Silver Angel (18 page)

“Don’t!” she gasped, reaching for his forearm to yank it away from her.

He let her, but when she tried to rise from his lap, his arms locked around her. “What is it, Shahar?”

“I can’t do this!” she cried, squirming desperately now to break his hold. “I hoped I could, but I just can’t, not with you. Please, let me go!”

If she hadn’t said “not with you,” Derek might
have tried to calm her. But he was remembering the same thing she was, her meeting with his brother, and how Jamil’s actions had appalled and disgusted her. It was going to take more than one meeting with her to make her forget her first impression. Only that meant letting her walk out of here now, when he was aching so badly to have her that he could barely think straight.

Understandably, his voice was rather harsh, as were his hands on her arms as he pushed her away from him. “Go, and do it quickly, before I change my mind.”

A
cross the corridor from Jamil’s rooms, a eunuch was waiting for Chantelle, sitting there Turkish fashion on the floor. He scrambled to his feet when she burst through the door, putting out an arm to detain her. It was Kadar.

He made no comment on her haste. “I will take you to my master.”

She nodded. At least he didn’t ask what had happened. Haji probably would, though, and so she was dragging her feet before she reached the harem.

Kadar led her to Safiye’s apartment, where Haji was having a good gossip while he waited for her. But he wasn’t expecting to see Chantelle this soon.

“So he truly was impatient, was he?”

Chantelle stood in the doorway, cringing to hear Safiye laugh at this observation. Her fingers worried at the pearls around her throat, and she seized on them as an excuse to avoid giving a reply.

“Will you return these to Lalla Rahine with my thanks for the use of them?”

Haji Agha took the pearls from her, but his expression turned thoughtful at such an obvious evasion. “Did all go well, Shahar?”

She bowed her head to avoid those searching eyes of his. “I would rather not talk about it.”

He accepted that, thinking she was merely upset over the loss of her virginity. “Very well, you may go to your room and rest. Perhaps we will talk later.”

God, she hoped not, but she hurried away before
he changed his mind and decided to interrogate her now. Before she reached her room, she was trembling. She dismissed Adamma with a sharp word and curled onto her narrow pallet. The trembling increased.

Oh, God, what had she done? Would the next person to appear at her door be the executioner? Was her stupid virginity worth her life? God, no! She had already discovered that she could survive its loss. She had thought herself raped on board ship. She had felt miserable and shamed, but it hadn’t been the end of the world.

But this just might be. He had been so angry!
If she angers Jamil by resisting him…other women have died for less
. Other of Jamil’s women, or had Rahine been speaking in generalities? As if it mattered now. She had done the one thing she had been told she could not do. She had refused the lord and master the use of her body.
If she angers Jamil by resisting him…
She had done both.

Stupid, so stupid! If only she could go back and do it over. So she despised him. So he was a ruthless, coldhearted barbarian. What did that count next to her life? But she couldn’t go back. She could only leave the harem by his summons, and that was unlikely to ever come again. After all, what use did he have for women who found him detestable, when so many adored him?

At this very moment another woman was probably in his bed; Chantelle hadn’t mistaken that rigid bulge she had been sitting on for what it was. Jamil wouldn’t wait long to relieve it, for his rampant desire had been the very reason he had been furious with her resistance.

Even if he didn’t order her death, even if she were
only punished for today’s defiance, it was doubtful she would ever see him again after she had told him plainly that it was he she objected to. She was going to perish in this horrid place, forgotten, forsaken, wretched.

The self-pitying tears had dried a half hour later when Rahine stormed into her room. In fact, Chantelle had cried herself to sleep, so she was understandably disoriented on being awakened so abruptly, and so loudly.

“You foolish child! In all my years here I’ve never seen anyone with such a total lack of self-preservation!” When Chantelle paled at those words, Rahine added tightly, “No, you are not to die yet, though I wonder if that isn’t the answer. Jamil could be told you had succumbed to sickness, and then he would no longer be infuriated by you, as if he doesn’t have enough to inflame his temper already.”

“I—I couldn’t help it.”

“Don’t give me nonsense, Shahar. You may be stupid, but I am not. You were warned, yet still you refused my son what is rightfully his. And he is in such a temper now that he has ignored his councillors and left the palace to go riding. Riding! Putting his very life in danger! And all because you think you are too good for the Dey of Barikah.”

“That isn’t why,” Chantelle insisted.

“Isn’t it? Or is it that you think you are better than every other woman here? They all came to my son as virgins. Is your virginity more prized than theirs?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then what did you think you were saving it for?” Rahine demanded, her fury rising again, mixed with the anxiety she was feeling for Jamil’s safety. “Did you forget so soon that you are here to stay? The only
man who
can
take it is Jamil, and if you think he will still want it after today, you are mistaken.”

“I realize that,” Chantelle said in a whisper.

“Do you? Then you will agree that you are no longer fit to grace this court, let alone the court of the favorites, which you could so easily have aspired to. Let us see if you find the kitchens more to your liking.”

“Is that to be my punishment?”

“It will be your life’s sentence, if Jamil is wise enough to forget about you. But that is assuming he returns to the palace unharmed tonight. If not, then you may be sure your life
will
be forfeit for causing his recklessness.”

Derek rode hell-bent over the plain, at last able to give the Thoroughbred his head to gallop full speed. He hadn’t bothered to dress for the excursion other than to strap on his own boots for riding. He had been too impatient to get out of the palace, away, anywhere. He didn’t care about the panic he left behind. His impersonation of his brother was on temporary hold. It was Derek who needed space, who needed the wind in his hair, the surge of a powerful animal beneath him—the distance to keep him from doing something he would regret, for he had been
that
close to having Shahar brought back to him and forcing her to his will.

Damn her own strength of will for enabling her to deny the potent sensuality he had aroused in her. And damn Jamil for the impression he had made on her that made her deny it. She
had
enjoyed his kisses. She had melted in his arms, mindlessly giving of herself and taking what he offered. He wasn’t mistaken about the complete, unrestrained response that had
revealed her true nature, and he was convinced it was an extremely passionate nature, if it could overcome her abhorrence and distrust of him.

But only temporarily. The slightest distraction had sparked her resistance and her determination to reject any pleasure he might give her. Stubborn English perversity in all its annoying glory. If she were of any other nationality, would she persevere with such tenacity? No. Only the English dug in their heels even on lost causes.

Derek slowed the stallion when the desert finally stretched before them and brought him to a halt. He barely noticed the beauty of such barren emptiness lit in blue shades of moonlight. He sat there for a moment, letting his thoughts fan his hot temper, rather than cool it.

If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t so much angry at Shahar’s obstinacy as he was with himself. This lustful impatience on his part was a new experience, one he didn’t like at all. Shahar couldn’t be blamed for her reaction to him, or for her reluctance to part with her innocence. If he could tell her it was in her own best interests to consummate their relationship, and what the future would hold for her if she did, she might give in gracefully, even with gratitude.

But he couldn’t tell Shahar that. And when he thought of how long it was going to take to break through her resistance on his own, without the truth to make it easier, he groaned in frustration. How was he ever going to last? Certainly there were any number of women he could summon to his bed, but his ache was for Shahar, and until she relieved it, he doubted anyone else could, not completely. To hell with half measures. He would wait.

In the meantime, he would put his impersonation to the test and meet his sisters-in-law, all three of them, and his many nieces and nephews. These summonses were expected and might as well be gotten out of the way now as opposed to later. Shahar would need a few days alone anyway, to contemplate his displeasure. If fear could make her more agreeable, he wouldn’t prevent its manifestation, though he wouldn’t add to it either. He would prove to her afterward that there had never been any reason for her to be afraid of him.

With that resolved in his mind, he turned about and headed back to the city. He had ridden only a few yards when he noticed the vague outline of two of his guards finally catching up with him. He chuckled, his mood improved. Their desert mounts had never had a chance of keeping up with an English Thoroughbred sired by a champion racer. It was in his blood for the stallion to leave all comers in the dust.

Derek should feel contrite about his thoughtless actions, but he didn’t. He had needed this time alone, with nothing but the stars and the wind and the quiet to keep his temper company. The danger of going off alone had been the least of his concerns. In fact, he would have welcomed a would-be assassin—he had been in the mood to hurt. But that mood was over now that his loins had cooled off. Imagine being ruled by his sex. That, too, was a new experience he found disconcerting.

Derek pulled up on the reins when the approaching riders got closer and he made out the flowing gray robes, not exactly the uniform of the palace guards he had assumed them to be. He frowned, wondering if he was going to get his wish after all, to meet a few of Jamil’s enemies. Not that he minded. It just
would have been convenient if he had thought to carry a weapon or two on him for this mad dash out into the countryside. But he hadn’t exactly been thinking when he’d left the palace. He had been propelled along by hot, frustrated emotion and nothing else. A rather stupid thing to do after his many sojourns across the Channel as one of Marshall’s spies. Old Marsh would be appalled by such carelessness.

The riders didn’t slow down until the very last moment, giving Derek fair warning that he did indeed have a fight on his hands. The thing to do would be to take off and outrun them. There was no chance in hell they could keep up with the white stallion. But he didn’t do that.

The decision was made in the split second before a scimitar cut the air in front of him, slicing toward his head. He ducked, noting that the assassins weren’t smart enough to come at him from each side. As the first man passed him after an unsuccessful swipe, the second came up on the same side, only this one tried to leap onto Derek and knock him off his horse. He met Derek’s foot squarely in his chest, kicking him back into his saddle and nearly over it. He dropped his weapon in the fight to regain his balance and breathe at the same time.

Derek immediately dismissed him as incapacitated for the moment and swung about to face the other man, who had had time to turn around for his next assault. Several yards away, Derek was able to rear the stallion up on his hind legs and bring the front legs down at the crucial moment. The scream told him the stallion’s hoofs had hit something vital on their descent. The man’s horse had suffered, too, the front legs buckling, which sent the assassin tumbling over the animal’s head. He didn’t try to rise, squirm
ing on the ground with one hand pressed to his right shoulder, yelling loudly now in his pain.

Derek whipped about again to see what the other one was up to, only to grin as he caught the man’s shadow in flight, already far away. He dismounted then and picked up the dropped scimitar before he moved to stand over the fallen man. The fellow immediately started blubbering for mercy, but Derek had no intention of killing him. He did intend to take him back to the palace, however, and turn him over to Omar. There was a slim chance that this one might know something more than the other would-be assassins who had been caught.

Swiftly, he brought the hilt of the scimitar down on the man’s turbaned head. Silence was immediate. Derek moved to check the fellow’s horse, which had since risen and was standing by docilely. Bruised, undoubtedly, but the animal seemed capable of carrying a prone burden back to the city. If not, Derek would just as soon drag the luckless fellow behind his own mount. For someone who had just tried to kill him, he couldn’t dredge up much sympathy.

T
he other slaves didn’t know what to make of Chantelle’s presence among them. Some were spiteful, some sympathetic, some fearful of speaking to her at all. Apparently, a concubine from the royal harem had never before been sentenced to kitchen labor. And from the few derogatory remarks she overheard, she knew she was singularly unique in not wanting to win the Dey’s favor. With every other woman going out of her way to please him in any way possible, it was no wonder punishment such as she had incurred was rare.

She was considered a freak, her crime heinous. God, what absurdity. She hadn’t done anything wrong as far as she was concerned. Of course she hadn’t thought so two days ago, when she’d been brought to the cavernous kitchen area and turned over to the Chief Cook, who was now in charge of her. At that time she had been so terrified, the large, overbearing woman had taken one look at her and turned away in disgust, ranting that she would never get any work out of such a pale, skinny wraith.

But Chantelle’s fear had been very real after Rahine’s parting shot. She didn’t know why the Dey’s life should be in danger if he left the palace, but that he had, and that it was, horrified her, for she did think she was responsible, and she believed absolutely that if he didn’t come back, her life would be forfeit.

She hadn’t slept that night, for no one had bothered to let her know that Jamil
had
returned safely to the
palace. She’d learned of it the next day, when one of Noura’s servants, Noura being his second wife, came through the kitchens bragging to anyone who would listen that her mistress had been summoned for that night. Chantelle had then felt such keen resentment that it surprised her. She’d told herself it was because of her sleepless night, all for nothing, that Rahine could at least have had the decency to send word that her life was no longer in danger, even if her punishment wasn’t to be rescinded. Her umbrage certainly wasn’t because Jamil was going to spend the night with one of his wives. He could have a bloody orgy for all she cared, as long as she wasn’t included. And it didn’t look like she would be, ever. He sent her to labor as a kitchen slave and blithely went on with his customary lechery, the swine. Rahine was probably right—she would be forgotten in this dreary, unfriendly place.

Well and good. It was what she had originally hoped for, wasn’t it, to end up anything but a concubine? But it would have been nice if she hadn’t spent those first few days as a concubine, which accounted for the outright resentment of some of the other women who shared her new existence. Not all, though. She had met Adamma’s mother yesterday and found her as likable as her daughter.

Fayolo was a beautiful Nigerian who seemed much too young to have a daughter Adamma’s age, but she had informed Chantelle unabashedly that she had been a ripe thirteen when she began catching the eye of the palace guards. That the kitchen slaves had access to other parts of the palace was news that Chantelle pounced on, until the Chief Cook snapped that
she
wasn’t to have such freedom, by Rahine’s orders,
which just added another dose of resentment to that which was already brewing.

The large chamber was to be her prison and, with a pallet on the cold floor, her bedchamber as well. Jamil had sent her here—she didn’t doubt that. He had obviously left the order before he’d stormed out of the palace. If it had been left to Rahine to punish her, she would more likely have been severely beaten instead, the lady had been that angry with her. No, Jamil had put her here, probably thinking that this would shame her more than anything else, that she would regret losing her pampered existence in the harem and wish she had been more agreeable to him. Hah! He had done for her what she hadn’t been able to figure out how to do for herself. He had put her out of his reach. Well, not exactly, but if enough time passed, he
would
forget about her. And as she had already concluded, why would he bother with her again when he had so many women who prayed to have his notice?

She had to count her blessings. It might not be a pleasant place to work, but thanks to her stay with Aunt Ellen, a kitchen was at least familiar ground. And they had made their own meals. The blustering cook, who was so quick with the slaps and the shouts, might not be an easy taskmaster, but Chantelle would eventually get along with the woman if it killed her. The main thing was, here she didn’t have to worry about being summoned to share her lord’s bed. For that relief she could put up with anything, the hostility, the ridicule, the constant work, even a slap from the Chief Cook when she did something wrong. Also, she would have a much better chance of escaping from the kitchens than the harem, whose every door was guarded. But that was for later, when she was accli
mated and no longer under curious observation from nearly everyone.

Yesterday had been a normal workday, yet even with so many slaves on hand, Chantelle had still been kept busy, for this kitchen fed all the concubines and favorites of the Dey. Fayolo informed her that only the eunuchs’ kitchen, one building over, was as busy, since there were three times as many eunuchs, but that the ideal kitchen to work in was Lalla Rahine’s, which served only her.

“But what of the palace guards and the slaves?” Chantelle had wondered aloud. “Isn’t their number even greater?”

“Much greater,” Fayolo told her. “But their food is simple fare, requiring much less actual preparation.”

Today Chantelle found out just how much preparation could go into one meal, and this for only ten people. She was awakened before dawn to help Fayolo get a young sheep ready for roasting.
Mechoui
, the dish was called, and Chantelle, so used to bringing home already butchered meat from the market, lost the leftover pastry she had quickly downed as her breakfast when she watched Fayolo plunge a knife into the carotid and blood spurt out. She had time to recover, however, since they had to wait until all the blood was drained, but then a hole was made with the knife point above the knee joint on one back leg and the skin loosened there. With nausea fast returning, she had to take turns with Fayolo blowing through this hole until the air reached the forelegs so the sheep could swell and stiffen.

Fayolo took pity on her and did the skinning, but the Chief Cook insisted Chantelle participate in scraping and rinsing the tripe, as well as singeing and
cleaning the head and trotters. She was twice sick again before they finished, over which the cook and half the women there laughed heartily, but finally the sheep was impaled from tail to throat for slow roasting and basted in olive oil.

It would take five hours for the skin to become crackly and the flesh juicy, but Chantelle was not given a respite. She also had to help cut up camel meat for the
tajin
, a stew that was so thick it was eaten with the fingers, while Fayolo made the couscous, a delicious-smelling dish of semolina with chicken and two sauces, one to moisten the semolina and one to spice the dish, with vegetables cooked down to a paste.

But the most arduous time was spent helping the Chief Cook with the
bstila
to round out this feast for ten. Never had Chantelle seen such a complicated dish for so few in number. Three actual pounds of butter were needed, thirty eggs, four pounds of flour, six pigeons, twelve ounces of sugar, a pound of almonds, and then the exact measurement of cinnamon, ginger, pimentos, onions, saffron, and coriander. What it turned into in the end was an enormous stuffed flaky pastry with one hundred and four thin individual layers of crust.

The
bstila
took all day to make, but Chantelle only had to help with the crusts in the afternoon, after the previous helper had fainted from the heat. During the few hours that she was under the cook’s watchful eye, she received two separate slaps when she broke two of the thin crusts when setting them aside. Fayolo tried to change places with her, for she was the one basting the sheep, a much easier job, but she got a slap for the offer. Chantelle thought the cook was just being spiteful, until she heard one of the other women giggle that Noura had specifically requested
that she have a hand in each preparation. And then she learned that this feast was Noura’s idea, a surprise for the Dey, to be attended only by his wives and favorites.

For a split second, she wished she could get her hands on some poison. But by the time this magnificent feast was carried out, she wished only for her pallet. She was wilted, her hair and clothes damp with the sweat that had run off her all day, and so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. She was certainly too tired to eat her own dinner, which wouldn’t be served for several hours yet, since the kitchen slaves didn’t rest until the last concubine had been fed.

Fortunately, the cook must have found an ounce of pity in her large frame, because she sent Chantelle to bed, rather than ordering her to another table where food was still being prepared for the other ladies of the harem. Or maybe she just realized that Chantelle simply couldn’t do any more today without dropping. The reason didn’t matter. Chantelle was asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, her last thought of Jamil’s second wife and how she would have liked to see her roasted instead of that poor young sheep, which she hoped they all choked on, especially Jamil.