Panther's Prey (35 page)

“Nevertheless, I am here,” Kalid said firmly.

“I wish to be alone with this brother of Osman Bey,” the Sultan said.

Kalid opened his mouth to protest again, but Malik said to him quickly in English, “It’s all right. You can wait for me outside in the hall.”

Kalid looked at him, and Malik nodded. The Sultan waited until Kalid had left before saying to Malik, “You resemble your brother, but he is not so handsome. I assume you remember Osman, the thief who stole my daughter.”
 

“He married her, for which you killed the rest of my family,” Malik replied.

“He was not worthy!”
 

“That was for Roxalena to decide. Thinking like that has made you obsolete,
padishah
, and caused this revolution against you.”

The Sultan sat back in his jewel encrusted chair and fingered his mustache, still coal black and thick. “So now you have won,” he said flatly to Malik.

“The people have won,” Malik replied.

Hammid smiled thinly. “You talk like a Westerner. Democracy is more difficult than the American newspapers make it sound. It is quarrelsome, inefficient, and very slow. After six months of it you will be longing for the order and settled way of life of your ancestors, which you discarded for rule by ignorant rabble.”

“It will take time, but we will learn. And in future generations the rabble will be educated and capable of ruling themselves.”

Hammid turned his head slowly, looking past him into the distance, and Malik suddenly saw the Sultan for what he really was: a weakling, a venal and overmatched man. Thrust into his role by force of primogeniture, indulged and obeyed without question since childhood, incapable of understanding change, he couldn’t adjust to a world which had already left him behind. It must be almost impossible for him to accept that after ruling with a whim of iron for a generation the most he could hope for in this situation was to escape it with his head.

“I have one further condition before I will abdicate in favor of my brother,” the Sultan said, looking back at Malik. “I wanted to express it to you personally.”
 

Malik waited.

“You will give me your word that you will have no public role in the formation of the new government. You will not run for office and will accept no official position offered by a plebiscite. That is my condition.”
 

Malik was silent, rocked to his heels. It was a mean and petty request, typical of the Sultan’s nature. He was offering the one thing Malik wanted, democracy for Turkey, if he would give up the only thing he now had: his leadership role in the revolution. Hammid would concede his defeat if doing so deprived Malik of the credit for the conquest.

Malik took a deep breath. “I agree,” he said.

Hammid stared at him in surprise. He had misjudged his adversary. Again.
 

“Then it is done,” Hammid said simply, after a long pause. “I will abdicate in favor of my brother and your representatives will work with him in the formation of the congress.”

“Kalid Shah will arrange the details.” Malik turned and walked toward the doors.

“History will record my name in large letters, and your name will not appear at all,” Hammid called after him.

Malik kept walking, then stopped before the closed doors.

Hammid gave the command, and they opened before him. Malik kept moving, but not until they closed behind him did he breathe a sigh of relief.

“What happened?” Kalid asked, rushing to his side.

Malik told him.

“That bastard,” Kalid said heatedly. “He wants to deprive you of the glory of his removal and deprive the people of a figure to rally around, a central leader to unify them.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Malik said. “Anwar and the others won’t do anything without consulting me. Hammid knows he can’t prevent me from working behind the scenes, but he thinks I’m as childish as he is and need the adulation of the masses.”

“You deserve it,” Kalid said quietly.
 

“I can live without it, as long as we get what we want.” He smiled at Kalid for the first time that day.

Kalid smiled back, and the two men embraced.

“Now let’s get to work,” Kalid said.

* * *

The reception room at Orchid Palace was decorated for a wedding, but it was not to be a traditional Turkish one. The bride had insisted on a Western ceremony, with the vows conducted in English, and the groom had agreed. A minister from the British community in Constantinople had been brought to Bursa to perform the rites, and he waited anxiously before the banks of massed flowers. His prayerbook in hand, he glanced around anxiously at the opulent furnishings. Until recently they had belonged to the Pasha, Kalid Shah, who now rented the palace and its contents from the newly established provisional government.

In an anteroom, Amy fiddled with her trailing veil of white net, staring into the cheval mirror as Sarah stood behind her, arranging the train on Amy’s pale peach silk dress. The gown’s leg o’ mutton sleeves fit tightly from elbow to wrist and were complemented by a narrow waistline and an illusion bodice of filmy chiffon. Amy had bought the ensemble in one of the exclusive shops in Pera, her last indulgence before assuming the role of pioneering legislator’s wife.

Malik had kept his word to the Sultan, but he was the real force behind the new government and everybody knew it. He was happier than Amy had ever seen him, and she would be too, if only James and Beatrice had agreed to attend her wedding.
 

“There, it’s perfect,” Sarah said, stepping back to admire the modified bustle on the back of the gown.

Amy nodded.

Sarah put her hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. “Don’t fret about James and Bea,” Sarah said, reading her mind. “They’re conservative people, it will take them a while to see Malik as anything other than a bandit who kidnapped one of their relatives. It took them a long time to accept Kalid too.”

“I know, but this is not exactly what I pictured in my childhood daydreams. I thought I would be married at home, in a church, with all the family there and...” her voice trailed off in disappointment.

“But then you wouldn’t be marrying Malik,” Sarah said to her.

Amy brightened. “You’re right. And there’s no one on earth I would rather marry, so I guess that makes up for everything, doesn’t it?”

“Of course.” Sarah pulled on her white silk gloves and picked up Amy’s bouquet of creamy peonies, bound with trailing streamers of peach and ivory silk. Sarah’s dress of celadon satin was bibbed and hemmed with three layers of
broderie anglaise
, and her daughter was similarly dressed, with white kid boots and lace bows in her hair. The two Shah boys were attired as pages in black velvet suits, and had spent the last hour fingering their black silk ties importantly.

There was a tap on the dressing room door, and Sarah put down the bouquet to open it a crack. When she saw who it was she hissed, “Get out of here! You’re not supposed to see the bride before the wedding.”

“That’s a Turkish tradition,” Malik replied, trying to peer around Sarah to see his intended.

“It’s a Western tradition too,” Sarah replied crisply, blocking his path.

“Two minutes,” he said.

“Sarah, who is it?” Amy called from her position before the mirror.

Sarah sighed and bowed to the inevitable, holding the door open and then calling over her shoulder, “I’ll be back shortly.”

Malik entered the room and then stopped at the sight of Amy, who whirled to face him.

“You look gorgeous,” he said softly.

“So do you,” Amy whispered.

It was true. He was wearing a black tailcoat and trousers with a gray satin waistcoat, white shirt and white satin bow tie.

“I look ridiculous,” he said uncomfortably.

“You’re very handsome,” Amy said.

He ran his finger around his neck under his collar. “This thing is choking me.”

“You look very healthy for someone who is suffocating,” Amy replied, walking over to him and kissing his cheek.

“Can you believe this day has come?” he asked, holding her at arm’s length and looking down into her face.

“There were times when I thought it never would,” she admitted. “Now we will have everything.”

“I already have everything. A free country, and you for the rest of my life.”

The door opened again and Sarah said, “James and Beatrice are here.”

Amy glanced at her in amazement, and Sarah grinned.

“What happened?” Amy asked.

“James talked her into it,” Sarah said impishly.

“Or dragged her out of the house and tied her to the seat of the carriage,” Malik said dryly. He had not forgotten Bea’s preference for Martin Fitzwater.

“Come on, you two lovebirds, everyone is out here waiting,” Sarah said.
 

Malik lifted Amy’s hand to his lips and said, “Are you ready to become my wife?”

“If you’re ready to become my husband,” Amy replied.

Sarah stepped aside and the two young people walked past her to embrace their future.

– THE END –

I am Doreen Owens Malek, author of over forty books and lifelong fan of romantic fiction. I live in PA with my husband and college student daughter, a mini dachshund and a sun conyer parrot. I would like to tell you a little about myself.

I came to writing by a circuitous route, starting out as an avid reader of
Jane Eyre
and
Wuthering Heights
and
Gone With the Wind
and
Rebecca
, and any other similarly themed books I could find. I first worked as a teacher and then graduated from law school when I desired a more lucrative and independent career. I had always been discouraged from pursuing a writing career by the volatile nature of the business and the relatively poor chance for success. But the realization that I needed a focus for the future encouraged me to do what I had always wanted to do. I sold my fledgling novel to the first editor who read it, and I have been writing ever since. I have written all types of books for all types of people, but my favorite literary pursuit is and always has been romance. Nothing is as rewarding as hearing from my readers, so please use my website to communicate your thoughts and criticisms, as I am always eager to learn from you. 

A romance novel rarely disappoints me: in an uncertain world filled with tragedy and sadness, reading about an appealing woman finding a strong man to love her and share her life is the perfect escape. I like to read and write stories in which the main characters overcome obstacles to get together, and then stay together because their mutual devotion cannot be denied no matter what else is happening around them. They always HELP each other and reinforce the quaint but enduring notion that love conquers all—at least in the fictional universe of my imagination. So pull up a chair and take down a book—or pick up a Kindle—and join me in a world where the heroes are tough and headstrong but never boorish and the heroines are feminine and sympathetic but never helpless.

Happy reading!
— Doreen Owens Malek

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