Though there had been many a naked woman paraded through his banquet hall on other occasions, Darius had never before seen such an elegant display of grace, femininity and sensuality in one woman. Her dance movements spoke of uncommon athleticism, but the titillating, flirtatious exhibition of her flesh promised pleasures born of her agility and flexibility. Darius leaned forward and rested his chin upon one tight fist as he tried to hide the eager glint in his eye. It would not do to have the defeated Scythian king know just how much he appreciated this last gift.
And then finally, with a leap and a flourish, she pulled away the sheer fabric veiling her face and spun to a stop with her slender arms twined over her head and her hips at a suggestive slant. A collective gasp filled the hall—but it was not just in appreciation of the risqué performance.
Myrine had revealed her unique beauty, one that had her dark-haired captors entranced. Darius leaned forward, for a moment unable to conceal his interest. Unlike all the women of Persia, the Scythian princess was pale of face with coral-pink lips and sky-blue eyes. And if that were not enough to set her apart, her head was crowned with long, lustrous waves of golden hair that tumbled down her back.
Before he could think twice, Darius beckoned to the girl with one finger. She dropped her gaze and slowly ascended the thirteen marble steps of his dais. She stopped when she stood in front of his throne, then dropped to one knee before him with head bowed. Scylas, who stood a step lower than his daughter, did likewise.
“Are you pleased with our tribute, King Darius?” Scylas inquired, his voice low.
Darius did not deign to answer. Rather he placed the tip of one long finger under the girl’s chin, lifting her face to the light. He took a moment to study the alabaster hue of her delicate face. She had sweet, almost childlike features: a smooth, unwrinkled forehead, elegantly arching brows, long, thick lashes that fluttered over high cheekbones, a small, dainty nose and full, moist lips.
“Let me see your eyes,” he commanded quietly.
Hesitantly Myrine raised her blue-eyed gaze to the king’s—and it was only from years of training that she was able to hide the fine tremor that raced up her spine.
There could be no question that the man before her was a true ruler.
Even if she had been asked to pick out the Persian king from a crowd of strangers, Myrine knew that she would not have been able to mistake King Darius for any other man. Even seated and relaxed, he exuded an aura of power and privilege, of ironclad determination and ruthless authority. His irises were the colour of dark honey, and his stare was at once demanding and calculating. She felt trapped, as an insect in sticky golden sap, helpless except for the fact that she refused to wilt under his penetrating gaze.
He was devilishly handsome with a strong, square jaw, golden skin and glossy black curls. His broad shoulders were hidden in a stiff-necked silk jacket that was encrusted with precious jewels. Open at the front, the jacket exposed the lean ridges of his muscular chest, his skin bronzed and glowing from years under the desert sun. He wore simple white silk trousers that gathered at the ankles, and his feet were encased in ornately decorated Persian shoes.
Myrine knew instantly that though this was a young ruler, he was not one to be taken lightly. For one so young, his confident posture told of victory in countless battles, and his eyes gleamed with fiery passion, fearsome control and cool ambition.
So, Myrine thought to herself, this is a conquering emperor.
Meanwhile, Darius was fighting not to lose himself in the blue depths of the woman’s eyes or to the building ache in his loins. He carefully schooled his features into a stony expression as he studied the deposed princess. She was even more intriguing up close. Her eyes were like none he had ever seen before, and as they were lined with dark kohl, they stood out in her pale face like luminous jewels. It had been a calculated makeup trick of an experienced eunuch, no doubt; another ruse to lure him into a seductive relationship. As he stared down at her, he let himself imagine those perfect blue eyes misting over in rapture as he settled between her thighs and took his pleasure in her exotic body over and over again. She would cry out in a foreign tongue, cursing and praising him for his exploits in her lands and in her body. He could make her crave his touch, ache for his lips, and beg him to grant her release amid his silken sheets. And in turn, he knew that he would want her willing, yearn for her pliant flesh and shower her with gifts of affection.
No.
He shook his head slightly, clearing his mind of the lustful haze.
He could not—and would not—be so distracted.
“Stand, Myrine of Scythia,” he directed in a voice that was soft yet unyielding.
Myrine obeyed instantly, rising to her feet in one fluid motion. Darius’s gaze flicked over to the Scythian king, who was waiting with bated breath. He arched an imperious brow.
“Your gifts are well received, former king,” Darius said nonchalantly. “You may rise.”
“I am honoured, great conqueror,” Scylas said as he climbed to his feet. “May my daughter please you well.”
Darius inclined his head, acknowledging his tribute.
“Yes, a grand gift indeed” came a sibilant hiss from the other side of the dais.
The two kings turned to look as the vizier, a hunched-over old man, moved toward the throne. He casually fanned himself with a paddle decorated with the long plumes of a peacock, his beady eyes shining with glee. Here was another chance to further humiliate a defeated opponent—one who had been the source of great frustration during the time of Darius’s predecessor.
“May I make a suggestion, my lord Darius?” the vizier asked with a bow.
“Speak your mind, Araxes,” Darius replied with a wave of his hand.
Araxes turned cunning eyes on Scylas, his lips rising in a sardonic smirk.
“It is a great gesture indeed,” Araxes said, “to offer up a Scythian princess as a bed slave—but how can we be sure such a woman would please our lord, one who has most...distinguished tastes?”
“Is my daughter to be compared to cattle...or dinner fare?” Scylas began to sputter, his face reddening.
“Well,” Araxes replied, casually continuing to fan himself as he spoke, “she is meant to satisfy the appetites of a king, is she not? How are we to know that she is...adequate?” He grinned lecherously. “Or even pure?”