Lady Of Fire (10 page)

Reminded of his duty, the chief eunuch stepped forward and gripped Lucien’s arm. “He will be placed in confinement until it is known whether he has done wrong.”

“Hmm.” Leila drew a fingernail down Lucien’s chest. “Has he not done wrong in being alone with Alessandra?”

“Fifty strokes of the bastinado,” Rashid said, striding forward.

“Nay!” Alessandra cried, distantly noting the other eunuchs gathering outside the door. “He has done nothing.”

Leila stepped in front of Alessandra. “My son, heir of Jabbar, has spoken.”

Alessandra’s next thought was to plead with Rashid, but his face warned it would be futile—a face she hardly recognized. Brightly colored, lips twisted, it was no longer handsome and familiar. It was frightening.
 

“Mother,” she implored through a blur of tears.

Sabine shook her head. “It is done.”

“Come.” Khalid urged Lucien from the room.

Alessandra swung back to Lucien. Their eyes met, and in the depths of his she saw something feral pulsed there, warning of the clash to come a moment before he thrust Khalid away.

In spite of his strength, the odds were against him. One word from Khalid and the other eunuchs surged into the room. Lucien fought them, inflicting brutal blows, but he was soon overpowered and dragged to his feet.

“Now, Englishman,” Rashid shouted, “you will learn respect!” The sound of flesh striking flesh resounded around the room. Again and again.

Alessandra turned into her mother’s arms and pressed her face to her shoulder. She had done this to Lucien. Could he ever forgive her?

Finally, silence, then Rashid ordered, “One hundred strokes of the bastinado.”

“Two hundred would be better,” Leila suggested.

Alessandra pulled out of her mother’s arms and ran to Rashid. Averting her eyes from Lucien who was held upright by the eunuchs, she cried, “Pray, Rashid, do not do this. It is wrong!”

His eyes searched hers for something she prayed he would not find. Then he repeated, “One hundred strokes.”

“Why do you cry for him?” Sabine asked when the sun shed its first light over the land.

Eyes swollen and tender, her daughter looked up. “It is my fault.”

Sabine lifted a tress of Alessandra’s hair and watched it curl around her fingers. “That is not the only reason you cry.”

Where she lay with her head in her mother’s lap, Alessandra wiped the back of a hand across her eyes. “I do not understand why it hurts so much.”

“Could it be you feel something for Lucien de Gautier that you do not feel for Rashid?”

“I do have feelings for him, but I do not understand what they are.”

Sabine closed her eyes. “Does your heart beat fast—painfully so—when he is near?”

“Sometimes it is difficult to breathe.”

“Does he come upon your thoughts often, disrupt what you are doing?”

“Even when he is not within sight.”

“What is it like when he lays a hand upon your arm?”

Alessandra shuddered. “I want more.”

“Could it be love?”

“I do not know. Do you think it possible?”

Sabine sighed. “Only you can be certain, Alessandra, but remember this. Regardless of what happens, Lucien is your father’s enemy. He is not to be trusted. And he is a eunuch.”

Alessandra searched her face as if seeking a lie there, then closed her eyes. “His pain must be unbearable, and his scars…”

Sabine seamed her lips. Only if Rashid had stayed to ensure punishment was given as ordered would Khalid have carried it out to its full extent. Otherwise, her friend would lessen the severity to be certain the Englishman was able to complete the bargain struck with her.

“…terrible,” Alessandra whispered.

Sabine drew a deep breath. “Try not to think on it, Daughter.”

Had Alessandra not been so preoccupied with Lucien’s fate, the humiliation would have pierced her soul. Instead, the impersonal hands examining her went mostly unnoticed.

“She is intact,” the physician pronounced.

Sabine’s sigh of relief startled Alessandra back to the present. Yanking a cover over her exposed limbs, she looked to her mother. “You did not believe me.”

Quickly, Sabine crossed to her side and put an arm around her. “Forgive me.”

Alessandra chastised herself for adding guilt to her mother’s burdened shoulders. Sabine was right to doubt her. Had Lucien taken what was shamelessly offered him, Alessandra would have denied it in hopes of saving him from punishment.

She forced a smile. “There is nothing to forgive.”

“Mistress,” the physician addressed Sabine, “I will inform your husband the wedding may go forward.”

She inclined her head and the man strode from the room.

Alone with her daughter, Sabine said, “Come, let us dress you.”

Alessandra allowed her to attend to her needs, her every thought centered on the man who had been made to suffer for her reckless abandon of the night past.

How did he fare? she wondered and conjured a ten-year-old memory of the cruel punishment she had witnessed. Though her mother had forbidden her to go near the stables while the manservant was put to the bastinado, curiosity had made her rebel—and was responsible for the nightmares that had visited her for months thereafter.

The man’s feet had been locked between two pieces of wood and raised high so that only his neck and shoulders rested on the ground. Using a short stick, a guard had delivered blows to the soles of the servant’s feet. The man had thrashed on the ground, his screams so loud that no matter how hard Alessandra pressed hands to her ears, she could not entirely block the sound. Blessedly, the man had lost consciousness halfway through the thirty strokes of his sentence.

Lucien was larger, younger, and far stronger than the manservant had been, but could he bear more than three times the punishment? Would he be forever disabled?

Had she any tears left, Alessandra would have wept again.

Outfitted in a long caftan, trousers, and slippers, she yielded to the pressure of her mother’s hands and sank down upon the stool before her dressing table. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she wondered how she might learn of Lucien’s well-being. She did not dare seek him herself.

“What are you thinking?” Sabine asked as she brushed the snarls from her daughter’s hair.

Alessandra met her gaze in the mirror. “Lucien.”

“You should not call him that. Here he is Seif.” Sectioning her daughter’s hair, she began to braid it.

“Where is he?”

“Likely returned to the eunuchs’ quarters.”

“I wish to see him.”

Sabine’s jaw clenched. “And have him suffer further punishment?”

“I must know,” Alessandra whispered.

Her mother met her eyes in the mirror. “Khalid will bring news soon.”

Shortly, a light tap sounded on the door, and when Sabine called, “Enter!” it was the chief eunuch who stepped inside. However, it was not word of Lucien he carried.

“Mistress, the master requests your presence in the hall.”

Alessandra felt her mother tense, knew the summons boded no good. But as the matter of her chastity was settled, what else was there to discuss?

“What of Alessandra?” Sabine asked.

“She is to accompany you.”

Sabine quickly secured the braid with a ribbon, then helped Alessandra to her feet. “Come, Daughter. Jabbar awaits.”

Silence hung over them as they made their way to the hall, so intense Alessandra though she might scream. Hands clenched, lips pressed, she followed her mother into the great room.

Jabbar beckoned them forward.

Other than servants, Rashid and his mother were the only occupants of the hall where they stood on opposite sides of Jabbar.

Alessandra looked first to her betrothed and was surprised when he gave her a reassuring smile. Here again was the boy she had grown up with, the one with whom she had shared laughter and adventure. But though it seemed the vengeful man of the night past was gone, she would never forget what he had become.

She shifted her gaze to Leila. She should not have been startled by the lovely face hatred had turned hideous, but she was. And when their eyes met, Alessandra knew she would never again question her mother’s fear of Jabbar’s first wife. Indeed, she was fairly certain it had been no accident that the woman’s little dog had frightened the donkey.

Alessandra and her mother halted before Jabbar.

“Alessandra, come forward,” he said.

She obeyed and lowered to her knees before him.

He laid a hand to her head. “Though you are born of another man, you have been like a daughter to me.”

She longed to smile, her affection for this man shadowed only by her worry over Lucien.

“Thus, I have long overlooked your behavior and gave Rashid permission to wed you against my better judgment. I do not doubt you will be a difficult wife, but as he has chosen you, I will not stay him from doing so. However, it is time you accept the customs of our people and shed those of your mother’s.”

Alessandra raised her head. “I do not understand. I wear the costume of the Arab people. I—”

“I speak of your conduct. No more will you venture out-of-doors without an escort, nor uncover yourself to darken your skin. You will observe the mealtimes and remain seated when there is music and dancing. Never again will you leave your apartment after dark. You will show respect for men and keep your tongue firmly in your mouth unless a question is asked of you. You will join the others for prayers—”

“She is a Christian!” Sabine protested.

Jabbar considered her. “So she is.” He turned to Rashid. “Would you have her convert?”

Rashid shook his head. “Though our children will be raised in the faith of Islam, this I will not ask of her.”

Jabbar returned his gaze to Alessandra. “Do you understand what is required of you henceforth?”

She felt caged. Enslaved. For a moment, she imagined mounting a swift horse that would carry her far from here, but as difficult as it would be to assume the role Jabbar demanded of her, this was all she had ever known and she would not abandon it—regardless that her mother wished otherwise.

She lowered her chin and stared at the colorful tiles beneath her knees. “I understand.”

“I am pleased.” Jabbar dropped his hand to her shoulder and gently squeezed it.

Believing the interview was at an end, Alessandra started to rise, but he urged her back down. “There is more.”

She looked up. “More?”

“I give you five days in which to prepare yourself. Then you and Rashid will wed.”

“Five days!” Sabine cried. “Jabbar, it is too soon.”

Exhibiting his usual tolerance for the Englishwoman he had taken to wife, he shook his head. “That is what you have been telling me these past four years. Did not the events of last eve convince you Alessandra has been too long without benefit of the marriage bed?”

“But nothing happened that she need be ashamed of. The physician—”

“Yes, she is untouched, but for how long? She grows restless to know what you have denied her. Thus, she shall marry my son.”

For some moments, the only sound to be heard was Sabine’s strident breaths, then she gasped, “The wedding dress. It will take many weeks to complete.”

Jabbar heaved a sigh. “Alessandra is nearly your size. With minor alterations, she can wear the dress you wore when we wed.”

“But she should have her own. And what of the celebration? There is no time—”

Jabbar thrust to his feet. “Five days,” he barked and left the hall.

After endless hours in the bathhouse, where she was bathed and groomed, though not to distraction as she wished, the last thing Alessandra wanted was to attend the women’s celebration known as “henna night.” On this, the eve of her wedding, she longed only for her mother’s company, but that would be frowned upon. Hence, she submitted to the women who came for her in the late afternoon.

Sabine at her side, she was led into the hall. Even those who typically shunned her greeted her warmly. Leila was the only one who distanced herself.

Within the vast room were music, dancing, and trays laden with every food imaginable. There were bowls filled with flowers, the heavy scent of frankincense and myrrh, and a table heaped with bride gifts. As nearly all the women wore brightly colored garments that showed their bodies to best advantage, the room was a rainbow of shifting colors. Most noticeable, though, was the hum of excitement.

Alessandra was far from casting off the anxiety of these past four days, but she smiled as she was guided forward and seated in her place of honor at the center of the hall. Immediately, the younger women surrounded her, wielding pots of henna, cosmetics, hair oils, and aromatics for the body. Giggling and chattering, they began the ceremonial decoration of her person.

With a wooden stick, henna was applied to her palms, the insteps of her feet, and her face, the latter being the most painstaking of the procedure. While the intricate, lacy patterns were traced on her brow and cheeks, Alessandra sat as still as possible. But it was so ticklish, the women reprimanded her several times for twitching her nose and mouth.

While the henna dried, body oils were touched to her skin and her hair tended to. Grimacing and grunting as her tresses were tightly fashioned into nine braids, Alessandra looked about the hall and saw her mother conversing with Khalid.

If not that the eunuch’s normally expressionless face was creased with distress, it would not have been unusual, but something was amiss.

Had further ill befallen Lucien? Following their meeting with Jabbar four days past, Khalid had reassured Sabine and her that Lucien fared well and would not be long in healing. Blessedly, as Rashid had not stayed to witness the entire sentence, Lucien had suffered only twenty strokes of the bastinado. However, Khalid had also told of Rashid’s plan to sell the Englishman the next time he journeyed into the city.

Alessandra longed to go to Lucien and beg his forgiveness, but time and again she stayed the foolish urge and tried to be content with the infrequent news Khalid brought.

“There!” Nada thrust a hand mirror in front of Alessandra. “What do you think?”