Wild Jasmine (27 page)

“I like it there,” was the reply. “I am my own mistress now, Salima. I run my palace to suit me, and I answer to no one any longer. Yes, I quite like it!”

“I almost envy you,” Salima Begum said, “but if I lived alone in my own palace, I would have no one to talk to, and there would be no gossip to brighten my life. No, I think I must remain as I am and where I am.” She chuckled.

“The most gracious, the most honorable, the most high, Prince Salim Muhammad, enters the gathering! Make way! Make way!” intoned the servant at the door.

Salim stood for a moment, his dark eyes sweeping over the guests. He was dressed all in white, his jama coat brocaded and worked with both gold and silver threads. His patka sash was cloth-of-gold sewn all over with tiny diamonds. The small turban on his head was white silk with a decorative fillet of gold brocade sewn with pearls and diamonds, wound transversely about the turban. On his feet he wore slippers with pointed toes, which were decorated with gold and silver threads to match his coat. The slippers were called Salim Shahi in his honor.

Yasaman. Where was Yasaman? There!
He spied her speaking with their sisters. A young man was with her. Salim strode into the room and went directly to his father, who sat upon a cushion beneath a gold canopy. He prostrated himself humbly before Akbar. The old man certainly did not look well at all. It would not be long now, Salim thought. Soon he would have everything he had ever wanted. He would have India. He would have incredible power.
He would have Yasaman!

He felt himself being raised up, and lifted his head to look into his father’s tear-filled eyes. “Father,” he said, and kissed Akbar.

“Shaikho Baba, my most beloved son,” the Mughal replied, and returned his kiss. “You are most welcome in my house. Now go and greet your mother and the rest of the family.”

With a smile and a most correct bow, the prince obeyed his father. He saluted Jodh Bai quite affectionately. Having seen Yasaman, he was feeling very expansive now. He kissed each of the aunts and salaamed to his wife Nur Jahan and the Khandesh princess who was the mother of his second son, Khurram.

“Shahzad! Shukuran!” He hugged his two eldest sisters.

“Salim! Salim!” There was an impatient tugging of his sleeve.

“Aram-Banu, my dear, you grow lovelier each day!” he complimented the lady Waqi’s daughter as he gently detached her clutching fingers.

Aram-Banu beamed with pleasure at his flattery.

“And who is your beautiful companion, my sisters?” he teased.

“Salim! Do you not recognize our little sister, Yasaman?” Aram-Banu giggled innocently.

“This cannot be my little monkey,” the prince declared, pretending surprise, much to Shahzad and Shukuran’s amusement and Aram-Banu’s delight. “My Yasaman was an ugly little girl the last time I saw her.”

“Villain! I have never in my life been ugly,” Yasaman said. “Why, I am told I was even a most unusually beautiful baby!”

“Who grew into a vain young girl,” he teased her.

“
Salim!
” Yasaman stamped her brocaded foot. “Is this how you greet me after almost two years, my brother?”

“No!” he told her, and swept her up into his arms. “This is how I greet you, my Yasaman!” He kissed her, his lips taking possession of hers, his tongue quickly darting in and out of her mouth with incredible sensuality. Then he released her. It had all been done so swiftly that Yasaman wasn’t even certain she hadn’t imagined the unseemly passion in his embrace.

She laughed nervously, pushing away the uncomfortable thoughts that had suddenly crowded into her head. “I am happy to see you, too, my brother,” she said, forcing a smile onto her face.

Their sisters had melted back into the crowd of relations and close friends as the prince took Yasaman’s hand in his. “You have grown more beautiful, if that is possible, my sister,” he told her. His glance was warm. Nay! It was hot! “Marriage, I can see, agrees with you,” he continued. “Your husband is a good lover, then?”

His words, and the attitude behind them, made her feel edgy. She was not imagining things, and for the first time in her life, Salim discomfited her. “I am very happy,” she said stiffly.

“Do you love him?” Salim pried further.

“Yes, I love him, my brother.” This was becoming most bothersome.

“Where is he, this little princeling of Kashmir? I would meet him, Yasaman, and decide for myself if he is the right man for you,
and
if he is the right man to govern one of my provinces for me.”

Yasaman’s turquoise eyes flashed angrily. “
Your provinces?
” she said softly. “Our father sits upon his throne yet, brother. He is no shade, or do you plan another of your little rebellions even as we come together to celebrate Father’s fifty years upon his throne?” She yanked her hand from his grasp.

“A woman capable of great anger is also capable of great passion,” he murmured.

“Your words are unseemly, my
brother
,” Yasaman told him, and turned away from him.

His hand fell upon her bare shoulder, for she had chosen to wear no choli in the heat. His fingers pressed cruelly into the soft flesh. “I would meet your husband, my sister,” he said.

She could not face him, but she still asked, “What is it you want of me, Salim?”

“That you sit by my side when I inherit the throne, Yasaman. You know that I have always wanted that,” he told her.

“I am your sister, Salim. My place is by my husband’s side,” she answered quietly, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“
I want you!
” He spat the words urgently.

She could not keep from facing him, and so she turned about, only to be shocked to her core by the desire she saw in his eyes. “
Salim!
” she repeated. “
I am your sister!
”

“In ancient Egypt royal brothers and sisters wed,” he said to her. “Have you forgotten all that I told you when you were a child, my beloved Yasaman?”

Yasaman suddenly softened, thinking that Salim’s affection for her might make him understand the impropriety of his passion. “I am not a child any longer, Salim. We both know that what you are suggesting is a sin against nature and against all the religious faiths of the world. This thing you want cannot be. Put it from your heart and mind, I beg you, my brother. Look at our father. Though it pains me to admit it, he is dying. Soon you will be the Grand Mughal. My husband and I will rule our beautiful Kashmir most faithfully in your name.” Reaching up, she stroked his cheek in a soothing gesture. “Come now and meet Jamal Khan, my brother. You will like him, I promise you. You can trust him, I can assure you. Come.”

Taking his hand in hers again, she led him across the room to where her husband stood speaking with his own father and brothers, who had been invited to Akbar’s celebration.

Seeing her, Yusef Khan salaamed, but Yasaman said, “No, father of my husband. It is not necessary that you salute me thusly. It is I who should honor you.” Folding her hands together,
she bowed to him. Then looking up, she smiled and greeted her two brothers-in-law, Yaqub and Haider. She had only met them briefly once before, but she had decided she did not like them. For Jamal’s sake, however, she was pleasant.

Yusef Khan and his two elder sons now salaamed to Prince Salim, who nodded politely in return.

“Brother,” Yasaman said, “this is my husband, Jamal Khan.” She turned to the younger man. “My lord, this is my dearly loved brother, Salim, of whom I have so often spoken.”

Jamal Khan salaamed politely to the brother-in-law who would one day be his overlord. “I am happy, gracious lord, to finally meet you. I pledge my fealty, as Allah is my witness.”

Salim felt bitter jealousy pouring through him as he surveyed this handsome, polite, most correct young man who had stolen Yasaman’s heart away from him. More than anything, he wanted to destroy Jamal Khan, but he had not survived this long by being stupid. His mouth turned itself up in a cordial smile. He held out his hand to the Kashmiri prince. “Younger brother,” he said, “it is I who am pleased to finally meet the man who has made my little monkey so happy. I gladly accept your fealty and promise you that whatever my father ordains will remain in effect as long as you live, even after the Mughal passes from memory.”

The two men shook hands, and Yusef Khan rejoiced in his heart of hearts. Kashmir was once again his family’s,
and
without another drop of blood being shed. Jamal had pleased the very difficult Prince Salim, who had publicly promised that even after the Mughal’s death, Jamal Khan would remain ruler of Kashmir. Yusef Khan beamed happily upon the prince, his three sons, and the adorable princess who had made it all possible. His kismet had taken many turns, but he was satisfied.

He did not see the bitter looks shared by his two elder sons. Salim Muhammad did, however, and smiled to himself, well pleased.

“Your brother Salim was most cordial to me,” Jamal Khan said to his wife later that night when they had returned to their guest house. Yes, he thought, Salim had been pleasant. Yet some inner instinct warned him to beware. He could not shake it off.

“Salim can be very difficult, even with those of whom he is fond,” Yasaman said slowly. “He is my brother and I love him, but you must never trust him entirely.”

“But I must remain on his good side, my love,” Jamal Khan
answered. “Despite what he says, I think that what the lord Akbar gives, the lord Salim can take away.”

“When he is Mughal,” Yasaman told her husband, “my brother will no longer be called Salim. He decided a long time ago that he would change his name to Jahangir, which means World Seizer. It is not inappropriate. Salim has been seizing everything he could get his hands on since childhood, my aunt Jodh Bai says.”

Jamal Khan laughed. “You do not seem to dote upon him like all the other women in your father’s house. Why is that?”

“I love my brother, but I also know that he is nothing more than a man like other men,” Yasaman said carefully.

“Not quite like other men, my blossom,” Jamal Khan replied. “Your brother will inherit a great kingdom and have the power of life and death over us all. No, he is not like other men.”

The night was sultry, particularly for early spring. Yasaman wore a peshwaz with nothing beneath it. Jamal Khan had divested himself of his court finery as well and wore a dhoti.

“I do not want to continue speaking of my brother,” she told him, smoothing her hands over his chest. “It is hot inside. Let us go out onto the terrace. Perhaps there is a breeze off the river to cool us.”

The sky was clear and silky black. A full white moon made it almost as light as day and blocked their vision of all but the brightest stars. The terrace off their bedchamber hung over the river, although to the right and left there were gardens that ran down to the water. A bird, tricked into believing it was day by the moon, sang sweetly in a tree somewhere nearby. There was the scent of roses in the warm air. The river below flowed smoothly by with but the faintest whispery sound. Across the river and around them the city was almost silent. The occasional sound of music from some tavern floated on the gentle wind.

The tiles of the terrace floor were still warm beneath Yasaman’s feet. She threw off her gauze peshwaz, complaining, “How I hate this heat so early in the season! It is a damp heat unlike that of our Kashmir summers. On our lake it does not even feel this hot in my birthday month, and it is but spring here. Can you imagine what it will be like two months from now? It will be totally unbearable.”

“Your father told me that you have your mother’s constitution,” he answered. Allah! She was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. In the time that they had been here in Agra he had seen many lovely women, but there was no one
like Yasaman Kama Begum. Already his loins were tightening in anticipation.

She flung her head back, rotating it to remove the stiffness from her neck and shoulders. Her breasts thrust themselves forward temptingly, and he succumbed, his hands fastening about her waist, his dark head lowering, his tongue snaking out to lick at her nipples.

Yasaman murmured and she lay her hands upon his shoulders, arching her body with pleasure.

“Temptress,” he groaned, and she laughed softly.

“Would you rather I not tempt you, my dear lord?” she asked.

He nipped gently at her breasts, and she squealed even as he slid to his knees before her. “You are mine, woman!” he growled into the soft flesh of her belly.

Yasaman shivered, and wondered if all wives enjoyed their husbands as much as she enjoyed Jamal. Did passion always get better? How innocent she had been before her marriage. Other than her brief encounter with Salim, she had really known nothing. A Pillow Book told a woman nothing of reality. Every time she and Jamal made love, Yasaman realized that she still had so much more to learn.

He slid his hands down to fondle her buttocks, drawing her closer. His cheek rubbed against her belly as he nuzzled her. Instinctively she shifted in his embrace, parting her legs just slightly. His head moved lower and his thumbs gently parted her nether lips. She quivered again with anticipation even as the tip of his tongue touched the sentient little jewel of flesh her plump mont had concealed before being exposed to his view.

“Ahhhh,” she breathed softly, her body arching slightly.

His tongue began to tantalize that tiny nub, tormenting her deliciously and provoking a surprisingly quick burst of pleasure that left her feeling warm and content. He laughed happily and said, “You are such a greedy creature, wife. Can you never wait?”

She kneaded his shoulders, replying, “Can I not have more, my lord?”

“You may have as much pleasure and as much passion as your little heart desires, my jasmine blossom,” he promised extravagantly.

“Get up, Jamal!” she ordered him impatiently. “It is now my turn to take the edge off of your appetite so we may enjoy the rest of the night at our leisure.”

He arose and, wrapping her in his arms for a moment, they kissed deeply, their lips almost bruising in their intensity. Then Yasaman slipped to her knees before him. His lingham was totally engorged and thrust out to her.