“My lord, and master, Adora.”
She grit her teeth in rage. “My lord and master,” she finally managed to say.
He pulled her up and kissed her again.
“You promised!” she shrieked, outraged that he would break his promise so quickly. “You promised not to kiss me again!”
“I did not,” he chuckled, pleased at having made her obey him. “I said I would not kiss you as punishment. Now I kiss you to reward your improving behavior.”
“I hate you!” she wailed.
“Do you?” His black eyes sparkled maliciously. “Then perhaps that explains why you begged me not to stop making love to you just a while ago. Little fool! Tonight is just the beginning for us, Adora.”
Then his mouth closed savagely over hers again. And looking deep into his dark, passionate eyes she knew that she was lost. The miracle of her short-lived marriage to Alexander was gone forever. This was a new life, and she had no choice but to face it.
PART IV
Chapter Sixteen
For the next few days they remained camped in the hills. Murad would allow no one but Adora to wait on him. Though the other servants might serve her and do her bidding, the sultan insisted that his beautiful royal slave do everything for him from bathing him to cooking their meals. This latter was proving a disaster, and Murad finally relieved her of that particular task after several badly cooked and burned meals.
“I cannot believe that anyone with your intelligence could be so clumsy, so inept at the cookfire,” he chuckled as he rubbed lamb fat on her latest burn.
Furiously she yanked her hand away. “I have been trained to use my mind, not my hands! Inept at the cookfire! I should hope so! I am a princess of Byzantium, not a servant!”
A slow, lazy smile lit his features. “You are my slave, Adora, and while you may not be skilled at cooking, you are becoming skilled enough in other matters to make me forget your lack of culinary ability.”
With a cry of outrage she hurled a silken pillow at him, snatching up a cloak she ran from the tent. But his deep mocking laughter followed her. She fled to a small, rocky glade set above the camp, a place she had discovered just the day before. It was lushly carpeted in thick, deep green moss, and hidden by beech and pine trees. She sat by a small natural basin hollowed out of the rock by dripping water.
She wept. She was not a slave! She was not! She was a princess born. She would not, could not, be his whore. She twisted the sodden linen handkerchief. The problem was that men treated her as a pretty plaything, a soft body upon which they could satisfy their lusts. An empty vessel, like a chamberpot, into which they could empty themselves. God! Had it always been like that? Must it continue to be?
The courtesans of ancient Greece were respected for their intellects as well as their bodies. So were the queens of ancient Egypt, who had ruled with their men as equals. But she could hardly expect that kind of thinking from a race just a generation off the steppes, who still preferred tents to palaces. These men expected their women to cook over fires and care for animals. She laughed aloud. At least she hadn’t been subjected to the indignity of pitting her wits against a herd of goats! She had an uncomfortable feeling that the goats might outwit her. She could almost hear Murad’s laughter.
On a branch beside her a wild canary sang his exquisite song, and she looked ruefully up at him. “Ah, little one,” she sighed. “At least you are free to lead your life as you choose.” A bird had more control over its life than a woman! She rose to return to the encampment, and was startled to find the sultan standing in the shadows of a large rock, watching her.
Irrational anger flooded her. She had thought of this glade as a personal retreat. “Am I allowed no privacy?” she snarled at him.
“I feared for your safety.”
“Why? What you want of me can easily be given by a thousand women far more eager to please you than I am.” She attempted to push past him, but he gripped her cruelly about the soft upper arm. “You will bruise me!” she cried at him.
“And if I do? You are mine, Adora! Mine to use as I so choose!”
“The body, yes!” she flung at him. “But unless you have all of me, you have none of me. And you will never possess my soul!” Her voice was triumphant.
A black fury engulfed him. For four days she had been spitting at him like a hellcat. He could render her helpless to desire, but when he was finished with her, her amethyst eyes mocked him, telling him that he did not really own her. His anger had become uncontrollable. Kicking her legs out from beneath her, he sent her falling to the ground.
The wind was knocked out of her, seeing the vicious look in his eyes, she was truly frightened. Slowly, deliberately, he straddled her, pulling her cloak apart, methodically ripping her garments open. She fought him, terrified. “Please, my lord, please! No! I beg of you, my lord! Not this way!”
Brutally he drove into her resisting body. She moaned with pain. He increased his tempo and suddenly his seed was spilling into her. Then he lay still. When his breathing had returned to its normal pace he stood up, pulling her roughly after him.
“Return to the camp. You are not to leave it again without my permission.”
Gathering the cloak about her, she stumbled down the path. Safely within her own tent she gave orders for a bath. When it arrived she dismissed the slaves. Carefully she gathered the shreds of her clothing and, tying them in a bundle, stuffed them into the bottom of a trunk. She could dispose of them later, and no one would know what had happened.
He had raped her! Just as brutally as any soldier would rape a battle captive! He was a brute! If she had needed further proof of how he really felt about women, this was certainly it.
Then suddenly silent tears slid down her cheeks to mingle with the bath water. She hated him, yet she loved him. She disliked admitting this to herself. But it was possible that Ali Yahya was right. If she were to conquer Murad, she might have to use her body. She would, after all, be a fool to allow some brainless girl to gain control of the sultan. She had to face the fact that at twenty-three, the mother of a half-grown youth, she was no longer in the first flush of youth.
A sob escaped her, and she looked guiltily around. It would not do for the slaves to hear her weeping. She put her face in her hands to muffle her weeping and allowed her sorrow to pour forth. Then, as she began to grow calm, she faced the realization that she had driven him to it. It was as though she had wanted to force him into acts of bestiality so that the comparison with her beloved Alexander would be greater. She must face facts. Alexander was dead. He would never return again. She would never hear his voice calling her “beauty” in that tender, half-amused way. Her fate was with the man who had first touched her heart and soul. Her fate was with Murad.
Having him to herself was an incredible opportunity. If she had not been so busy feeling sorry for herself, she would have realized this. She swore softly. After today she would not be surprised to see him order their return to Bursa-and that must not happen! She must work quickly.
Shouting for a slave, she sent for Ali Yahya. By the time the eunuch arrived she was wrapped in a mauve silk robe. Dismissing the slaves, she swiftly told the eunuch what had happened, finishing with, “I am a fool, Ali Yahya! A fool! You were right, but if the sultan orders our return to Bursa now, I may have lost my best opportunity. Will you still help me?”
The eunuch smiled broadly. “Now, Highness, you speak as a wise woman!” he enthused. “I had begun to fear that perhaps I was mistaken in my judgement of you.”