Wild Jasmine (24 page)

Jamal Khan could only stare in amazement at Yasaman as he digested her words.
She had sold his zenana for monies to finance her decoration scheme?
Suddenly the humor in the situation hit him. What a woman she was! He began to laugh, and he continued laughing for several long minutes while she stood there before him refusing to be stared down. Tears of mirth ran down his cheeks. His sides ached. She was indeed the Mughal’s daughter. He would get fine, strong sons and beautiful, willful daughters on her.

His laughter died as swiftly as it had begun. The getting of sons and daughters required a degree of intimacy that they had yet to attain,
and
he no longer had his zenana women upon which to slack his lusts. Yasaman Kama Begum was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The prince felt his desire rising.
He wanted her. Now. Tonight
.

“Having sold my zenana women,” he said thoughtfully, “you must surely be prepared to serve me as they served me, Yasaman. You cannot dispose of them, yet continue to deny me.”

She said nothing, but those incredibly fascinating turquoise-blue eyes of hers widened just imperceptibly. She was very still, like some wild creature about to be flushed from its cover. He reached out with an arm, his hand sliding about her waist to draw her near to him.

“You have not answered me, Yasaman,” he said softly. “Are you ready to minister to
all
of my needs as a good wife should?” His other hand reached up to caress her face, which felt warm to his touch.

Her senses were swimming. She could hear the beat of her own heart in her ears. For a moment she couldn’t even draw a breath. She felt as if she were being smothered. She cast her eyes about, instinctively seeking for help, but her servants, in the room but a moment ago, had suddenly all disappeared.
They were alone
.

He bent and kissed her forehead softly. “Yasaman, my proud princess, answer me.”

It was as if the kiss had released her from some spell. “I am ready to be your wife, my lord,” she murmured low. “You will have no need for any others now.”

“Give me your lips,” he replied, “and let us seal the bargain between us, my jasmine blossom.” He brushed her mouth
lightly with his and said, “You are so young, Yasaman. So fair. You cannot possibly have any knowledge of how great my desire for you is at this moment.”

Reaching behind her, he unfastened her choli and removed it. Her full breasts enchanted him with their smooth roundness. He cupped them in his two hands, his thumbs lightly brushing the nipples. Her soft hiss told him of her arousal.

Next he undid her ghagra skirt and let it puddle about her ankles, rendering her totally nude. Standing away from her a moment, he enjoyed the sight of his wife as God had made her. He could feel his lingham straining the fabric of his dhoti. He, too, was aroused.

She stood silent and still, mesmerized by his warm brown eyes, shivering just slightly as the cool night air touched her skin. Or was it perhaps the touch of his hands upon her shoulders? He drew her near again. His fingers made small circles of sensation, smoothing around and down her back, over her buttocks and up again to touch her face once more. He held her head between his strong, gentle hands for a minute. Then his lips met hers once again.

Yasaman eagerly gave herself up to his kisses, her arms slipping about his neck in a welcoming embrace. She had been waiting for this all her life. The mouth on hers was warm and tender. It spoke to her without words, the firm but delicate pressure conveying the loving passion he felt for her. His breath was just faintly perfumed with mint, she noted, when in response to his silent signal she parted her lips and their tongues touched, circling each other in an erotic ballet of sweetly moist sensation. Yasaman sighed deeply, her own emotions stirring with innocent enthusiasm.

Content in his embrace, with eager little hands she undid his dhoti, bringing him to a natural state. Shyly but with growing boldness, she caressed him in return; stroking his smooth back, cupping his taut buttocks with her palms. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt his lingham, already firm, against her thigh. Her startled eyes flew to his face.

“I did not know that a virgin could arouse a husband so, my lord,” she told him wonderingly.

“Perhaps not every virgin,” he responded, “but certainly this virgin, my jasmine blossom.” With a sweet smile he lifted her into his arms and walked toward her bedchamber.

“My Pillow Book!” she exclaimed to him. “I must have my Pillow Book else I cannot be certain what to do, Jamal!”

“Tonight,” he told her, smiling again into her eyes, “I will guide you, my love, in all that you must know. Tonight I will teach you to enjoy passion. In the nights that follow, Yasaman, I will show you other ways of giving me pleasure, but tonight I will give you that special joy that only a man who loves a woman can give to her, and in doing so, I will gain equal joy. There is a saying from the
Ananga Ranga
which goes, ‘How delicious an instrument is woman, when artfully played upon; how capable is she of producing the most exquisite harmonies, or executing the most complicated variations of love, and giving the most Divine of erotic pleasures.’ ” He lay her down upon the bed, joining her and tenderly caressing her breasts.

Yasaman watched him as he touched her; watched as her nipples responded to his touch, again filled with a dawning wonder as she felt her heart seemingly expand within her chest, radiating a warmth she had never before experienced. She did not know if it was love or desire that she was feeling, but whatever it was, it was most pleasant.

“In Lahore,” she told him softly, “in the bedchamber of the woman who gave me life, there is a large shamsa upon the wall. In the center of the sunburst is a rosette of gold, red, and blue; and in the very center of the rosette is a circle inscribed with several verses. The first is from the
Kama Sutra
. It reads: ‘Once the Wheel of Love has been set in motion, there is no absolute rule.’ I think I am beginning to understand what that means, Jamal.”

He drew slowly and sensuously upon the nipple of her breast, sending a sensation of pleasure through her being. Then he said, “Do you love me, Yasaman?”

“I am not certain what love between a man and a woman is, Jamal,” was her ingenuous reply. “You are most experienced in such matters, so I would ask you, do you love me?”

He pondered a moment and then he said, “I must, my Yasaman, else I should have beaten you for selling my zenana women off.” His brown eyes twinkled down at her.

“Perhaps,” she told him, “I care for you a little, my lord, else the thought of that bitch, Samira, in your arms would not drive me so wild with rage!” She pulled his head down and kissed him fiercely.

Jamal Khan’s heart leapt within his chest. Marriage to a pleasant woman was the best he had dared to hope for, but somehow he had been blessed. He did love her. Her artless
confession of angry jealousy told him that she did indeed love him, even if she was not quite certain of the emotion yet.

He kissed her back, nibbling upon her lips, tempering her fury with deep, slow kisses that set her to sighing with delight. He let his lips wander across her sensitive body, finding the hollow of her throat; the perfumed curve of a round shoulder; the deep, scented valley between her wonderful breasts; the flesh of her flat belly, which seemed to vibrate beneath his warm lips.

Yasaman sighed again. His mouth on her skin was like nothing she had ever experienced. Within, she felt a longing ache she thought would surely kill her if it was not satisfied. There was a sweetness between them that she had not felt when she and Salim had practiced those pages from her Pillow Book. Suddenly she knew that what they had done was wrong. Whatever Salim may have told her of the passion between ancient royals, it was wrong.
This was right!
She reached out and caressed the back of Jamal’s neck with her fingers. His skin was so soft to her touch. She hadn’t realized before that men had soft skin. His dark hair was silky as she twined her hands through it.

He brushed the soft flesh of her thighs, pressing gently between them, touching her more intimately. Her heart began to beat fiercely. She realized she very much wanted the sweet intimacy that existed between lovers. She wanted it desperately.

“Rid me now of my virginity, my lord Jamal,” she begged him. “I find I am suddenly afraid of the unknown. I do not want to fear you. Take me quickly that my fears may ease and we may begin to enjoy one another!”

He understood her plea, but he also knew that the first experience with physical passion should bring not just pain, but pleasure as well. “Trust me, my blossom, not to harm you,” he begged her.

Twisting his body about, he found her secret jewel with his mouth. His tongue touched the tender pink flesh with quick, sure strokes. When he had almost brought her into bloom, he swung his body over hers, preparing to enter her yoni.

Yasaman grasped his lingham between her two hands and guided him, her turquoise eyes never once leaving his warm, dark eyes. Slowly he penetrated, struggling with himself to go gently, hesitating just a fraction when he saw the shock of pain in her eyes.

“
No!
” she gasped, and thrust her young body up to absorb
him completely, the pain slowly leaving her expression, to be replaced with a look of surprise.

It was then he began to move upon her, riding her as he would a finely bred mare, pacing himself to give her her first taste of adult pleasure before he took his own, watching the joy creep into her eyes; her cry of newborn ecstasy filling him with pure delight as he finally released his passion.

When, after their first bout with Eros, they lay content in each other’s embrace, Yasaman said, “There is another saying inscribed upon that same shamsa I told you of, my lord. The second verse reads: ‘Your being contains mine; now I am truly part of you. Together as one, we form an unbroken circle of love.’ I did not fully understand that saying until now. Is it not right that such sweetness create another being?”

“Oh, Yasaman,” he answered her, astounded by her youthful wisdom, “I think you understand far more than you even realize. The Mahabharata says: ‘The wife is half the man, his priceless friend; Of pleasure, virtue, wealth, his constant source; A help throughout his earthly years; Through life unchanging, even beyond its end.’ So, I believe, will be true of you. I am all the more fortunate for it, my jasmine blossom.”

Yasaman pulled away from her husband and, raising herself up to balance upon her elbow, looked into his handsome face. Her own visage was pale with what was most certainly shock. “How did you know that verse from the Mahabharata, Jamal? Someone told you, of course!”

“Told me what?” he replied. “I have studied the Mahabharata, Yasaman. That verse was a particular favorite of mine. I always felt it described exactly how a man should feel about his wife. Perhaps it was my reason for not taking a spouse before now.” He touched her face gently. “You are ashen, my love. What is it? Has our first shared passion been too much for you?”

“The verse you have quoted me from the Mahabharata, Jamal, is the third and final verse inscribed upon the shamsa in Candra’s bedchamber. It is almost as if she has blessed our union, is it not?”

He was astounded by her words, but then he smiled. “Yes,” he agreed. “Perhaps in a way she has, my love. Such a blessing is, I believe, very lucky for us.” He kissed her tenderly. “Very fortunate indeed!”

Chapter 6

M
an Bai, the first wife of Prince Salim, was hysterical. She had always been a delicate creature with a high-strung personality, subject to fits of depression. Her servants sent for her beloved aunt, Jodh Bai, the Mughal’s wife, who was also Man Bai’s mother-in-law.

“My child! My child!” Jodh Bai gathered her niece into her embrace, stroking Man Bai’s silky, perfumed dark hair soothingly. “What has distressed you so?” she asked.

For a time Man Bai could not answer. She simply wept on in a tragic, heartbroken fashion. The older woman comforted the younger as best she could.

“You must make the emperor s-stop!” Man Bai said finally.

“Stop what, my child?” Jodh Bai asked patiently.

By a supreme effort of will, Man Bai pulled herself together and said, “The emperor is angry with my lord Salim again. He is threatening once more to set my husband aside in favor of our son, Khusrau.”

Jodh Bai felt a stab of irritation. She was disgusted with this game her husband and son played between them. Still, for her niece’s sake she had to remain calm. “My lord Akbar is always saying he will disinherit Salim for one offense or another, Man Bai. He has never done it, nor will he ever really do it,” she reassured the distraught woman.

“But this time,” Man Bai told her, “my son, Khusrau, and my brother, Madho Singh, have joined forces. They speak openly about ridding the Mughal lion of the thorn in his paw. Oh, Aunt! I have raised my son to be loyal to his grandfather and his father. My wicked brother leads him astray. I am so ashamed!”