Master of Paradise (25 page)

I’m just playing a part,
she told
herself.
I’m standing in the wings, awaiting my cue. It’s always
the same. Stage fright so bad, I feel I can’t go on. And then, as
if by magic, I hear my cue, and see my key light, and suddenly I
become the character, and I know I can do no wrong. I’m a beggar
asking humbly for alms. Deaf and mute, so they won’t hear me speak.
They can’t turn me away. I know I’ll get inside. What I do after
that is up to me...

She bent over and ran her bandaged hands in
the dust. This she coated on her face. A fountain provided
sprinkles of water to turn the dust to mud. The better to disguise
her features. She wedged dirt under her fingernails with shaking
hands.
I’m a beggar,
she repeated.
They can’t turn me
away.

With a drumming heart, she walked toward the
sultan’s barricade and extended open palms to the guards.

Gabrielle was in a dungeonlike basement with
several dozen beggars. The odor was stupefying—a mixture of
unwashed bodies, illness, and decay. One old man, unused to eating,
had vomited on the floor after devouring his rice. The guards had
merely tossed him some hay and ordered him to camouflage the
mess.

If the sultan welcomed the poor, he didn’t
treat them with any semblance of hospitality. They slept now on the
cold floor, huddled in their rags against the chill of the stone
dungeon. No attempt was made to clean them up, no soft bedding
provided. The barest requirements were met, that the sultan might
salve his conscience and placate his God.

By now it was two or three in the morning.
The guards—two massive Arabs with the faces of devils—had fallen
asleep over some Oriental board game, snoring contentedly in their
chairs. Still, their scimitars gleamed at her from their belts,
sinister reminders of the tenuousness of her position.

She removed the sandals Rodrigo had procured
and stole across the room on bare feet. Club in hand, she crept up
on the guard with his back to her and thrashed him hard on the
head. He lurched, snorted fitfully, then slumped onto the table
with a thud.

The noise awoke the other sentinel. As he
jerked awake, Gabrielle hid the club in one hand behind her back.
He rose to his feet, towering above her, and spoke in angry words,
pointing to the floor, where she’d apparently been ordered to
sleep. In the midst of a sentence, though, his eyes drifted to his
partner, who was inertly sprawled across the table. His gaze lifted
to her face in sharp suspicion.

Gabrielle didn’t stop to think. With the
instincts of an actress in the midst of a role, she worked
extemporaneously with the tools she had. Her free hand opened the
robe and let it fall to the ground, displaying the tight petticoat
clinging to her womanly form underneath. One tug sent the binding
around her breasts flying, allowing the pale flesh to fall
free.

She could see his lust at once. He seemed
mesmerized by the gentle swaying of her breasts in their boundary
of white lace. A thick tongue darted out in an attempt to moisten
wind-blistered lips. When his gaze rose to her face, she gave him
an enticing smile.

He was on her instantly, grabbing her to him
and burying his mouth in her neck. He held her so tightly, it was
difficult to maneuver. He seemed as massive as Gulliver as she
struggled to circle his barrel of a chest with her arms. They
barely spanned the breadth of him. She had to angle her elbow to
bring the club in line. Even then, she knew she wasn’t strong
enough. From this position, she couldn’t knock a fly from his
head.

But she had to try. He was mauling her now,
his sense overcome by the bulge of an erection beneath his robes,
which he continually thrust into her hips. Instinct emphasized her
danger. If driven too far, she could never stop him. He’d rape her
here on the cold stone floor, then turn her over to the sultan. She
had to make her move while he was still stunned by his good
fortune—before his lust made him too strong.

Gritting her teeth, she willed all her
concentration into her arm and flung it back to smash the club
against his head. It hurt enough that he shoved her from him in
surprise. She didn’t pause. Taking the stick in both hands, she
swung with all her might, cracking his temple. He reeled back. She
followed and whacked him again, the sound of it sickening in the
silent gloom. This time, he swayed and fell to the floor.

With great dispatch, she struggled to wrest
the clothes from him, then slipped into his robes herself. They
were far too large, so she had to improvise, tucking yards of
material up into the sash at her waist, rolling up the sleeves. She
fastened the headdress tightly about her head. The disguise would
fool no one for long. She wasn’t a small woman, but she was no
match for the stature of the sentries. As she’d done when playing
Rodrigo, she’d have to assume an attitude that would compensate for
and distract from her size.

She took the key from the guard and turned it
in the lock. The door creaked open. To her relief, no one stood
watch outside. Fingering the scimitar at her sash, she crept along
the passageway until she came across a flight of stone stairs.

Halfway up, she heard the flap of sandals.
She raised her head and there before her was another imposing guard
tromping down the stairs. He said something as they passed, which
Gabrielle couldn’t understand. She swept past him on bare feet. But
two steps above him, she sensed the change. He stopped and was
glaring at her by the time she turned around. An image of Cullen’s
peril flashed through her mind. Just as swiftly, she drew her sword
and thrust it into the guard’s gut. Surprised, he clutched the
bloody mess and stumbled backward down the stairs to land in a
blacked-out heap below. He wasn’t dead—she could detect his rasping
breath—but neither was he capable of calling out for help.

With distaste, she wiped the bloody blade on
her black robes. As skilled as she was with a weapon, she’d never
found it necessary to draw blood, to feel the ghastly slice of
flesh beneath her blade like butter beneath a knife. She had to
fight the nausea with an iron will. Time was essential.

The building was quiet this time of night.
She searched the long, wide hallways without knowing what it was
she sought. Rodrigo had said the sultan would likely have her
brother with him. She must find his rooms. Then she’d decide how to
get inside.

On the third floor, she stopped as she was
about to round the corner. A door had just opened. From it came a
group of guards similarly attired in black. Speaking among
themselves, they headed up the hall toward the grand marble
staircase, which they mounted with a spirit of anticipation.

Cautiously, she followed the men up the
staircase, waiting for them to round the corner before ascending to
the top. There, she peered around the wall and saw, at the end of
an extensive corridor, a pair of majestically carved white-and-gold
doors the size of a normal-sized wall. Before them, two guards
stood erect, their arms crossed about their chests, scimitars
within handy reach.

She could see at once that this was the
sultan’s inner chamber. She understood, too, what Rodrigo had
meant. There was no way to pass those guards. Their orders were
likely to keep out all threats on fear of their lives. Even if she
spoke the language, no amount of rhetoric would convince them to
let her pass.

As she watched, the sentries opened one of
the colossal doors and the new guards went inside.

She waited for what seemed an eternity,
wondering how to get past the guards. They stood rigidly erect,
never moving, never speaking. She supposed she could just present
herself, but if she spoke to them—

The slap of sandals sounded again on the
tiles. Looking around, she saw another small group of guards
heading down the hall and recognized her chance. It was risky. So
easy to be caught. But if she didn’t grab the opportunity, who knew
when another would come along?

She waited in a crouched position until
they’d just passed her, then sprang forward and joined them at the
back. It was quickly accomplished. She marched with them up the
long hall to the gargantuan doors. There, she stopped short with
the other guards, keeping her telltale blue eyes lowered to the
floor.

Finally she felt a flutter of movement. She
forced herself not to flinch, not to imagine them seizing her arms
and hauling her up before the sultan’s wrath.

Then the door opened wide. It didn’t creak—it
wouldn’t dare—but she saw the opening on the floor where once the
white door had been. As the guards began to move, she swallowed her
nervousness and took a cautious step inside.

A wide hallway continued on, stretching
toward closed doors at the back. At her side was a huge anteroom
that seemed to lead to the sultan’s quarters, elaborately furnished
with silk tapestries and ornaments of brass and gold. She could see
before her an intricately latticed screen with an ornate passageway
leading to the main hall. As the guards continued on their way down
the long corridor, she fell back behind the screen and waited as
their sandals echoed out of sight.

Gabrielle slunk closer, pressing herself
against the far end of the screen where she hoped she wouldn’t be
spotted. From there, she could see the anteroom. It was large and
cool with bright silk pillows scattered about the gleaming tile
floor. A Moorish window was open to the breeze. Beyond it she could
see the glimmer of the moon on the sea.

The room seemed to be empty. It was so quiet,
she could hear the rustle of her clothing if she shifted position.
Then, just as she was wondering where to find Cullen, she heard a
movement. Her eyes searched the hall and found a figure at last,
looking small and inconspicuous as he lay on his side among a pile
of pillows. He was robed in splendid silk, embroidered with gold
threads. He seemed to be painting. It was the clink of his brush
against a glass bowl that alerted her to his presence.

She cautioned herself to look carefully for
guards. He must be closely watched. How else to explain the open
window, and his indolent lack of notice?

But as prudently as she searched, she could
find no one else in the room. Puzzled, she stepped around the
screen and said, “Cullen?”

He looked up in surprise. Then, hopefulness
splashed across his face, as if he’d taken his paints and spattered
color all over his skin. “Gabby! Oh, I’m so glad to see you! You
have to help me. You must get me out of here.”

Casting a look about the room from this more
advantageous vantage point, she could see there was, indeed, no one
guarding her brother. “Quick, Cullen, we’re both climbing out that
window and—”

“Gabby, take care!”

She’d started toward him. But in midflight,
she was caught from behind and lifted from the floor. A thick arm
held her in place as she struggled to break free. She was hauled
around to face two guards beside the one who held her pinned
against his chest, her legs flailing maniacally above the
ground.

As she struggled, she slipped, and his
hamlike arm came in contact with her breasts. He froze, said
something to his compatriots, and set her on her feet. As he held
her fast, the others ripped the guard’s robe from her shoulders and
gawked at her.

She heard Cullen’s whimper somewhere behind.
“Gabby...”

“Go to the bazaar. Find Rodrigo,” she
snapped. “Now!”

The guards peered closely when they heard her
speak. They began to whisper heatedly among themselves, casting
glances back over their shoulders at the sultan’s quarters beyond.
One guard pinned her arms behind her as his fellow sentinels
chattered and snickered softly. As she struggled, they began to
torment her, raising her robes to see her legs, and the soft, downy
hair between her thighs. They ran dark hands along her golden skin,
murmuring indecipherable words of appreciation.

“Gabby—”

She craned her neck and saw a guard taunting
Cullen with the point of his scimitar.

The frustration, the bitterness of coming so
close to succeeding, only to be yanked away, choked her like acid
in her throat. If only she could get loose. If only she’d moved one
minute sooner. If only...

She was lost in this fight. She wasn’t strong
enough. All she could do was struggle with aching limbs, and live
with the knowledge that this had all been in vain.

Just then another guard entered and, catching
sight of them, barked out an order. They dropped her to her feet
instantly as the man—obviously in charge—rounded her with narrowed,
assessing eyes. He scratched his chin as he took in her disheveled
state, reached over, and slipped the headdress from her head. Her
hair fell to her shoulders as his eyes watched in appreciation.
Then he spoke in a low tone. Reluctantly, the others nodded their
understanding.

With a jerk of his head, the guard holding
her thrust her out into the hall and closed the mammoth doors
behind. To her surprise, he began to drag her down the long
hallway. He wasn’t taking her to the sultan, then. But where?

She was hauled through long passageways and
down numerous flights of stairs. Eventually, she lost track of
which direction they were heading. She only knew they were in a
different part of the building from where the beggars were kept.
The guards stopped at last before a heavy iron door with a massive
lock. They spoke in low tones, and the attending guard retrieved a
set of chains. With her still struggling, they manacled her neck,
wrists, and feet, and shoved her through the door to fall to her
knees on the stone floor. Then the door clanged shut.

Looking up, she saw that she was in a room
filled with Africans of all descriptions—men, women, children of
all ages. Most appeared healthy, some were even enormously
attractive. All were manacled just as she was. Some of the men’s
wrists or ankles chafed against their chains, and were caked with
dried blood. Instantly, it brought back images of the slaves
El
Paraiso
had rescued from the slaver. Slaves that were to be
sold by the sultan of Zanzibar.