Desire's Sirocco (8 page)

The Master’s chancellor bowed his head then shut the door with an angry snap.

“I hate him more each passing day,” Dagan said between clenched teeth.

“As do I,” Jameela agreed.

Dagan’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I will see about ridding us of his presence then.”

“No!” she said, afraid of what might happen to Dagan if he carried through with his threat. “Leave him be. He’s the Master’s right hand.”

“He can be replaced, Wench,” Dagan insisted.

“Please?” she beseeched, her head tilted to one side. “Leave him be.”

Dagan pursed his lips. “I’ll think on it,” he said.

She watched him get to his feet. Her eyes slid possessively over his tall frame and at his snort she looked up into his face, blushing at his knowing look.

“When will I see you again?” she asked, never sure when he would venture into her cell.

“There will be a calling for you this eve,” he said and avoided her gaze.

Jameela swallowed. “The Master will send for me?”

Dagan nodded. “Bathe with the gardenia soap and use its oil to perfume yourself,” he said. “That is his favorite scent.” He glanced back at her when he reached the door. “And wear the pale green gown with the pearls on the neckline. He fancies you in that.”

Surprise flitted across Jameela’s face. “He has seen me in that gown?”

“He misses nothing, Wench,” he replied and left the room.

Jameela stood with her lower lip tucked between her teeth. The news that the Master would be sending for her set her heart to racing and she wasn’t all that sure it was simple nerves. The thought of experiencing the heady release he had given her in the Chamber brought a scarlet glow to her cheeks.

Chapter Four

Dagan was bone-tired as he climbed the stairs to his quarters. He lifted his right arm, flexing the ache in his bruised shoulder and frowned deeply. The good whiff of his own body odor coming from beneath his arm was enough to bowl over a giant. He was a mass of dull pain from his shins to the twinge of soreness in his ribs to the throbbing agony between his eyes. All he could think of was the hot bath that awaited him and the cool drink of elixir he knew would be waiting at the water’s edge.

He was alone in the bathing chamber and for that was grateful for every grunting hurt. The thought of carrying on a conversation at that moment sent shivers of protest through his brain.

The water was a haven beckoning him in a muted glow from the myriad candles ranged about the room. A mist floated atop the heated pool, wafting over the rim to slither along the stone floor. Overhead, a vast variety of aromatic hanging plants trailed from the roof to within six feet of the water’s surface, lending a calming feel to the humid conditions of the chamber. Somewhere beyond the soaring granite walls off to the left, the strains of a musician strumming a stringed instrument added to the soothing atmosphere.

So tired he could barely lift his hands to the buckle of his breeches, Dagan closed his eyes and undressed, shucking each item of clothing as though a serpent shedding his skin. When he was down to only his breechclout, he stood there panting with exhaustion, his hands on his hips, his head lowered to his chest.

“A taxing day with the troops?”

Dagan slowly lifted his head and looked up at the Brother who had entered the room so quietly he had not heard him.

The Brother smiled. “You wish to be alone?”

“Aye,” Dagan managed to reply and the one word cost him a grave effort.

Bowing respectfully, the Brother slipped as silently from the room as he had entered.

Drawing in a long breath, Dagan let it out slowly, and then stepped out of his breechclout. He padded over to the water and without giving himself time to think, dove into the hot bath, cleaving the air like a champion diver, his form perfect as he split the softly undulating waves.

After several slow transits of the pool underwater, the warrior surfaced, flinging his long hair in a watery arc over his head, then shaking his head from side to side like an angry terrier. He shuddered then stretched out on his back, traversing the pool several more times as he gazed up at the draping plants, his strokes working the ache out of his battered shoulders.

It was always a chore when the Master inspected the troops. The man had to prove he was as good—if not better—than his best warrior. His demand for perfection from his troop as well as from himself left no soldier untested, no weapon unused from the arsenal.

Wincing at the pain that rippled through his ribcage, Dagan flipped over in the water and lay like a dead man atop the heaving waves, his eyes open and staring at the intricate mosaics that adorned the bathing pool’s floor. Though the heat hurt, it also cleaned the grime from his eyes and when he put his feet down and sat upon the edge of the pool, he felt invigorated for the first time in hours. Taking up a bar of coarse soap lying in a china dish, he began to lather away the grime that coated his flesh.

After thoroughly washing his face and hair, his soapy hands ran through the wiry pelt covering his chest, lathering the suds until he was coated from neck to belly. He moved the soap over each arm, lifted each leg in turn, then reached as far up his back and along his shoulders as he could. The last thing he bathed—the last thing he had any desire to touch—was the flaccid muscle between his thighs and he was quick to wash himself there, his mind firmly on the last tumble from his horse during the jousting.

When he was finished cleansing himself, he ducked down beneath the surface and when he came up, put up his hands to wipe the moisture from his face. He dragged his fingers through his hair and wished he could crawl between clean, silk sheets.

But tired as he was, sore as his body reminded him it was, he knew there would be no rest until the Master visited his new mate. There would be no bed until then, no sleep to refresh his aching limbs.

His thoughts drifted like a petal on the water to Jameela and he felt anew the ache that had been in his soul since he first saw her. Closing his eyes, letting his head fall back along the pool’s rim, he allowed himself to relive that day.

She had been so lovely standing there on the slave trader’s dock. Her luscious curves had garnered his attention from a hundred feet away. He had no intention of buying her—only getting a closer look—but once he was close enough to see the fear-pimples on her unmarred flesh and the humiliation in her pretty eyes, he knew he must have her for the Conclave. Who would win her was anyone’s guess and he was as amazed as the next warrior when the one who had chosen her was the Master.

The musician had changed the rhythm of his music and the song was now more sensual, a staccato beat to the strings that was almost in perfect cadence to Dagan’s heartbeat. He felt that rhythm throughout his entire body and it lulled him, beckoned to him as he listened closely to the twang of the bass strings echoing across the granite chamber. He could feel his breath quickening to the beat and lost himself in the melody as the strings reverberated. So immersed in the beauty of the piece, he did not realize he was no longer alone until the clearing of a throat brought his eyes open with a snap.

Brother Qutaybah was standing primly at the edge of the pool, his disapproval evident in the stiffness of his shoulders and the pursing of his lips. His hands were clasped at his waist.

“I hate you,” Dagan said beneath his breath.

“The Master must see to his concubine,” Brother Qutaybah sniffed.

“With every ounce of my being,” Dagan mumbled as he pushed himself up from the water.

The hooded eyes of the Master’s servant traveled down Dagan’s nakedness as the warrior climbed out of the pool. “I escorted the woman to the Chamber and have assembled the Conclave,” he informed Dagan.

“And every breath I take,” Dagan said between clenched teeth. He reached for a warmed towel hanging from an amber stand at the pool’s edge and began toweling himself dry.

“You had best be quick or else…”

Brother Qutaybah got no further for Dagan reached out, grabbed the smaller man by the arm and propelled him out into the pool. The gasp, the splash, and the gurgle of water gagging the infuriating chancellor brought a smile to Dagan’s mouth.

Never bothering to turn around, Dagan wrapped the towel around his waist, tucked the end in at his hip then strolled away, whistling the refrain from the unseen musician’s serenade.

* * * * *

Jameela had never liked the dark and standing in the center of the Chamber, waiting for the Master to arrive, seemed to take forever. Her nerves were stretched thin and she was growing tired as she stood there, moving from foot to foot as the weariness claimed her.

The room was as still as the grave yet she felt she was not alone. She wondered if Dagan was nearby or if the Conclave would be in attendance. There was a feeling of being watched, studied, that made the flesh ripple on her bare back. Cocking her head to one side to pick up even a faint rustle of clothing, a scraping of a boot along the balcony, or the clearing of a dry throat, she could detect nothing yet instinct told her she was not alone. She shuddered at the thought.

“Are you cold?”

A sigh of relief brought a fleeting, tremulous smile to her lips. Dagan was nearby and his voice had been soft, as gentle as she had ever heard it. Shaking her head for she had not been bidden to speak, she felt her heart accelerate as someone came toward her.

His fingers were cool against her brow as he pushed a stray lock of hair over her shoulder. “You are being observed by the Conclave,” he whispered as he tied the blindfold across her eyes again. “Until your Joining Day, the Conclave will always be with the Master.”

Once more he lifted her into his brawny arms and carried her to the table from whence she had lost her maidenhead, then she felt—rather than heard—him move away.

The gong sounded and the shuffle of many feet descending the stairway from the balcony caused Jameela’s heart to beat faster. Her breathing was once more erratic, shallow, and a slight ache had begun in her temples. She tucked her lower lip between her teeth to still her nervousness.

The moment the Master touched her she knew it was he. There was authority in that strong hand, a possessiveness that brooked no denial. His fingers trailed along her cheekbone, down the side of her neck and onto her breast in a lazy journey that brought a quickening to her womb. His fingernails plucked at her nipple and she moaned in anticipation of the delight she knew he would give her. He treated the other nipple to the same pleasure then ran his nails lightly down her chest and belly.

Jameela began to pant the moment he threaded his fingers through her pubic curls, tugging playfully at the wiry crispness. She swallowed as he molded his palm over her mound and began rubbing in a slow circuit, the base of his hand arcing across that most sensitive part of her anatomy to make her squirm.

His low rumble of amusement at her reaction make her smile and despite the fact that she wished it were Dagan, her trainer, whose powerful hand was circling her flesh she wanted to reach up for this man who had the right to lay with her. She wanted to draw him down to her, bringing his body to hers, his sex to hers.

She sucked in her breath as his hand turned and his fingers dipped briefly into her vagina and away. A slight pout of disappointment began to form on her lips but then she felt his hands on her thighs, pushing her legs—and the sectional table legs—apart. But there was little time to wonder what he would do next for she felt his lips upon her and she moaned, reveling in the delight his knowledgeable mouth elicited. When he thrust his tongue deep inside her, she arched her hips from the table and gasped for she had pulled herself free of his grip.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t….”

He shushed her and she heard him snap his fingers several times as though calling a dog to heel.

Hands were laid to her, on each side of her hips, on her thighs, on her belly, anchoring her to the table. The sensation added to the anticipation and she relaxed, thinking bondage had never felt so good.

Though she waited for his mouth to return to her nether lips, it was his fingers that entered her—going in slowly, withdrawing, and traveling a bit deeper with the next probe. Already she was oozing, slick with arousal and when he withdrew his hand and she heard a sucking sound, she knew he had tasted her. The thought sent ripples of passion streaking through her belly. Thought, however, ceased the moment he gripped her legs and dragged them over his shoulders, positioning her for his entry.

Those mysterious, cool hands were removed and were replaced with the heady weight of the Master’s body. There was no fumbling at her opening but a quick, sure thrust that impaled her fully on the length of his velvety sword.

Impulse guided her and she threw her arms around his powerful shoulders and held him. She crossed her ankles behind his back, pulling him as close to her as nature would allow. His grunt of satisfaction at her brazenness emboldened her further and she lifted her head to plant a kiss along his throat.

With a low growl, the Master moved so that he captured her lips with his own. The kiss was heady and commanding. His tongue raped her mouth, tasted her, lapped at the sweetness, and drove deep even as his manhood withdrew and drove into her with the same rhythm.