Love Storm (26 page)

"Let's find lodging, Sasha, clean up, and decide how best to approach this sheikh and remove Zena from his harem. That's in the event that rascal agent is telling the truth in the first place and she's even there."

As they were cleaning up from the dirt and grime of days on the trail, Alex and Ivan haggled over the details of their undertaking. "Wear your uniform; it projects the might of the Russian Empire. No small advantage sometimes in dealing with these perfidious border tribes who are constantly changing their allegiance to suit the circumstances."

So it was resolved Captain Prince Alexander Nikolae-vich Kuzan would request an audience with Ibrahim Bey as a diplomatic envoy from St. Petersburg. Alex could not be convinced to wait until morning. "Damn it, Ivan, I'm acceding to all your counsels of prudence and civility now, when I'd much prefer hiring three hundred warriors and leveling the sheikh's camp. If I weren't afraid Zena would be harmed in the melee—if she is in fact there—I'd be damned tempted to do just that. So enough expedient caution," he said with a grim smile. "We're going tonight."

What Alex didn't say was that he couldn't stand the thought of Zena staying another night in Ibrahim Bey's harem. An ungovernable fury raged through his mind when he envisioned her in a harem assaulted by another man.

"Any more objections?" said Alex.

"Not the least." Ivan's tone was absolutely noncommittal. Whatever Ivan's private opinion, once Alex had made up his mind Ivan paid him the homage of absolute acquiescence, and he and the trackers would follow Alex without question.

"Come, my dear, another small sip of wine and perhaps one more bonbon."

Zena's eyes stared in the direction of the coaxing voice and although registering on the speaker correctly, looked opaquely through the dark, lean Turkish face. Obediently she lifted her lips, and a goblet of wine was pressed to her lips. She drank the fragrant, heavy wine
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and opened her mouth for the almond-apricot sweet poised before her full red lips. Long, thin fingers held the honeyed treat, and honeyed words offered terms of praise as she dutifully surrendered to the mellifluous voice and accepted the confection.

"Ah, my fair, winsome flower, you will feel even better soon. One must eat and drink to sustain one's health," and the thin brown hand reached out and caressed Zena's soft cheek. "You're so docile, my love; soon, very soon, you will feel a warmth in your veins that will strike urgently at that passivity and eagerly move you to yearn for more ardorous activities."

The cantharides in the wine would take no more than forty minutes to wash through her bloodstream, Ibrahim Bey observed pragmatically.

He glanced up from the arrestingly beautiful, white-skinned woman he had bought and spoke sharply to the two servant girls.

"She has been eating well?" he snapped.

Yes, venerated lord, most assuredly. The hashish in the bonbons does much to restore one's appetite."

As well as inducing a suitably amiable lethargy, he reflected as he smiled thinly. When he had purchased the woman from the small troop of hill bandits, she had been far from agreeable—a screaming, cursing, scathingly vocal virago, more aptly. He had never seen such a wildcat, and while he appreciated a certain amount of spirit in a woman, he disliked a recalcitrant, shrewish bitch in bed with him.

Khazi had warned Zena that if she mentioned Iskender-Khan he would slit her throat, Zena saw in his ferocious glance the sincerity of his words, and so she refrained from mentioning her grandfather that first night, although she hadn't refrained from abusing Khazi and the sheikh in various other verbal attacks. Almost immediately she had been fed, for Ibrahim Bey fancied the woman but not her critical tongue. Hashish had been mixed into the food, and within the hour the acrimonious diatribe had ceased. For three days now she had been fed hashish with her food in small amounts, but the quantity was suitable to encourage her appetite and to promote the gentle, tractable quality Ibrahim Bey preferred in the bedchamber.

The woman had been a shade too thin for his refined, aesthetic sensibilities when she was hauled in by the leader of the bandits. The young Abrek explained that they had been eluding trackers searching for her and had scarce time to water their horses let alone dine properly. Three days of gentle, persistent feeding had rounded out the shapely curves to a lush opulence.

"Dress her now and bring her to my tent in one hour," issued the curt command, and he left.

Tonight she would be his, Ibrahim Bey mused as he walked back to his headquarters tent. She held promise of vast sensual delights. He had waited patiently for three days, and this night after entertaining the visiting chieftains with the piquant, delicious sight of her at his side, he would make use of that voluptuous female for whom he had paid so extravagant a price.

With a certain lazy detachment Zena allowed the two dark servant girls to administer to her. She was bathed in a large copper tub; her hair was washed, toweled dry, perfumed with an aromatic floral scent reminiscent of lilac, and brushed into a shiny, rippling mane that hung down her back. They shaved her body, her legs, and under her arms. When they began to shave between her legs she forced herself briefly from her soft, golden haze of contentment to protest feebly. Her weak objections were ignored as the girls continued shaving with short, sure strokes. Zena sank pliantly once more into the warm, enveloping lassitude, a soft cloud bank of the mind. She decided rather giddily that the entire issue was highly inconsequential.

Next Zena was laid on a low linen couch and massaged with a wonderfully warm perfumed oil. She squirmed restlessly, moaning softly as the dark hands caressed her skin, sending frissons of pleasure coursing through her.

The black eyes of the servant girls met over the supine form, and they nodded their heads in agreement. The can-tharides were beginning to inundate the woman's body. Soon the least touch would cause a sensual response.

They pulled Zena into a standing position and slipped her arms through a delicate harness of sea-green kidskin embellished with gold bangles and silk embroidery. Under her breasts two wider straps of the colored leather sewn with hundreds of small golden beads were adjusted. The leather of the harness over her shoulders was tugged gently, tightened slowly, and Zena's large, voluptuous breasts were pulled inexorably higher until they perched like two luscious melons on the wide shelf of bangled leather. Her breasts were delectably full, her nipples saucily pert, and the cleavage pressed forcibly together by the pressure of the fine leather; the whole a picture of bursting ripeness ready for the plucking.

Taking out an ivory cosmetic case, the two attendants proceeded to paint the soft, pink nipples a lush, vivid carmine, and Zena giggled as the sable brushes tickled her tender, thrusting nipples. A last dab of carmine, a shiver and a soft moan from Zena, and the two silent girls slipped a heavy golden mesh belt low around Zena's hips. Attached to either side of the golden belt was diaphanous silken gauze that hung down to the ground and was gathered into a circlet of material. Zena's bare feet were slipped through each small aperture of tucked gauze, and both legs were transparently sheathed in brilliant green vaporous cloth. Since the material was affixed to the belt solely at the verge of her hips, it covered only her legs, leaving the silken skin of her belly, groin, and buttocks exposed. Even the legs were covered with no more than a filmy suggestion of fabric.

The costume was never intended as more than an exquisite, elaborate embellishment to accentuate the female pride of snowy, swollen breasts and delectable mons; filigreed leather thrust plump breasts up and out for the touching, while green gauze served as a foil to accent the satiny smooth cleft of pleasure. The costume manifested a primitive female fertility figure ornamented, festooned, and spangled.

Zena was led through the cool evening air to the tent of Ibrahim Bey. The breeze felt refreshing on her skin, which was beginning to warm and pulsate. An incipient, insistent throbbing was starting to surface in her groin and occasionally penetrate the torpor of her soft, comfortable nirvana of lethargy.

A heavy tapestry was lifted aside, and Zena was shoved through an opening into a large chamber brilliantly lit by hundreds of small lamps. Her pupils instantly constricted in reflex to the startling radiance.

"Come here, my little pigeon," that familiar cajoling voice intoned, and Zena lifted her eyes to follow the sound. Focusing somewhat unsteadily on the tall, lean, robed figure coming toward her down the steps of a shallow dais, she began to move forward with a slow, graceful rhythm to meet the outstretched hand. Her breasts bounced and trembled gently, held high in their leather harness, as she walked across the center of the tent, the golden bangles ornamenting the leather, swaying and jingling lightly with her movement. It seemed an eternity to reach that dark, outstretched hand.

She touched him at last, and his fingers felt cool, so cool to the touch—ah, so pleasantly cool; her body was racing with heat. Zena looked up into dark, black-browed, fierce eyes and stared pleasantly, impersonally back as he lustfully pierced her gaze.

Ibrahim Bey twirled Zena once before him, exhibiting her bursting, rosy-cheeked charms to his dozen guests.

"See, my friends, what a delicious bonbon I shall nibble on tonight. Later she shall dance for our pleasure."

A dozen pairs of black eyes admired the flawless beauty of the female poised before them: washed, oiled, perfumed, and packaged as delectably as the fairest jewel in a sultan's tribute.

"Ibrahim Bey, when you tire of her, perhaps you could be persuaded to favor a nephew. I'll pay well for her, and you can realize a profit even after you've pillaged the fruit. I'm a patient man."

"Perhaps, Abdulhamit, I will consider," his uncle laughed. "In my declining years boredom strikes more readily. You may have her sooner than you think."

Other lustful eyes coveted the woman as well but knew better than to assert a claim if Abdul desired the wench. Not only was he rich and his uncle's most influential advisor but his reckless temperament, foolhardy sword arm, and unbridled temper forestalled any other claimants to the lady's favor.

"Come, my sweet, and sit at my side." Ibrahim Bey led Zena up the carpeted dais and eased her onto a satin cushion. Seating himself beside her, he clapped his hands, and the meal commenced. They ate leisurely, Ibrahim Bey feeding Zena morsels from each dish as they listened to the soft, quiet music played by a small group of musicians.

"One more sugarplum, my love. We must keep a fine balance of sensation," and as Zena's mouth opened, he popped in another sweetmeat laced with hashish. The heavy doses of cantharides in the wine she had drunk would last all night, while the effects of the hashish would wane after two or three hours.
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When the violently salacious effects of the wine commenced, he wanted her well lubricated both in mind and body, and hashish very effectively accomplished both.

This restful, languorous repast was interrupted by a nervous servant who bowed and scraped and stammered apologies.

"Ibrahim Bey, most illustrious lord, a thousand humble pardons, but a Russian visitor is here requesting admittance."

Now Ibrahim Bey was an astute and careful man who at the moment had not chosen sides in the continuing conflict between Russia and the Turks, preferring to straddle the sidelines for as long as possible before throwing in his support to, hopefully, the victorious side. An arch-pragmatist, he had lately been seriously reviewing the combatants and was ruefully forced to admit to himself, although it sat none too well with his ancestors' memories, that the industrial energy and endless recruits the vast Russian Empire was able to marshall could eventually overrun the many fierce, independent Turkish border tribes. Although the tottering Turkish Empire was bolstered by mighty England, a few minor frontier tribes could be conceded and compromised conciliatorily to a bellicose Russia in the interests of good public relations without affecting Britain's long-range goals in the Middle East. Ibrahim Bey chose not to spend his last hours swinging from a gibbet at the gates of some dusty, godforsaken garrison town. With these shrewd, sagacious motives in mind the guest was welcomed with full honors.

The Russian officer strode majestically into the chamber and began crossing the distance between door and dais; then he caught sight of Zena and froze in his tracks.

Ibrahim Bey had risen and advanced toward the tall rangy man.

"Ah, I see, Captain, you, too, are struck by her beauty. A veritable masterpiece of female pulchritude, don't you agree?"

Alex wrenched his eyes from the all but naked woman seated languorously on the satin cushions, her eyes distant and vague, and forced his gaze back to the Turk. He remarked in an apparently calm, composed drawl, "Certainly, a diamond of the first water."

He drew himself up to his full, magnificent height, bowed gracefully, and said, "Captain Prince Alexander Nikolaevich Kuzan, sir. Forgive me for intruding on your festivities."