and he was flattered to see the admiration in her eyes.
The weather remained miraculously fair as the Seagull and her sister ships sailed farther south, avoiding the treacherous Bay of Biscay entirely by the simple maneuver of keeping far enough out to sea. They now sailed shoreward, rounding Cape St. Vincent, ploughing across the Gulf of Cádiz, and through the Straits of Gibraltar into the Mediterranean.
They were but a few days out of Algiers when a freak storm struck the O’Malley fleet, scattering it haphazardly. The wind and waves were tremendous. The heavy rains soaked into the decks and through into the below-decks area. Just when they thought themselves safe, the storm having died, the boom of a cannon brought them face to face with Barbary pirates.
The pendant sent them by the Dey to insure their safe journey had been ripped away in the storm, and they were under attack by two ships. There was no choice but to fight. Skye’s men were delighted. Laughingly they broke out the weapons and turned with relish to meet the enemy. The grappling hooks flew, and the Seagull found herself pinioned against a pirate ship. Below decks, her gun crews worked frantically to sink the fast-closing second ship while above deck, Skye, sword in hand, led her men in defense of her ship.
Horrified, admiring her courage but scared to death for her, Lord Burke grabbed his own sword, but MacGuire held him back. “She’s doing fine, laddie. Stay with me. You go to her now, and she’ll be more concerned for your safety than for her ship’s. She doesn’t need you. If she does we’ll go, but for now we’ll just defend this area from the mangy infidels.” And clay pipe still clenched between his teeth, he leaped forward to engage a burly, bearded, turbaned ruffian who was attempting to gain the quarterdeck. Knowing MacGuire was right, Niall joined in the fight to keep the quarterdeck free.
The Seagull’s gun crew succeeded in sinking the second enemy ship, and a great shout of triumph went up from the O’Malley men. With renewed vigor they began to force the invaders from their decks and off their ship. The grappling hooks were disengaged and, slowly, a border of water began to appear between the two ships. The pirates fled back to their own vessel.
What happened next was never quite clear in the minds of the sailors who lived through it. A freak wave—a remnant of the recent storm—hit the ship sharply, broadside, and Niall Burke found himself pitched overboard into the sea. He heard Skye scream his name, and then Inis hit the water near him and swam to his side. He could see a boat being quickly lowered, and he knew it would be only a matter of minutes before he and the dog were safely back aboard the Seagull.
On the ship above, Skye raved in a manner previously unknown to her crew. “Jesu! Jesu! You idiots, hurry! Lower the boat before he drowns! If either he or the dog is drowned I’ll keelhaul the lot of you all the way back to Ireland!”
The boat hit the water and was swiftly rowed toward Lord Burke and Inis, both of whom were treading water. Skye leaned from the quarterdeck, frantically directing the rescue. In the foaming sea Niall’s dark head bobbed next to Inis’ silvery black one. Intent on the rescue, they all forgot about the pirates. The pirate captain and his crew had been staring, amazed, and now the captain nodded to one of his seaman.
The pirate was swung swiftly across the gap between the two ships. Grasping Skye firmly about the waist, the man lifted her from the deck of the Seagull, and the two of them swung back to the pirate ship.
She turned on him with a shriek of fury, nails clawing, but her captor laughed, his teeth white against his tanned face and black beard. As she struggled with the man, she heard her own crew shouting, but the pirates were now breaking out muskets and shooting down into the water in an attempt to hinder the rescue of Lord Burke. The rescue boat finally reached Niall, and he and the dog were hauled into it.
“Thank God,” sobbed Skye. She heard Niall call her name and, taking her captor unawares for a moment, she fought free and shrieked, “Niall! Niall!”
He stood up in the boat and shouted desperately, “We’re coming, beloved! We’re coming to get you!”
There was a sharp crack of a musket, and a bright blossom of scarlet burst from Lord Burke’s chest. Skye stared in horror, then screamed endlessly as she watched him fall into the little boat. “I’ve killed him! Oh, sweet Christ! I’ve killed him!” And with a moan of anguish she slid down into the darkness that rose to free her of her pain.
PART II
ALGIERS
CHAPTER 8
THE GARDEN OF KHALID EL BEY HAD BEEN DESIGNED TO BE A haven of perfect peace. Rectangular in shape, it lay directly behind the Bey’s villa, a two-story marble building high atop the city of Algiers. The view from both garden and villa was magnificent, allowing a panoramic vista of the city below with its recently built Turkish fort—called the Casbah—and the blue Mediterranean lapping at its feet.
There were orange and lemon trees in the garden as well as tall, full pines, and roses of every imaginable color. A T-shaped pool, its longer bar interspersed with spraying fountains, ran the length of the garden. The paths held carefully raked light gravel, and small white marble benches were placed at intervals along them. There were three distinct sounds in the garden of Khalid el Bey. The tinkling of fountains, bird songs, and the murmur of the breeze in the pines. Occasionally, the buzzing of a bee intruded itself.
The only human inhabitant of the garden at this moment was a beautiful young woman who lay dozing on a portable chaise longue. She wore a simple pale-blue caftan, and her slim feet were shod in gold leather sandals. Her skin was very fair with the faintest blush of pink on her cheeks, her eyelids softly shadowed in blue kohl. Her thick blue-black hair lay curling in gentle disarray about her shoulders.
Khalid el Bey, who had come into the garden from the villa, stood silently watching the woman. He was a
tall man in early middle years, his dark hair just beginning to silver slightly at the sides. His skin bore a faint golden tint, which set off his short, black beard. His amber-gold eyes were fringed in long, thick, dark lashes, unusual in a man but most attractive. Khalid el Bey was neither fat nor thin, but possessed a firm, well-muscled body which he exercised regularly. His face was oval, the eyes set well apart, the nose long and aristocratic, the lips thin but still sensuous.
Now, as he stood gazing quietly down on the lovely woman in his garden, he knew that his instincts had been correct. She was indeed a great beauty—though when she had been brought to him two months before, one would not have known it. She had been thin then, her hair matted and lank. And she had been suffering from shock. Still, he had seen a valuable jewel beneath the filth, and despite Yasmin’s objections had bought her for his House of Felicity.
She had healed slowly. He himself had spooned nourishing chicken broth between her cracked lips during that first week. His gentleness had communicated itself to her, and it was to him that she first spoke.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Khalid el Bey.”
“Where am I?”
“You are at my house in the city of Algiers.”
She became silent again. After a moment she ventured, “How came I here?”
“You were brought to me by Capitan Rais el Abdul. Tell me now, my beauty, what is your name?”
“My name is Skye,” she answered him.
“And where do you come from?” he probed.
Her enormous sapphire-blue eyes seemed bewildered, then filled with tears. “I don’t know,” she sobbed, “I don’t know where I come from. Surely this Capitan Rais el Abdul must know.”
Khalid el Bey shook his head. “No. You were transferred to his ship from another. The first vessel was just going out on a voyage and hailed the Capitan, who was homeward bound.” Then seeing the fear in her eyes he spoke soothingly. “Do not be frightened, beautiful Skye, I am sure your memory will return soon. We know you are European, for we are speaking French, though your accent is not that of a native Frenchwoman. Rest now. We will talk again.”
But her memory still had not returned. His Moorish physician had examined her throughly. Her age was between eighteen and twenty. She was not a virgin. In fact, she had borne more than one child. She was free of disease, and had all her teeth. Because the physician could find no evidence of a head injury, he concluded that the memory loss was due to some terrible emotional shock, and that her mind refused to remember.
Her beautiful blue eyes, which changed from sapphire to blue-green as her moods changed, opened now and looked at him.
“My lord Khalid.”
He smiled. “How are you feeling, my beautiful one?” Sitting down beside her, he caressed her dark hair.
“I am ever so much better, my lord.”
“We must talk now, Skye.”
“Of what, my lord?”
“You know that my name is Khalid el Bey. But I have another name, Skye. I am called the Whoremaster of Algiers. I own many houses filled with beautiful women whose very reason for existence is to please the men who come to visit them. I own the women—as I own you.”
“You do?!” She was incredulous. “You own me?”
“Yes, Capitan Rais el Abdul bought you from the first Capitan, and then he sold you to me.”
“Why did you buy me?”
He smiled. Her memory loss had affected so many areas, including her knowledge of worldly things. “I bought you, Skye, because I intend to train you to be the finest courtesan Algiers has ever known. Then I will place you in my best house, which is called Felicity.”
“What must I do, my lord?”
“Do you remember nothing of lovemaking?” She shook her head. He sighed. “I will have to have Yasmin instruct you in certain matters. Then I will personally instruct you. We will begin tomorrow, for the doctor has assured me that you are well enough.”
“Yasmin does not like me, my lord Khalid.”
“Yasmin is a slave, like you, Skye. She will do as she is told. If she should distress you in any way you will tell me.”
“Yes, my lord Khalid. And thank you,” she said softly. “I will endeavor to learn well so you will be pleased.”
He mused later on her answer. If, as he suspected, she was a highborn European, then she was also a Christian. Yet the loss of memory had left her free of both her religion and its ethics. If he could introduce her to the physical delights of lovemaking and make it pleasant for her, he could make her the most famous courtesan since Aspasia. It was a magnificent challenge, and one he was looking forward to with great enthusiasm.
That evening when Khalid el Bey had finished his meal, he dismissed his slaves and, giving orders to his majordomo regarding his bed partner of the evening, welcomed the woman who oversaw his most famous brothel. When Yasmin sat opposite him he marveled at her beauty. He knew she was close to forty. Still, she was a Circassian, and they were famed as the most beautiful slaves in the world. He had purchased her over twenty years before from a breeding farm. She had been the first of his special women. Thanks to her, he had been able to place his business above his competitors.
Brothels in Algiers, for the most part, had been confined to the waterfront and served sailors of all nations. The wealthy residents of the city had private harems, and needed no such services. But the flesh peddlers of the city had overlooked one important market. Algiers, being the chief city on the north African coast, entertained many wealthy visitors. These had no women available to them. Khalid el Bey was the first to meet that need, and he became famous doing so.
The women in his House of Felicity were the most beautiful, the most skilled, and the most entertaining in all of Algiers. There were no two alike, for Khalid el Bey especially prided himself on offering variety. Though others had tried to imitate him, they had all failed miserably, leaving him with the undisputed title of “the Whoremaster.” Not only did he own the House of Felicity, he now also possessed full or part interest in almost every house of prostitution in the city.
He was admired and respected by the other businessmen for, though very shrewd, he was scrupulously honest. Still, few men really knew the man, and his origins were a mystery. Though many thought him a Moor, he was actually Spanish. He had been born Diego Indio Goya del Fuentes near the city of Granada, the second son of an old and noble family. He was well educated for his time, and might have gone on to marry and lead the circumspect life of a sixteenth-century Spanish nobleman. Then fate, in the guise of a beautiful Moorish girl named Noor, had intervened in the young man’s life. They had been desperately in love, but Noor had been as firm in her faith, Islam, as any devout Christian was in his.
Diego Goya del Fuentes had long been betrothed. Now his sisters took malicious delight in teasing his fiancée about Noor. The fiancée, a prim, religious girl, felt it her moral duty to inform the Inquisition of the existence of the Moorish maiden. On the day that Noor was burned at the stake as a heretic, Diego stood helpless on the edge of the city square, his hooded face wet with tears, watching as the gentlest, kindest person he had ever known was burned to death. She was tortured cruelly, yet as the flames licked her graceful body, her sweet voice lifted in a song of praise to her god, Allah. That day, Diego Goya del Fuentes disappeared from Spain forever.
He wandered for several years through Europe and the Middle East, finally settling in the city of Algiers. He changed his name to Khalid, the title “el Bey” being his by virtue of a journey to the holy cities of Mecca and Medina. He converted to Islam in honor of Noor’s memory, though he felt no strong religious leaning.
His feelings for women were ambiguous. On one hand, he remembered his lost love and her gentle sweet ways. On the other, he recalled his sisters’ malice, and the cruelty and ignorance of his fiancée. Perhaps this explained why, though he enslaved women into the profession of prostitution, he was a kind and good master.
Skye had touched
him as no woman had since Noor. Her helplessness appealed to him, and this was why he now carefully instructed Yasmin about her care. But Yasmin argued, “Why do you fuss so over this one girl, my lord? She is like a thousand others.” The Circassian’s voice was spiteful, and Khalid el Bey hid a smile. Yasmin had been in love with him for years but he felt no more for her than he had for the others. No woman had claimed his heart since Noor.
“Skye is like a child now,” he explained patiently. “Although she recalls some things, her loss of memory has wiped out all carnal knowledge. She knows nothing and has no prejudices. If we handle her carefully, we may mold her as we desire.” He cleverly emphasized the we, and Yasmin leaned forward eagerly.
“This would really please you, my lord?”
“Yes, Yasmin, it would. Skye is not simply a pretty face or body. I sense a good mind behind those lovely blue eyes, and that is what her specialty shall be. Like the courtesans of ancient Athens, Skye shall entertain the gentlemen with a skilled body and with her intelligence as well. She will not be used for those of our clientele whose tastes run to the bizarre, but rather for elegant men, men of culture—such as the Ottoman commandant of the Casbah. Or perhaps the sea captains who come to us from the Italian states, France, or England. Together, Yasmin, you and I will make Skye an intriguing, exciting, much-sought-after woman.”
“I will do my part, my lord Khalid. I will teach her all I know. Even certain things I have kept from the others. Skye shall be unique, and she shall be perfection.”
He smiled his wonderful smile at her. “You have always exceeded my faith in you, since the very beginning, Yasmin. Thank you.” He twice clapped his hands sharply, then sent the answering slave for coffee. Turning back to the woman, he asked, “The women now in the House of Felicity are satisfactory?”
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