The Stanhope Challenge - Regency Quartet - Four Regency Romances (44 page)

The crowd groaned their approval of her adoration of her lover.

She wanted more. All of his shaft. She took him, once, twice, each time lower to the base of his hairless loins. Had they demanded he be clean-shaven, too? Oh, she loved that idea and began to service him with smooth, elegant strokes, savoring his taste—and her power.

His hand sank in her hair. She could move less, but stroked him with her tongue.

He growled, cursed, and she inched closer to him. Needier, hungrier for his seed, she grew wild to milk him, have him come in her mouth, drink him in, drink him up, have him all. Always hers.

He shouted out, holding her head to his body as he rocked with her mouth on him. Taking him, helping him, she let him come.

His rhythmic strokes set off inside her a roaring orgasm of her own as he poured himself into her. His seed was warm and her delight a scrumptious triumph. Swallowing over and over again, she concentrated on making him happy as her own body throbbed and yearned for fulfillment.

Mark pushed her to her back, raised her legs in the air, draped them over his arms and drove inside her with one heavenly, devilish drive.

“Have me,” she mouthed, tears rushing to her eyes, streaming down the sides of her face as Mark did as she asked and filled her to the hilt.

She came, her hips rocking with his. Her words, nonsense, madness, as she grabbed to bring him closer, deeper inside her.

She spun in his electrifying touch, needing just one more moment, and another, as her channel ached and throbbed with decadent ecstasy. Her throbs subsided. She whispered in his ear of her delight. He kissed her once.

And then he was gone.

Gone!

Where he had lain atop her, cold air rushed to chill her.

She screamed her objection!

A slave in vermilion face paint grinned lasciviously at her, spread her legs and rammed a pillow under her hips and grabbed one of her ankles to spread her legs wide. She bucked but another slave seized her other ankle. To her side, Mark stood, panting, cursing two burly slaves who held him from her.

Countless male faces drifted in and out of her view as the two slaves held her open to their speculation.

She squeezed shut her eyes. Their faces seemed all the same. Fierce black eyes afire with lust. Mouths open, tongues lashing their lips in longing. Nostrils flared in need.

She sought out Mark. He focused on her. Loving, proud, apologetic, his dear features spoke of all he might have said, if he were permitted. Instead, he expressed what he wished with his body. With his gaze, he praised her. All that he was filled her mind with the joy of having known him and loved him. He’d certainly taken her mind. And if these heathens now wished to take her soul in this ribald exhibition, then they must learn they could not. For the only one to have her here was the man she loved.

She heard scuffling.

Mark was lifted from her arms. Seized and forced to stand before her, he grimaced in pain. She whispered how she adored him. Would that he would take her words with him and they offer him some comfort when they were parted.

Al Hassan shouted an order and Mark was hauled away by his captors. She rose to her elbows, a growl of utter despair escaping her. Hustled to the farthest door, Mark disappeared.

She shot to her feet.

The men in the room gasped.

She whirled to face the pasha.

A feral grin of decadent delight spread across his fleshy lips. He spoke, and she knew his words were begrudging praise. She advanced on him, hands clenched. What could she say that he might know her abject hatred? How could she show him her fury and thus ensure he rotted in hell?

Valentina came to her side.

A man in a red fez stepped to her other side, but addressed his master.

After a brief exchange between the men, Valentina spoke to her softly. “My friend, you have done so well, do not advance further, lest you ruin this day’s joy.”

Gulping back new despair, Sirena shook back her hair and held her head high, glaring at Al Hassan.

Two eunuchs came to stand before her. Their meaty hands seized her arms. She gasped, scared beyond her wits that now they meant to throw her to the unruly crowd.

But they took her from the hall, through the courtyard, out into the sunshine and to the secluded enclave of the seraglio. There, they led her to her tiny room where they threw her to her bed. There, she cried herself to sleep.

At dawn, she was awakened by the female warden to repeat the hours’ long ritual of cleansing and scrubbing, scenting and shaving, until she was weak as a baby.

At sunset, the two Nubian giants appeared at her room, accompanied by the female warden. Wordlessly, they took her out of the seraglio and into Al Hassan’s audience room.

Here, Sirena was placed upon a tall table, and once more, countless men filled the room. Tonight am I to be given to them? She panicked, made to rise from the table, but was pushed backward by one of her Nubian guards. Heart in her throat, she watched as much the same scene recurred before her. The appearance of the musicians and jugglers. The return of the male slave of last night who came to stand before her.

Him?

Dear God. Am I to mate with him?

But he smiled slowly and whirled to welcome with open arms one young woman from the seraglio whom Sirena knew. This girl was no more than eighteen, but buxom and wily. A beauty with waist length midnight silken hair, she had large red nipples, painted bright cherry, as was her mouth. The musicians began a trilling tune moments after her appearance and naked head to toe, she danced for the male slave and her eager audience.

Within moments, the muscular slave had a virile erection that he stroked audaciously for the dancing girl. As she twirled about him, she batted lust-starved eyes at him. To entice him more, she laid hands on his broad shoulders, his waist and throat. Mesmerized, he followed her every move with his eyes. But never did he touch her.

Enchanted by the artistry of the girl’s dancing, Sirena stirred when she watched two more men enter the room. As naked, as fit and as comely as the first male slave, these two new men came to stand on display as the female houri seduced them as she had the first. Their cocks stood tall to have her and dripped to enter her.

Abruptly, the music came to a halt. Moving like the wind, the first man took her in his arms, turned her toward the other two and held her while they each licked one of her breasts. She writhed, the look on her face blind ecstasy. At once, her male captor lifted her up so that now she wrapped her legs around one man’s hips. And there, without prelude, he entered her and serviced her with fierce strokes that shook the woman’s entire body.

Sirena startled. The scene was ribald but utterly fascinating. Her own desire swelled, and she shifted to hide it. Was she meant to have these men after this girl? Where was Mark? What had Hassan done with him?

Moans from the crowd redirected Sirena’s attention to the foursome. One man had sprawled on his back, his shaft a glorious tall erection. The first man who still held the houri in his arms took her and placed her astride him on the couch. She sank over his cock with closed eyes, a swirl of her hips and a cry of success. The other man crawled on to the bed behind her and this time, he bent her over, kissed her on her rosy hole and then sank his cock inside her.

She roared with rapture.

Sirena jumped. This was decadent, outrageous. And oh, she was so far from home, so far from love and kindness and Mark.

Her gaze locked on the sight of the two men alternately rocking into the harem girl.

She turned and ran.

But her Nubians caught her. Hands to her upper arms, they dragged her before Al Hassan.

The tyrant said a few words. She could tell by their tone, he was pleased. Immensely so.

And Sirena feared that now she would become his plaything. His to torment and destroy.

She trembled as Valentina came to walk beside her . “Our master is delighted with you. He wonders if your own master is worthy of you. Perhaps you need another.”

She sank to her bed that night in hideous fright. She was entertainment for these brigands. Her own desires, her body used for their delights, even as she showed her love for Mark. The unfairness and the irony splintered her hope into shards of despair. How could she do this night after night? When would the lurid absurdity of what they did kill what love she and Mark had for each other?

Could a man and woman, trained in a culture where one man mated with one woman, live long when the intimacy of their relationship was a lustful morsel for others to consume?

“Wake up!” Someone shook her. “Sirena!”

Groggy, she blinked into the shadows. “Valentina?”

“Come, put these on.” She shoved trousers and a shirt of flowing linen into Sirena's hands. “Hurry!”

“But where?” She lowered her voice at Valentina’s finger across her lips. “What are we doing?”

“We go to your master’s ship.”

“What?” Impossible. “How?” She was throwing her arms into the long sleeved shirt, swimming in the huge proportions.

“No time to talk. Come.”

Sirena hung back, clutching the woman’s arm. “How do I know you are helping?”

“You don’t. You have to trust me. And if you don’t, you can take your chances of surviving here. Which is it?”

She had but one choice. To go. Once more, she would act rashly. Quickly. Freedom her only goal.

In the soft silences of the seraglio, nothing moved but the breezes through the palm trees. Sirena followed Valentina, both in slippers that made small padding noises as they rushed along. They wove through corridors Sirena had never even guessed existed. They darted through doors Sirena marveled at for their height and filigreed décor.

Approaching a huge wooden gate, two sentries to the lock, Sirena doubted Valentina’s wisdom to continue. But taking her only chance at escape, Sirena came to a halt before the surly looking Arabs. Valentina whispered some hurried words, and at once, the gates swung wide.

Sirena could do nothing but stare.

“Come! Quickly!”

She ran behind Valentina, and to her shock, the two sentries from the gate ran too.

Darting from one wall to another to avoid light of the moon, the four of them raced through the centre of town. At a small L in the path, Valentina grabbed her hand and pulled her into an open shop. The aromas of cinnamon and cardamom hit Sirena’s nostrils.

“Here,” murmured a man in accented English, “put this over you.” Sirena glanced up, stunned to recognize the man from Hassan’s court. The man in the fez.

Grabbing his hand, she began to ask him who he was and why he was here, but he would have none of her questions. “Do not ask, receive.” He jerked on the robe that covered her head to foot. Then wrapped a scarf over her hair. “Cover your mouth. Now, run.”

Like deer, the five of them ran through the town. Skipping over rocks, darting over baskets and garbage, pots and discarded items, they left the confines of the city and charged along the grassy dunes toward the sandy shore. There on a dark horizon, dancing on star-kissed waters sailed the Water Witch.

“How can this be?” she asked herself more than her companions.

“We tell you once we are aboard,” the man told her and grabbed their hands to run forward to a dock and one waiting rowboat.

Scrambling up the rope ladder, over the sides and to the deck, Sirena panted from her exertions. Frantic, she scanned the deck for Mark, but could not find him. Had he not escaped? Oh, that could not be! She ran a shaking hand through her hair and spun. There, atop the wheel deck, Mark thrust his spyglass into the hands of a crewman who Sirena remembered had brought her to him from the hold. Mark rushed down the steps and took her in his arms.

The solid touch of his hands to her back, to her nape and her cheeks as he gazed down into her eyes told her that her escape was no dream.

“How I worried,” he murmured, his voice a wreck as he kissed her eyes, then claimed her lips with tender sorrow. “Forgive me, darling, for all that happened there. Al Hassan is a brute. I knew it. I had to do what we did.” He paused a moment to lift a dark brow and ensure she understood his implication of their erotic coupling. “It was the only way to free us. My only choice to save you.”

“I concluded as much then. You need explain nothing of your motives. I knew them instinctively.” She caressed his cheek and reached up to kiss him in thanks.

He steadied her on her feet, gave a quick nod to Valentina, then hugged the man who had accompanied them. “Thank you, Ramon, for this. I can never repay you.”

“You have already, Marco. Valentina and I are free of him as well as your woman.”

“Let’s make certain of it, Ramon.” Mark beamed at the man who, clearly, was his friend. “Come up to the wheel with me. I need your guidance to sneak out of this inlet before dawn.”

The two men ran toward the stairs.

“Who is that man, Valentina?”

Her friend’s lovely face filled with pride, her bearing suddenly regal. “Don Ramon Catalon, Duke of Toledo, capitan of the northern fleet of His Royal Majesty, the King of Spain. His ships were captured by Al Hassan more than six years ago.”

Sirena stared at her in shock. Ramon was not a pirate, not a slave, but a nobleman wrongly imprisoned. “And you?”

Valentina’s oval face glowed with a radiance Sirena had never seen from her. “His wife. Taken in the same siege.”

“Come along, ladies,” the crewman Simpson slid to a halt before them. “I’ve orders to show you below.”

“Can we not stay,” Sirena asked, enjoying the fresh air of freedom, “and see us leave this horrid place?”

“No, ma’am. You can not. Captain’s orders.”

“But—”

“Ma’am.” Simpson glared at her. “’Ems my captain’s orders. He wants you below if them buggers discover us gone and come out with their guns blazing to sink us. Now, you want to be atop to see us get blown to smithereens, or you want to be a polite lady and come below while we leave this hell?”

“Of course.” She hooked her arm in Valentina’s. “Forgive me, Simpson. I go below along with my friend.”