“Yes, she will be a friend for you. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Let me guess the others, Khalid! The sweet-faced, grave-looking girl is for Osman!”
“Yes,” his eyes were amused.
“Then that leaves that rather fierce-looking creature for the Turkish commandant. God, Khalid! She looks like she could devour a man. Is that a wise choice?”
“My love, there are many things you don’t remember about human nature. The commandant of the Casbah fortress is a regular patron of the House of Felicity. His taste in women is, ah, somewhat sophisticated. Easy conquest bores him. He enjoys a woman who fights him. The girl I have chosen for him is half-Moorish, half-Berber. She is a wild little savage, and should delight him greatly. Now, my love, see that these maidens are bathed and clothed in time for the feast. The next time I see you, my sweet Skye, you will be my wife.” His golden amber eyes warmed her. His mouth brushed hers tenderly, and quickly he turned and was gone.
She sighed. He was so good to her. And she still worried that she should not be marrying him. Something deep inside her nagged at her, yet try as she might, she could not understand what it was. Sometimes in her dreams there was a man, always the same man, but she could never see him clearly, she could only sense him crying out to her. It made no sense.
Sighing, she clapped her hands and the slaves came running. She gave orders for the six girls to be bathed and perfumed. Then she set about choosing their garments from the vast wardrobe in the harem quarters.
For the mullah’s golden-skinned dark-haired Provençale it would be apricot silk pantaloons, a gold-embroidered sash, and a bolero fringed in little gold beads. Because of the heat and the lateness of the feast, she could forego the gauze blouses. The choice for the two blondes was simple: baby pink for both. For the Breton girl with her chestnut hair and hazel eyes, apple green was perfect. For the girl chosen for Osman, a sky blue would set off her dark-blond hair. Lastly, she chose flame-colored silks for the Turk’s maiden. Handing the clothing to the servants, she gave orders for their distribution and returned to her own quarters to bathe and change into her own wedding garments.
At moonrise exactly, the chief mullah of Algiers performed the simple ceremony uniting Khalid el Bey in marriage with Skye, who became known from that moment as Skye muna el Khalid—Skye, the desired of Khalid. Then the groom and his guests returned to his house through the winding lantern-lit streets of the upper city, led by dancing, cavorting musicians whose reedy pipes and thumping drums pierced the dark velvet of the night.
The groom wore white silk pantaloons with silver-and-deep-blue-embroidered bands that stopped at the knee. His feet were shod in silver-colored leather boots. His shirt was also of white silk, open at the neck, with full sleeves and tight cuffs, over which he wore a white vest embroidered in silver and blue. It was all topped by a long white satin cape lined in dark blue. His dark head was bare, his short black beard had been well barbered.
Behind the closed shutters along his route, maidens and matrons alike peeped out and sighed with longing. The legendary Whoremaster of Algiers was a fairy-tale prince.
Behind Khalid el Bey walked the Turkish commandant of the Casbah fortress, Capitan Jamil. As tall as the bey, he was heavier set, and to the spying female eyes that watched, as sinisterly handsome as the bey was kindly. His face was long, as was his nose. His eyes were black and unfathomable, his mouth thin and cruel below a slim mustache. He was known to be cruel, even brutal, in his handling of fractious prisoners. Now, however, he strode along with his host and the other guests, chatting amiably.
“I understand your bride is a captive.”
“Was,” came the reply, “I bought her. Now she is legally free. And my wife.”
“I had heard you were training her for the House of Felicity. She must be quite good at whatever she does if you have decided to marry her.”
Khalid el Bey laughed lightly but he burned inwardly. “Skye has no memory of her past,” he said. “At first I thought that to train a woman such as she might prove amusing. But she is actually far too innocent for such a life. I had been considering marrying and siring sons for some time now. But what respectable father would allow his daughter to wed the great Whoremaster? Skye is obviously of the upper class, wherever she comes from, and she is beautiful. Is that not an ideal choice for my purposes?”
“I am eager to meet your bride, Khalid.”
They had reached the house now, and entered through the wide doors into the square hall where the bey’s majordomo awaited. “Felicitations, my lord! Long life and many sons!” he cried, ushering them through into the banquet hall. Waiting slaves took the men’s cloaks, and brought silver-chased basins of rose water and soft linen towels so they might bathe their hands and faces. Refreshed, they sat down upon the large plump cushions strewn about the table.
“Gentlemen,” said Khalid el Bey, sitting at the head of the table, “it gives me great pleasure that you are here to share this moment with me. I would share my happiness with you, and so I present, to each of you, for your many nights of pleasure, a virgin who has been trained in my own House of Felicity.” He clapped his hands and the six girls, all dressed in their butterfly colors, entered and moved swiftly to the gentlemen for whom they were intended.
“By Allah!” swore Capitan Jamil, “you do things with style, Khalid! Even in Constantinople I never saw such a display of elegant manners. I shall write the Sultan tomorrow telling him.”
“Many thanks,” said Khalid carelessly. He was more pleased by the reactions of his other guests. The head of the merchant’s guild and the banker were pleasantly overcome by the two little blondes. And Jean was rendered momentarily speechless by the pretty girl who shyly greeted him not only in his own tongue, but in the dialect peculiar to Brittany alone. The chief mullah actually had a smile on his face—the first time Khalid had ever seen that phenomenon! And Osman was obviously quite taken by his maiden.
Capitan Jamil paused in his careful inspection of his “gift” to inquire, “And your bride, Khalid? Where is she?”
As if in answer, the banquet-hall doors opened and four black slaves in red silk breechcloths entered bearing a litter. They carefully set it down and the majordomo handed out the veiled occupant and led her forward to sit by the bey.
Her fine silk pantaloons were the soft lavender of early wisteria, cut low. A wide band of deep violet flowers on a gold background rose to just below her navel. She wore gold slippers embroidered with pearl violets. Her sleeveless bodice was violet velvet trimmed in gold braid with floral embroidery done in gold and seed pearls. She wore thin gold bracelets. A single long rope of pearls dangled from her neck, and great matching pearl tears bobbed in her ears. Her midnight-black hair was loose, and sprinkled with gold dust. A small mauve veil obscured her face below those marvelous eyes shadowed in blue kohl.
“Gentlemen, my wife, the lady Skye muna el Khalid,” said Khalid el Bey as he reached up and undid her veil.
They were momentarily stunned into silence. Everything about her—her flawless skin, her dark blue eyes, the full red lips, the delicate, slightly upturned nose—everything was exquisite. Finally the banker found his voice.
“Khalid, my friend, I have four wives. If you put all of their beauty together, it would not equal half of your wife’s loveliness. You are a most damnably fortunate man!”
Khalid el Bey laughed happily. “Thank you, Memhet! Your praise is received with joy.”
Now the servants began bringing in steaming dishes; the gold goblets were filled with icy juices; musicians played discreetly from behind a carved screen. A whole baby lamb had been roasted, and was served now on a mixture of saffroned rice with onions, green peppers, and tomatoes. There were bowls of yogurt; purple, green, and black olives; and shelled pistachio nuts. The slaves passed hot loaves of bread, and placed upon each guest’s plate a small whole roasted pigeon in a nest of watercress. As the fermented fruit juices began to relax the guests they became a bit noi
sier and freer, the men feeding choice morsels from their lips to the lips of their giggling companions.
The mullah sat on Khalid’s right, Skye on her husband’s left. Next to her sat Capitan Jamil, who had been unable to take his eyes off the bride. “What a pity,” he murmured softly so that only she might hear him, “that Khalid decided to keep you for himself, my lovely. He could have made a fortune selling your charms. I would have paid a king’s ransom to possess you first. Still, it is good to know the great Whoremaster of Algiers has a weakness.”
A hot flush stole up her neck and cheeks but she said nothing. He laughed low. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, bride of Khalid el Bey. Your skin glows like mother-of-pearl. I shall dream for many nights of your long legs and perfect little breasts, which are like tender fruits. How I hunger to taste of those sweet young fruits.” He leaned close to her as he reached for a handful of olives and his upper arm deliberately rubbed against her.
“How dare you accost me in such a manner!” she hissed angrily. “Have you no respect for my husband, who is your host? Or are Turks totally without honor?”
He drew his breath in sharply. “Someday, my beauty, I shall have you completely at my mercy. And when I do you will pay dearly for that insult.”
To his annoyance, Skye did not appear frightened. She merely signaled the servants to clear the table and serve the next course. The coffeemaker, kneeling at his little table, began to grind the beans and boil the water. The slaves placed upon the board colored crystal bowls filled with figs, raisins, oranges, green grapes, candied dates, and rose petals. Silver plates of small honeyed cakes, with matching tiny bowls of sugared almonds, were put before each guest. Goblets were refilled with sweet liquid fruit sherbet chilled by snow brought from the nearby Atlas Mountains. The bey leaned over to kiss his wife. “You have planned everything perfectly, my Skye. It is as if you had been born to the duties of the chatelaine.”
“Perhaps I was,” she answered him softly.
The entertainment began. There were wrestlers, then jugglers, then an Egyptian fakir who made things appear and disappear. Lastly came the dancers. There were at least half a dozen of them to begin with, but in time only one very voluptuous creature remained, her sinuous body writhing passionately and more suggestively with each movement. Skye became aware of the silence that had overtaken her guests. Their chatter was gone, and the only sound in the room was the music—the insistent whine of the pipes, the heavy beat of the drums, the brass tals upon the dancer’s fingers teasing their challenge to the musicians. Skye glanced about her and saw that some of the wedding guests had gone into the garden. Still others had begun to make love right there on the cushions. Blushing, she turned to her husband. With twinkling eyes, he stood and drew her up beside him.
“I believe,” he said, “the time is ripe for us to make our escape. Come, my love!”
“Where are we to go, Khalid?”
“To a secret little villa that I own along the seacoast. We shall spend our honeymoon there, free of friends and business.” He hurried her out into the cool night, stopping only to retrieve his cloak and to place one of mauve silk, lined in rabbit fur, about her. Before the house stood a great white stallion. Khalid el Bey leapt onto its back and, reaching down, lifted his bride and placed her before him on the saddle.
They rode down into the city and then to the sea, where they followed the beach for several miles. The moon dappled the water. Looking up into the velvety heavens, Skye caught her breath. The stars seemed so big, so near, and she was tempted to reach out and grasp a handful. Nestling in Khalid’s arms, her head against his heart, she felt its sure and steady beat. As they rode she became aware of a familiarity about the roar of the sea and the salty smell of the cool damp air. For some reason these sensations soothed her, though she had no idea why they did. Khalid was silent, and she dared not speak lest she break the spell.
Finally he turned the white stallion from the beach, and she could see the black outline of a building on one of the hills overlooking the sea. As they came closer, Skye saw that it was a large round kiosk. There was a pleasant air about it. Large brass lanterns with hand-blown Venetian globes, their beeswax candles twinking a welcome, hung on either side of the silk-draped entrance.
Khalid el Bey drew rein on his horse, gently deposited his wife on the lawn, and dismounted. “Welcome, my beloved! Welcome to the ‘Pearl Kiosk.’ There are three rooms within—our bedchamber, a bath, and a dayroom. It belongs to you now, Skye, for it is my wedding gift to you.”
She was astounded. His bride’s price to her had been overgenerous, and now he gifted her with even more. She felt quite humble in the light of such great love. Skye suddenly felt her heart contract painfully. Looking up at him, she said, “Khalid, I do care for you, you know. Were you a poor man I should still feel this way, for it is your love for me that warms my heart and soothes my spirit, not the gifts you give me, though I am grateful for them.”
“It is for just that reason that I enjoy giving you things,” he answered her. “You are not a greedy little creature. Come now, sweetness, let us go in, for the night grows cool. Are you not the least bit curious to see your new gift?”
The doorway of the Pearl Kiosk was hung with multicolored diaphanous silks and in the entry hall was a long, narrow reflecting pool. Looking up, Skye caught her breath, for in the roof above the pool was a glass ceiling that matched the pool in size and shape. Therefore, the still surface of the pool now appeared to be filled with twinkling stars. The foyer was lit by gold and crystal lamps similar to those on the front of the building.
They first moved through a doorway on their left, where Skye found a beautiful dayroom with a fireplace that blazed merrily, taking the dampness from the air. The floor was lush with thick rugs. Colored glass lamps hung on thin chains from the gilded and beamed ceiling. Overstuffed furniture and pillows were covered in the finest silks and velvets, the colors like jewels—ruby, sapphire, emerald, amethyst, and topaz. The windows that faced the landside were small hand-blown rounds of pale-amber glass. There were low tables of inlaid mosaic tile and great brass bowls filled with red and yellow tulips. One small wall had a built-in bookcase filled with leatherbound volumes, the sight of which brought a glad cry to her lips.
“So,” chuckled Khalid el Bey, “my good secretary, Jean, was not wrong. You can read. In what languages, my beloved?”
She looked a trifle shamefaced. “Jean seemed so horrified that I could read that I did not wish you to know. I wandered into your library one day and, seeing the books, I picked one up and opened it. It was French. I find that I am also able to read Spanish, Italian, Latin, and the language Jean calls English.” She hung her head and said hesitantly, “I appear to possess another rather unfeminine trait. It seems I also write.”
Khalid el Bey burst into laughter. “Marvelous, my Skye! Simply marvelous! It seems that you are a very intelligent woman, and while most men might be shocked to find themselves with such a wife, I am not. The ways of Allah are indeed mysterious. I originally intended to make you my most famous whore, but now I find you are educated, so, beloved, I shall instead make you my partner! When we return to the city I shall teach you myself, and Jean will aid me. Should anything ever happen to me, no one will ever be able to cheat you.” He swept her into his arms and kissed her soundly. “What a delight you are, Skye!” he chuckled, and she felt warm and safe and very much loved. His amber-gold eyes twinkled. “We have yet to see our nuptial chamber,” he murmured, carrying her from the richly appointed dayroom across the foyer. He pushed open the carved and gilded double doors.
The room into which they now entered had walls painted to resemble an oasis, with graceful palms, the mysterious desert dunes beyond, and above, on the ceiling, the wonderful black velvet North African sky had been recreated, complete with twinkling stars done in gold luminescent paint. Skye would discover that in the sunlight the false night sky was actually bright blue and that the stars were not vi
sible at all. To continue the illusion, the rugs were of thick gold and cream wool, large potted green palms were placed strategically around the room, and the bed was partially draped to resemble a tent canopy. The room was very softly lit by tall lamps that resembled lotus flowers and burned scented oils.
Without a word he slid the sleeveless violet bodice from her. Then his hands pushed the pantaloons over her hips and, when she had stepped from them and pushed the little mass of silk away with her foot, he slid to his knees. She stood still while his elegant hands fondled her breasts. Then, moving to grasp her by the waist, he covered her torso in hot kisses. She caught at his head and pressed it against her wildly fluttering belly. The time for words was long past. For a moment he simply knelt there enjoying the silken feel of her wonderful skin, then swiftly standing he stripped off his own clothes and they walked to the bed.
It was the beginning of an incredible week. Skye had never been loved so tenderly, so passionately, so expertly, so completely. There was not a part of her he did not explore and worship, and he encouraged her to do the same with his body. Gradually she lost her shyness, became bold and caressed him in subtle ways that left him moaning. They made love in the early hours of the dawn, in the heat of the afternoon, in the dark of night. They swam naked in the foaming azure sea. They hunted antelope from horseback with their hunting cats, beautifully trained panthers, loping by their sides. Another discovery had been made by then—Skye could ride astride quite expertly. Once again he gifted her, this time with an exquisite golden Arab mare.
In the time they spent at the Pearl Kiosk they were provided for and waited on by an army of invisible servants who saw to every need. Delicious meals magically appeared, as did fresh clothes. When they desired to hunt, their horses and cats awaited them at the Kiosk front. Hot, scented baths were ready upon their return. Everything was done to make this time together perfect.
On the night before their return she lay half awake, exhausted by their lovemaking, content to listen to Khalid’s even breathing. Suddenly she was aware that she had never been so happy. He surrounded her with love, security, everything she could want. Why was it, then, that she could still not give him her heart?
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