Devil's Daughter (19 page)

Arabella pulled herself to her feet and looked straight at him. He was taller than she had first thought, clean-shaven, and deeply tanned. His hair
curled about his ears, the color of ripe wheat. His blue eyes seemed out of place in this land of dark swarthy people, and at the moment, were narrowed on her face.

“Who are you?” she whispered, though she knew well who he was. But he had no look of the contessa.

Her arm was suddenly grasped from behind and twisted. “This is your master, girl, Kamal El-Kader,” Risan said.

Kamal saw a flicker of pain in the girl’s eyes. “Let her go, brother,” he said. “You are the daughter of the Earl of Clare?”

“Does your honorable mother’s letter not tell you so?”

“My mother’s letter also tells me your morals were a blessing to many of the gentlemen at the court of Naples.” He saw a flash of fury in her dark eyes, and added slowly, “She suggests you might use your talents to amuse me until your father arrives to claim you.”

Arabella looked about at the barbaric luxury, then back at the man who was looking at her with contempt in his eyes. She said, her voice filled with furious calm, “You must have the morals of an animal, if you are stupid enough to believe lies from a woman who beds men young enough to be her son.”

Kamal stared at her, unaccustomed rage building in him. An animal. It was fortunate his soldiers did not speak Italian, else one might have slit her throat for her insult. He turned slowly away from her and said to Hassan, “It appears my mother makes a jest. I am supposed to enjoy myself with this slut, who believes me an animal. Allah. The wench smells as foul as she looks.”

Arabella was shaking, but not from fear. She flung her head back and shouted at the man, “I would like to
see what you look like, you savage, after spending a week in the hold of a stinking ship.”

There was another moment of silence. Kamal felt shamed. She was an English noblewoman who had suffered vilely, in the name of his mother’s vengeance. She was not to have been used. But she was a whore, dishonest and guileful.

“Why,” he asked her quietly, “would my mother claim you for a whore if it were not true?”

“I am not a whore. You filthy barbarian.” She took a step toward him, and felt her arms jerked behind her back. She was thrown to the floor. She lay there, her cheek pressed against the cool marble, stunned, hearing angry voices above her.

“Shall we slit her throat, highness?”

She heard the sound of steel being drawn from a scabbard. She closed her eyes, a brief prayer on her lips.

“Raise her to her feet, Risan,” Kamal said.

“I shouldn’t have fed her,” Risan said.

She faced him, her arms held painfully behind her back. “You are not worth the dung it would take to cover your worthless body.”

“And you appear to be a fool,” Kamal said, controlling his anger.

“At least I am not the son of a whore.”

Kamal stepped toward her and without a word drew back his hand and slapped her. Her head jerked back with the force of his blow, and she would have fallen if Risan weren’t holding her.

“Filthy jackal.” Tears stung her eyes. “How brave you are, striking me while I am held.”

“Release her,” Kamal ordered quietly. He stared at the furious girl, and could see no fear in her dark eyes.
Very slowly he drew back his hand and struck her again. It was he who prevented her fall.

“You are held only by me now, girl,” he said.

“May the devil take your soul,” Arabella whispered.

They faced each other, Arabella pale, Kamal flushed a furious red. “You are a fool. I could have your filthy throat slit.”

He then saw a glimmer of fear in her eyes, but it was gone quickly.

“You are a perverted heathen,” Arabella said, her voice calm and cold now, for she knew that she faced death. “You surround yourself with other heathens, to make you feel important. Kill me, I do not care.”

She spit in his face. As if from a great distance, Arabella heard women shrieking, and the angry rumble of men’s voices.

“I will die with honor,” she said, and forced her back to straighten.

Kamal slowly wiped the spittle from his cheek. He stared at the bedraggled girl, and felt a moment of reluctant admiration for her courage.

“Hassan,” he said slowly, turning to his white-faced minister. “Call Raj.”

“Yes, highness.”

“Women have no honor,” he said to her, his voice flat. “I have no intention of killing you, at least not yet.” He looked down at his hand and was not surprised to see a streak of dirty brown stain on his palm. Obviously, beneath her filth, she must at least look like a lady, else what man would have bedded her?

“If you would know about whores,” Arabella said, unable to stop herself, “let me tell you about your mother. She is the one with no honor, not I. It is
obvious to me that her blood flows in your veins.” She looked toward the slave girls. “At least she tries to be somewhat discreet about her lovers.”

“I suggest you close your mouth now,” Kamal said. “That is, if you wish to keep your tongue.”

Arabella laughed. “Is that what savages do, your
highness?
”

“Raj,” Kamal said pleasantly, ignoring her. “You see this creature? You are known to work miracles. Return her to me tonight. At least bathe the stench off her.”

“No,” Arabella yelled. “I won’t go.”

Kamal turned away from her. “Take her away,” he said.

Arabella’s arms were yanked outward and she was dragged from the room.

“By Allah,” Hassan said in a bewildered voice. “What has your mother sent you?”

“She has sent me a guttersnipe, Hassan. A guttersnipe who needs to be taught her place.”
But she is innocent of her father’s crimes.

“What will you do with her, highness?”

Kamal shrugged. “If she has served the men at court, she is likely diseased.”

“Your mother,” he said slowly. “She has written the Earl of Clare of his daughter’s capture.”

“Yes,” Kamal said, repressing the anger he felt toward her. Despite what the daughter was, it was not just to use her as a pawn. He turned to his half-brother. “Did you have any conversation with the girl?”

Risan shook his head. “I saw her for the first time today. Your mother ordered that she be kept in confinement.” He grinned widely. “I thought her docile enough until she saw you, brother.”

“There is more here,” Hassan said thoughtfully, “than meets the eye.”

The huge black eunuch Raj signaled for the Bey’s guards to release her. He said very carefully in beautiful Italian, “
Signorina,
do not fight me. It will gain you nothing.”

At the gentleness of his voice, Arabella’s fury died without a sputter. She said in a sob, “I want to go home. I was brought here against my will.”

“I know, little one. You are Lady Arabella Welles, daughter of the Earl of Clare.” He chuckled, his great belly shaking. “I have never before seen my master so enraged. He is a man who is easy with women. I must suppose that his anger made him blind. He did not see you as I do. Now, come. You will feel much better very soon.”

Arabella sniffed back her tears. She touched her fingers to her face. She fancied she could feel the sting from his palm. “Where are you taking me?”

“To the harem.”

“Harem.”
Arabella stopped in her tracks and stared at the great black man in consternation.

“You have nothing to fear,” Raj said. “You may trust me, my lady. I will protect you.”

“How do you know who I am?”

Raj looked at her closely. She was sniffing back her tears noisily, like a child. “I imagine that everyone in the palace knows who you are. Your arrival was not calm. Come now.”

Arabella swallowed. She had no choice but to do as she was bid, at least for the time being. She nodded.
“Very well, Raj,” she said, and he smiled at the dignity in her young voice.

She followed him down a long whitewashed corridor, bare of furnishings. It led them outside through an arched doorway into a garden as beautiful as her father’s at the Villa Parese, with a huge fountain at its center.

“This courtyard separates the palace from his highness’s harem. There is another garden in the harem. The women spend their hours there, my lady.”

They walked through the garden on a well-tended path to a high wall beyond it. Two guards stood at a doorway, both clothed only in loose white trousers, huge scimitars at their belts.

Raj nodded to them and opened the door. Arabella stepped into a world of riotous color. Large shade trees surrounded the perimeter of the garden, a long narrow pool tiled in colorful mosaic at its center. At least a dozen girls lounged about the pool, some laughing and splashing in the water. Many of them were naked, and their young bodies glistened in the dappled sun that filtered through the thick tree branches. Beyond the garden were arched doorways, leading, Arabella supposed, to private quarters.

Arabella sucked in her breath. “This is barbaric.”

“It is simply that you are not used to it, my lady.”

Arabella heard a shriek. She turned to see the girls pointing at her, their mouths agape.

“Raj brings a witch in our midst.”

“More like an ugly crone.”

One had spoken in French, the other in Italian. Arabella pretended deafness.

Raj spoke sharply to the girls, then took her elbow
and led her to the far end of the arched pavilion. “For the moment you will have this room, my lady.”

The room was narrow and long, its walls a bare white. At its center was a small bed covered with a red silk spread. A large armoire stood in a corner next to a table with a basin of water on it. Arabella stepped into the cool room, staring blankly about her. She heard Raj clap his hands and say something in Arabic. A thin black girl appeared.

“This is Lena, my lady. She will take care of you. Now, you must take off those filthy clothes.”

Arabella nodded, anxious for a bath. Lena’s fingers were on the buttons when Arabella noticed that Raj was still in the room. She pulled away from the slave girl.

“You will please leave, Raj.”

It was his duty to inspect any girl that came to Kamal, but he saw that the girl was near to the end of her endurance. Also, she wasn’t, in truth, to be part of Kamal’s harem. He spoke quietly to Lena, then left the room.

The filthy gown dropped to Arabella’s feet, and all her soiled underclothes.

“Do you speak Italian, Lena?”

The girl shook her head and replied in French.

“What did Raj say to you?”

“He told me to take you to the private bath, my lady.” Lena sucked in her breath in surprise when the lady was naked. Her body was white as snow, in ugly contrast to her face, neck, and hands. “Who did this to you?”

“Your master’s esteemed mother,” Arabella said flatly. She saw that Lena’s eyes were on the nest of hair between her thighs, and she blushed.

“Your hair,” Lena muttered. She drew a deep breath. “Come, my lady. It will take me hours to clean you.”

She handed Arabella a robe of sheer blue silk. It was not much of a cover, but Arabella clutched it against her nonetheless, and followed Lena from her small room down the arched passage. She entered a brightly lit room that held another girl and her slave. The girl had hair as black as a moonless night, and flawless white skin. Her brown eyes met Arabella’s. She spoke Arabic to her slave, and laughed loudly. “Do you speak Italian, witch?” the girl said, standing and stretching her lovely body.

“Yes.”

“If you are here for our master, you will have quite a wait.” She hugged her arms about her waist and sauntered out of the room, her slave scurrying behind her.

“That one is Elena, my lady, the master’s favorite,” Lena said in a low voice. “She hopes to be his wife.”

“She can have the jackal with my blessing,” Arabella said. “They likely deserve each other.”

Lena shook her head, her eyes darting toward the door. “You must have a care, my lady, about what you say.”

Arabella ignored her and looked wistfully toward the clear water.

“Not yet, my lady. You are too filthy. I will bathe you first in a tub.”

Arabella felt herself relaxing in the warm water. She drank a glass of sweet wine Lena handed her and lay back as the girl scrubbed her body and her hair. She did not realize she had fallen asleep until Lena shook her arm. “You can come to the pool now, my lady.”

Arabella rose and stepped out of the porcelain tub.

“Ah,” Lena said, “that is much better.”

Arabella smiled despite herself, for the girl sounded like a mother duck whose duckling wasn’t hideous after all.

She walked to the edge of the tiled pool, but Lena held her back. “Not yet, my lady.” She scrubbed Arabella’s hair again, her agile fingers separating each strand. A fragrance of lavender rose to Arabella’s nose. Lena handed Arabella a bar of scented soap. “Wash your face again. Almost all of the stain is removed.”

Arabella did as she was bid, scrubbing until her face and neck felt raw. She stood still while Lena washed her off with clean warm water.