Seize the Fire (50 page)

He knelt there, his head hanging for a moment. Then he looked up, searching the room with a quick sweep. He saw her, seemed to register that she was still there and safe, and then with a weary heave sank back against the wall.

The guards left, one by one. The last one bowed to Olympia, rolled his eyes at Sheridan and closed the door.

He sat hunched against the wall as darkness fell, his arms crossed on his knees, staring ahead: a shadow lost in shadows. Sometimes a shudder racked him, but he stayed there, awake and unpredictable, keeping his own vigil against whatever dangers he saw in the black night.

Olympia did not dare to disturb him. She'd thought she could tame the wolf. She'd thought she might reach that part of him with reason and love. But she hadn't.

She hadn't even come close.

Sheridan treaded warily through the days and nights as they journeyed from Ishak's palace on the hill above Douubayazit to Stamboul. He felt detached, riding behind Olympia along the forested mountain paths of Anatolia, noting the way the winter wind lifted her
yashmak
and made it flutter, watching the splendid caravan Ishak Pasha had assembled—occupying his mind with small and harmless details.

It had snowed often in the mountains, and at night he held her, supplying warmth with his body that was lacking in Turkish notions of luxury. He wondered what she thought of him—that he made no move to spark the passion between them. He wanted to. But that would require coming back to reality, living in the world instead of on the floating plane of apartness. How long had it been? It seemed like a moment ago, and forever, the last time he'd made love to her—and even then he hadn't been free to take her fully.

She'd asked him to…

He shifted in the saddle, feeling disquieting emotions rise to threaten his drifting equilibrium. He wasn't ready to think about that yet. He blinked, and he could see her face, tilted back in glorious ecstasy, her warm naked body arched in invitation—as vivid as the evergreens around them, as sharp as the scent of pine smoke from a nearby camp. Flashes of the image lit his brain, powerful and tantalizing. He felt himself slipping away into it.

"Sheridan."

He blinked again, like waking from a sound sleep, and found that the surroundings had changed. They'd left the woods and entered a village: far ahead, downhill, he could see the blue glint of water among the budding cypress trees. The air had warmed—there was a scent of spring blossoms on the breeze blowing inland from the coast.

"What do they want us to do?" Olympia's quiet voice directed his sluggish attention.

He listened to their attendant's excited babble of information. All along the caravan behind, voices began to lift in excited chatter.

He looked up at Olympia. "We're to go ahead to Beykoz tonight. On the Bosporus." He paused. His heart began to beat harder, feeling reality coming, like something far away on a vast horizon that had just begun rolling toward him, picking up speed as it went. "We're to stay there," he added slowly. "The Sultan comes…to receive us in person."

He stood on the terrace of their rooms in the waterside palace, making a concerted effort to shake off the mental lethargy and focus on the situation at hand. Below, in a grove of plane trees at the water's edge, a group of women filled earthen water jars, bright silhouettes against the blue water.

As he waited for Olympia to be returned from her bath, he gazed at the colorful boats and the exotic white domes and minarets of the palaces on the European side. He found it hard to believe Mahmoud was coming—it was good news, too bizarrely good. He was uneasy. He'd expected a weeks-long wait in a crowded chamber at Topkapi Palace before he was even summoned. How well he remembered that magnificent warren of tiny rooms and endless ceremonies and delays. He'd learned Turkish patience at Topkapi, but the slow oozing away of time and life had always chafed. He'd been younger then.

Now he wished time might drift on endlessly in this lovely spot where the dark green trees overhung the fabled sweet waters of Europe and Asia. He didn't even know whose palace this was: one of Mahmoud's summer residences, perhaps, or some girl awarded to a Grand Vizier. The owner wasn't in evidence. If only he and Olympia could stay here, in peace and solitude, maybe he could find himself again.

For the thousandth time, he thought of things she'd said. That she would not hate him. That she was glad he was on her side. That he could keep them safe without violence, without hurting anyone. He tried to believe those things. He repeated them to himself. But he was afraid.

He heard her enter the room behind him and dismiss her attendants. He closed his eyes, waiting. Her scent came to him, then the soft song of her belled slippers on the carpets, a warmth at his side. He opened his eyes and looked down at her.

She twisted one of her golden braids beneath the sheer, tasseled scarf that covered her head. "It's a very great thing, isn't it?" she asked without preamble. "The Sultan coming to meet us here."

He blew out a breath. "It's the devil of a thing. I don't know what to make of it."

"It's all the servants can speak of. There was an interpreter waiting here for me, did you know that? A lovely Greek girl. She translated everything—and very odd it was, too—to hear that my hair must surely be a wig and I certainly ought to be shaved in the most—" She broke off, coloring scarlet.

"Private places?" Sheridan found his mouth curving in a slow, secret grin.

She put her hands on the terrace railing and gave him a pert glance. "I understand it's
de rigueur
."

"Most certainly."

"And did you follow the custom?"

"No. But I'm a well-known madman and prophet. If you don't like it, I'll consult some entrails and see if I can't get the thing changed." He leaned on the rail, turning lazily to look at her. "In fact—when I think of those pretty blond curls, I believe that saving 'em clearly ought to count as a divine mission."

"They're…safe so far." Her cheeks were pink with embarrassment, but she parted her lips and held his eyes steadily. Hopefully. He realized where he'd taken the conversation, and the sudden ferocious depth of his desire for her seemed to make a roaring in his ears.

He stood where he was, frozen. She still looked at him, the tasseled scarf a transparent, graceful curve over her shoulder, the flowing Turkish dress splendidly seductive. He could see her nipples, and the shadow beneath her breasts, all hazed into mysterious roundness by the gauzy fabric. They'd dressed her simply, not at all in the extravagant Turkish idea of a houri, but to Sheridan she was intolerably alluring.

He curled his fingers, wanting desperately to reach out and hold her. But another part of him wasn't ready—it held back, like a stubborn child in the shadows, fascinated by the glitter of a wonderful toy and still afraid to touch. He stood still, watching the hope fade from her face, until finally she turned away, clasped her hands and gazed out across the water.

Her plump chin took on a resolute stiffness as she coolly changed the topic. "I think, since we're to meet the Sultan tomorrow, it's time you told me how you come to wear that crescent."

He lowered his eyes. After a moment, he said, "I did him a favor once. A deuce of a long time ago."

"What favor?"

He shrugged. "Along with several other people…helped to save his life."

She turned to him slowly, questions burning in her expression.

He squinted out over the sparkling water between the dark green hills.

"It was just a stupid palace revolt. I really don't want to talk about it."

She tilted her head and smiled a little. "Oh. Just a stupid palace revolt. Just a minor matter of saving the Sultan's life."

"Leave it alone, will you?" He felt anger gathering in him. He didn't like this topic; he didn't like the way his throat and belly tightened on the edges of memories. "Quit trying to pretend I'm a bloody damned hero. I'm not. I'd think you'd have noticed by now."

She bit her lip, and then said quietly, "All fight. You're not a hero. But I'd like to know why the Sultan's going to so much trouble to do us all this honor. I think that's a fair question."

He looked away from the blaze of sun on water. His head hurt. But she was right, it was only reasonable to let her know where they stood in this situation. What he knew of it, anyway. And he had a feeling she'd demand an explanation until he gave her one.

"Mahmoud was the old sultan's half brother," he said. "Next in line to the throne. They're not overly nice-minded when it comes to politics around here—" He moved his hand negligently. "It's the custom to keep all the extraneous princes locked up in some palace apartments they call The Cage so they won't be tempted to start any trouble." Sheridan frowned, remembering, and then went doggedly on, wanting to get the tale over with. "Without boring you with all the Byzantine details, so to speak, there was a revolt and Mahmoud's cousin took control from his brother." He locked his hands and leaned on the rail. "The Ottomans also have the delightful habit of murdering all the rival heirs whenever a new sultan takes charge—which is expedient, but damned messy, and plays hell with your afterlife. The new fellow had a bit too much sensibility to stomach it, y'see; he just locked Mahmoud and his brother together in The Cage." Sheridan looked toward her. "And there lies a lesson in politics for you, Princess," he said bluntly, "because somebody came along and decided to put the proper sultan back in his place. The softhearted upstart got butchered…but not before he'd seen his mistake—too late—and sent his minions to The Cage to strangle Mahmoud and his brother. They got his brother, but Mahmoud escaped."

She was watching him, her eyes wide and expressionless. "Exactly what was your part in this?"

He rubbed his fist on the marble rail. "Not all that much. I was pretty young—I used to lurk about and figure out ways to spy around—mostly in the hareem. Anyway, I saw them coming with the bowstring. They went after Mahmoud's brother first—there was a lot of confusion—fighting, which I made sure to stay out of—a slave threw a pan of burning charcoal in the way—and I knew how to get out, and I took him. Over the roofs."

"Ah," she said.

They both gazed out at the water. Somewhere below, a nightingale called in the trees.

"How old were you?" she asked.

"God knows. Eighteen. Maybe nineteen."

"Why," she said in a careful, quiet voice, "were you in the palace at all?"

He'd understood it would come to this, of course. He took a deep breath. "Well, I was a slave, you know. I couldn't leave." He didn't look at her.

"I thought—"

"Yes, very true. I made Mustafa lie. I don't like it spread about. Would you?"

"No," she said in a small voice. "I suppose not."

He pointed out a pretty yacht working up into the wind to anchor in the bay across from their palace, hoping she would drop the matter there. His head was throbbing. It made his ears ring like the sound of guns.

"It's beautiful," she agreed, and then went right back to worry the issue.

"But it wasn't your fault—being a slave. And you saved the Sultan."

"Who gives a damn? Can we go on to some other stirring chapter in my heroic life?"

She looked pointedly at the
teskeri
, which he wore openly all the time now. "The Sultan obviously thought much of it."

"He was young, too. And lonely. Looking for friends. Willing and able to buy 'em."

"He bought you for his friend?"

Sheridan shifted restlessly. "'More or less."

"Then—when you helped rescue him, did he reward you with your freedom?"

"The gratitude of sultans," he mused with a touch of scorn. "They don't offer you three wishes and a genie anymore. He wanted me there. He liked me. He had all kinds of reasons to keep me, and none to let me go."

"How did you get away?"

"I escaped. That was how I knew the way over the roofs—I'd been intending to use it. But after I brought Mahmoud over that route, I had to find another. It took me a year."

"How did you finally get out?"

He studied her eager face, and imagined the story going in impetuous innocence to the Greek girl and from there all over Stamboul. "I don't think I'll tell you that."

She looked offended. "Why not?"

"I might need to use it."

"An escape route? Now?"

He shrugged.

"But surely this Mahmoud can't call you his slave anymore! You're as free as I am!"

He looked at her meaningfully. Her eyes widened in horror.

"I don't believe it," she said. "There's a British ambassador. He wouldn't let that happen."

He nodded, unwilling to argue the point. There was no use in frightening her beyond this gentle warning. She plucked a flower from a pot of carnations and sniffed it, then absently began to bruise it between her fingers.

"How were you taken as a slave in the first place?" she asked.

He'd hoped he'd exhausted her curiosity on the subject. He dropped his head, staring down at his arms on the rail. He rubbed his aching eyes and thought of not answering at all.

"Were you captured? Were there others taken off your ship?"

"No," he muttered.

"Just you?"

Sheridan chewed his lip. "There was a storm," he said suddenly. "There was a storm, and our captain was a fool, and she went on the rocks at Imroz. Lost with all hands." He paused. He felt her look up, felt her gaze on him. "Except me."

She reached out and took his hand. She squeezed it.

He closed his eyes. The safe dullness was slipping. It seemed as if something inside him was tearing apart: a slow wound, old pain: grief and guilt and the way his head kept pounding, noise and noise and noise. "I should have died," he whispered. "I shouldn't have left them."

She touched his arm. With gentle insistence, she put her hand to his cheek and made him look at her. "I need you here." She stared up into his eyes, steady and unblinking. "I'm
glad
you're here."

"You don't understand," he said. "They were mates. My crew."

"I don't care." She gripped his hands. "Is that selfish? Is that so wrong of me? I don't care, Sheridan. I didn't know those men—I know you. I love you."