Sheik (3 page)

“We haven’t lost the day, Captain. The sultan’s caravan is intact and his daughter is my captive.”

“His daughter!” Hasdai’s gaze swept over Zara with profound interest. Then he smiled. “The sultan will be pleased. Do we return now?”

“Aye, we return to Meknes. Leave enough men behind to bury the dead and collect the wounded.”

“Let me remain behind with Sayed!” Zara begged, forgetting her pride. “I wish to mourn him.”

Jamal had shown all the mercy he was capable of. After Hasdai hurried off to convey the sheik’s orders, Jamal flung Zara atop his horse and mounted behind her. With one hand on the reins and the other pressing her tightly against him, he guided the prancing Kacem toward Meknes.

The warmth of Zara’s slim body, the curve of her supple waist beneath his hand, and the imprint of her slim hips against his groin, made Jamal blatantly aware of her soft femininity. His arm tightened around her, bringing her even closer against him.

Zara held herself stiffly away from the arrogant
sheik, the angle of her body and tilt of her head a clear indication of her utter contempt for him.

Could she be broken? Jamal wondered, amused by her defiance. He sincerely doubted it, but he would like to try. Zara was too proud and insolent for a woman. She needed to learn obedience, to be taught to submit to her master. Jamal frowned, recalling that the pleasure of using Zara’s sweet body belonged to the sultan. With no small amount of envy, Jamal wished him joy of it.

When Zara finally went slack against him, Jamal realized she had either fallen asleep or lost consciousness. She had taken a nasty blow on the head and could have been more seriously injured than he’d realized. The stubborn female would never give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly she was hurt. Holding her upright against him, he put his spurs to Kacem.

Zara awoke some time later to the rolling gait of Jamal’s mount, still an unwilling captive of his superior strength. Allah forgive her, but she could kill him without a qualm for what he’d done this day. She glared at him over her shoulder and said, “You’re holding me too tightly!”

He merely smiled and splayed his hand over her stomach so that the pad of his thumb rubbed back and forth against the soft underside of her breast.

“Son of a goat! Braying ass! You have no right to touch me.”

“I have every right. You are my captive.” That statement left a sour taste in his mouth. Technically,
Princess Zara belonged to the sultan. She was not his.

What would Moulay Ishmail do with her? he wondered. Make her a part of his harem? He already had more women than he knew what to do with. Ishmail was a shrewd man; perhaps he would use her as bait to capture her father. Her life wouldn’t be easy as Ishmail’s prisoner. The sultan was an exceptionally cruel and vindictive man.

Zara dared another glance over her shoulder at Jamal. He appeared to be preoccupied with his own thoughts, and she took a moment to study him. His hair was concealed by a white turban, but judging by the color of his dark brows and lashes, she supposed it was dark also. His skin was more bronze than swarthy, and she suspected the dark color was due to the sun and was not his natural skin tone. His eyes were dark and impenetrable, not the murky brown of mud but the pure black of a desert night.

Her silent contemplation of his face at an end, Zara dwelled briefly on Jamal’s other attributes, those she couldn’t see but could feel. He was uncommonly strong; she could feel his strength in the hardness of his chest and thighs pressing against her, and in his hand splayed against her, restraining her struggling with such ease. He controlled his spirited mount with one hand upon the reins, as if born to the saddle. Sheik Jamal was a man to be reckoned with, Zara decided. She would need to employ cunning and guile in order to escape him, but, Allah willing, she would escape.

They rode across towering brown hills, through forests of mimosa, cork and olive trees, stopping briefly at a water hole to refill their goatskin water bags. Zara drank greedily when offered water, and accepted a handful of olives and a hunk of goat cheese from Jamal. Then they rode on, until darkness claimed the land and Jamal called a halt. A fire was quickly built to brew mint tea. Again they ate sparingly of olives, bread and cheese they carried with them, washing the food down with refreshing mint tea. Then Jamal placed his blanket on the ground and lay down, indicating that Zara was to lie beside him.

Nights were cold despite the sizzling heat of the day, and Zara would have welcomed the warmth of a blanket, but she neither trusted nor liked Jamal and wondered what mischief he intended for her this night.

“Come, Zara, lie down beside me. I’m tired, and keeping you beside me tonight is the only way I can be sure you won’t escape.”

“Your touch disgusts me,” Zara said with a shiver. “’Tis enough I’m forced to ride with you. I won’t lie with you.”

“Would you rather be bound hand and foot and made to sleep on the cold ground?”

“Aye, if it meant I wouldn’t have to endure your hands on me.”

Jamal’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Did you enjoy Sayed’s hands on you?”

The breath hissed from her lungs. “Don’t you dare compare yourself with Sayed. Aye, I very much enjoyed his hands on me.”

“I understand that Berber women are bound by
few restrictions. An Arab man would slay his bride if she came to him without a hymen. How many men have you taken between your sweet thighs, Zara?”

“Do not judge me, prince of donkeys,” Zara declared. “Berber women are free to love where they will. How many concubines do you have to ease your nights? How many love slaves do you keep in your household? I will be no man’s slave. Berber women choose the men with whom they wish to share their bodies.”

Jamal’s mouth thinned. Never had he heard a woman speak so openly or with such passion. Zara’s words shook the very foundations of Islamic teachings. In the Arab world women were taught to be obedient and submissive to men. Allah had placed women on earth for men’s pleasure, and to bear their children. They lived in harems apart from males and covered their faces discreetly when they appeared in public. Their purpose in life was to pleasure their masters, and some, particularly concubines, were highly skilled in such arts. They did very little except indulge themselves with food and sweets and enjoy the luxuries provided by their husbands or masters.

Of course, his own mother had been an exception to the rule, Jamal reflected. His father had emptied his harem at her request and taken no other concubines or wives after she came to him as a young English captive. They had shared true love, and his father had desired no other woman. After his father’s death at the hands of Berbers, his mother was free to do as she pleased. His father
had willed it so. Lady Eloise had chosen to return to her people in England. Jamal had elected to remain in his native Morocco, sailing to England frequently to visit his mother.

Jamal felt a modicum of pity for the rebellious girl standing before him. But pity was not an emotion he dared to entertain. The sultan would have his head if he allowed Zara to escape. “Do you refuse to lie beside me?” he asked harshly.

“Aye,” Zara said, tossing her head defiantly.

“So be it.” Jamal called Hasdai to attend him. The captain appeared almost instantly.

“What can I do for you, Sheik?”

“Princess Zara has expressed a desire to sleep on the cold ground, bound hand and foot so she can’t escape. See that her wishes are granted.”

Grasping her arm none too gently, Hasdai pushed Zara to the ground and called for a rope. It was provided moments later and Hasdai seemed to derive great pleasure in binding Zara’s wrists and ankles, then winding the rope ends around her slim waist and tying the ends securely behind her back. When he finished, he stepped back and looked inquiringly at Jamal.

“That will be all, Hasdai. Set the guard and see that the rest of the men settle down for the night.

“Are you comfortable, Princess?” Jamal asked with bland indifference. If she would but admit to her discomfort, Jamal would release her immediately. He wasn’t cruel by nature and he didn’t like to see women suffer.

Zara bared her teeth at him. “As comfortable as I can be amidst an army of jackals.”

“Then I wish you pleasant dreams, Princess,”
Jamal said, rolling up in the blanket and facing away from her.

Cursing beneath her breath, Zara tried to squirm into a comfortable position, but the rocky soil beneath her became her enemy. Each hard pebble, every jagged twig, dug into her tender flesh despite the thick robes protecting her. And the cold! Blessed Allah, it seeped into her bones until she ached. She glanced over at Jamal lying a short distance away and wished him to Hades. Eventually, however, she fell into a fitful sleep.

Jamal awoke during the night feeling as if his back were against a blazing brazier. Rolling over, he found soft womanly curves planted against him, absorbing his heat. He smiled grimly. Prideful as the woman was, she had unknowingly gravitated toward the warmth of his body in her sleep. Surrendering to the dictates of his flesh, he pulled her against him, covered them both with the blanket and closed his arms around her.

Zara awakened and sighed, lulled by warmth and the pleasing scent that filled her nostrils. She tried to stretch, found she could not move her arms and legs, and frowned, suddenly recalling everything that had happened the previous day. Sayed was dead and she was the prisoner of Sheik Jamal. To make matters worse, she was being held snugly against his large body, the scent of him surrounding her, making her giddy.

Zara surged upright, dragging the blanket from Jamal. He opened his eyes and stared at her. “Good morning. Have I overslept?”

A sweeping glance around their campsite assured
him that the soldiers had not yet begun to stir.

“How did I get here when I refused to lie beside you?”

He gave her a smug smile. “You must have changed your mind.”

“Never! You’re the enemy. I spit in your eye. I spit in the sultan’s eye.”

He clapped a hand over her mouth. His voice was cold and emotionless. “I wouldn’t try it if I were you. The sultan isn’t as lenient as I. I might not demand your head for such an insult, but the sultan would. Now, will you keep a civil tongue or must I gag as well as bind you?”

Zara gulped convulsively. She wasn’t afraid of the arrogant sheik but at this point it might pay to practice caution, something she knew little about, or so her father had claimed. She nodded her head and he freed her mouth.

“That’s more like it.” He pulled her to her feet and untied her hands and feet. “There are some trees yonder, if you have need of them.”

Zara nodded vigorously. Her bladder was about to burst. She started to walk toward the trees, then stopped abruptly when she found Jamal falling in beside her.

“Where are you going?”

“With you, of course, unless you’d like one of Hasdai’s men to accompany you.”

“There’s no need.”

Jamal grew weary of Zara’s belligerent attitude and told her so. “You would do well to obey me. Your life depends upon my good will.”

Once again Zara employed caution and withheld
her sharp retort as she continued walking toward the trees Jamal had indicated.

“I’ll wait here,” Jamal said as he leaned against a thick tree trunk. “Hurry, or I’ll come after you.”

Zara did as she was told, wishing for a long, leisurely bath and something to eat other than olives and cheese. With Jamal and an army around her, there was virtually no way she could escape. She had to trust her father and his people to rescue her. And if that wasn’t possible, she’d accept Allah’s will with stoic resignation.

“It’s about time,” Jamal complained when Zara came out from behind a tree. “The men are anxious to be off and I am eager to go home. I’ve been away a very long time. If not for the sultan and his need to rid the world of the Berber horde I would be riding upon my own land, enjoying my women and eating food fit for a king.”

“I pity your women,” Zara said with a hint of contempt.

Jamal stared at her. “Why do you say that?”

“Are they not confined to a harem? Do you not summon them into your exalted presence so that you may use their bodies to ease your lust?”

Her words were harsh and condemning and didn’t sit well with him. Who was she to tell him what to do and what not to do with his women? Not that there were all that many of them. He kept only three concubines and an older woman to see to their needs. He spent so much time at sea that he saw no reason to fill his harem with women. Neglected women would only make trouble in his absence. But when he returned he happily availed himself of their lush young bodies.
His women were cosseted and spoiled; they lacked nothing in the way of material comforts. If they were lonely in his absence, he tried to make it up to them by bringing them back expensive baubles.

“Did no one ever tell you that men punish their women for being viper-tongued? You speak too boldly for a woman.”

“Berber women are allowed freedom to speak and act as they please. They show their unveiled faces and are not confined to harems.”

“No wonder Berber women are so brazen,” Jamal muttered, sliding Zara a look that conveyed his contempt. Allowing women that much freedom was dangerous.

When they reached the main camp, the men were already mounted and waiting for Jamal to return with his captive. Jamal tossed Zara atop his horse and leaped up behind her. Moments later they were racing toward the imperial city of Meknes.

Chapter Two

The
medina
teemed with throngs of noisy people and animals as Jamal entered Meknes with the sultan’s soldiers. Holding Zara possessively against him, he passed through the narrow streets which led to the
Kasbah
and imperial palace, a mighty fortress built on the crest of a hill overlooking the
medina
.

Zara gazed in awe at the wondrous sights and sounds surrounding her. The
souk
, a central marketplace within the
medina
, was a kaleidoscope of vivid colors and pleasing scents. Children and adults alike were grouped around storytellers and magicians while nearby, dancers practiced their graceful movements and monkey trainers and water sellers mixed freely with vendors hawking fruits, vegetables and meats.

Having lived most of her life in her own village
high in the Rif mountains, Zara had never seen such a colorful mixture of sights and sounds. Then the call to prayer by the
muezzin
in his minaret brought people to a halt as they fell to their knees, facing Mecca, the holy city and birthplace of Allah. The
muezzin’s
cry echoed over the city, his chant in praise of Allah and his works repeated over and over by the faithful. After prayers, the sultan’s party continued on to the palace.

Zara feasted her eyes upon the sultan’s exquisite gardens, stunned by their extravagant beauty. A profusion of every kind of flower grew in a precise pattern of vibrant colors. When they reached the palace door, Jamal lowered her to the ground and dismounted behind her. Moments later the door was opened by two palace guards dressed in striped pantaloons, short vests and capes. When Zara would have paused in the doorway to gawk at the ornate walls and ceilings held up by tall marble columns, Jamal urged her forward.

“Have you never been inside a palace before, Princess?”

“Not one like this,” Zara admitted. “Perhaps I might have lived in such a dwelling if the Arabs hadn’t stolen our cities.”

“Come along, I’m sure the sultan has been advised of my arrival and is waiting for my report.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“To the harem. You can eat and refresh yourself while I speak in private with the sultan.”

Zara stopped in her tracks. “The harem? I have never been in a harem in my life and don’t intend to go there now.”

No sooner had Zara uttered those words than a plump Negro slave shuffled up to Jamal and bowed low. He wore robes of the finest silk and pointy shoes of soft leather. His face was round, smooth and unlined, and his expression was anything but servile.

“I am Assad, chief eunuch. I will take the slave to the harem and bring her forth when Moulay Ishmail summons her.”

Zara’s chin rose mutinously. “I won’t go!”

Assad gave her a look of stunned disbelief. Such behavior from a woman was unheard of. “The lady needs to be taught proper conduct, my lord,” Assad advised. “Have you impressed upon her the fact that the sultan will not allow such disrespect from a woman? He is not an easy man to deal with.”

Jamal grasped Zara’s arm, pulling her aside. “Assad is right. You must do as you’re told and keep a civil tongue in your mouth. Moulay Ishmail is so enraged at your father, ’tis unlikely he’ll show compassion to Youssef’s daughter.”

Zara swallowed her angry retort, realizing she would gain nothing by antagonizing the sultan’s household. “I thought I was
your
captive.”

Jamal gazed into her vivid green eyes and wished it were so. “Nay, you were never mine. I merely held you in the sultan’s name. After I make my report I will leave you in his care and return to my oasis home. I am not the master of your fate.”

“I will take my chances with the sultan,” Zara said haughtily. She nodded at Assad. “I’m ready. Take me where you will.”

Jamal watched her walk away, her head held high, her pointed little chin refusing to lower, and a shiver of dread passed through him. The stubborn little wench didn’t realize the danger she was in. As angry as Ishmail was with her father, Jamal wouldn’t give a fig for her future. If he could but gag her he might have a slim chance of saving her life, but the brazen Berber vixen would have her say no matter what. The sultan had no use for women with cutting tongues, and Jamal feared that the consequences would not be to Zara’s liking.

Zara found the harem beyond anything she’d ever seen: floors covered with thick woolen carpets, so colorful they hurt her eyes, walls hung with silks and satins, divans upholstered in rich velvets. And women. Allah, the women were too numerous to count. Short, tall, fat, plump, slim, they were dressed in vivid peacock colors and pale pastels, flowing silks, satins and brocades.

Some women lounged on divans or sat on pillows upon the floor. Others were bathing naked in a sparkling pool in the center of the main room. Several attendants dressed in coarse robes bustled about, catering to the demands of their charges. Assad beckoned to an older woman and she hurried over to them.

“Badria is the mistress of the bath. She will see that you are refreshed and fed something before you appear before the sultan.”

Zara and Badria eyed one another warily. Badria found her tongue first. “You wear the robes of a Berber warrior.”

“Aye, I
am
a Berber warrior,” Zara proudly admitted.

Suddenly Badria snatched away Zara’s headdress, releasing a cascade of hair the color of corn silk that reached nearly to her waist. Badria gazed in mute admiration at the combination of oval green eyes, smooth golden skin and hair that shimmered like sunlight.

“I know of no warriors who look like you and I’ve lived a long time,” Badria contended. “Who are you?”

“I am Princess Zara, daughter of the great
cadi
Youssef.”

Badria’s breath hissed through her teeth. “You’re the Berber chieftain’s daughter? Allah save us.”

The harem wasn’t so isolated from the world that Badria didn’t know what was taking place outside the walls. There were numerous ways of finding out things. Eunuchs and slaves could always be bribed to bring back news of importance.

“I am hungry,” Zara said boldly. “Bring me food.”

The women lounging within earshot snickered at Zara’s imperious manner while secretly admiring her bravado.

“You’ll bathe first, then food,” Badria said, wrinkling her nose as if sniffing something offensive. “You reek of camel dung and dirt. Take off your robes. I’ll find you something decent to wear.”

Zara was reluctant to remove the badge of her people. Once she shed the distinctive blue robes, she would be just another woman. “You may
shake the dust from my robes but I will wear them to meet the sultan.”

“You’re a foolish young woman,” Badria contended. “Appearing before the sultan dressed like a man will surely anger him. If you wish to impress him—”

“I have no desire to impress the sultan,” Zara claimed, interrupting Badria in mid-sentence. “I am Princess Zara, daughter of Youssef. I’m well aware of my fate. Do not badger me, mistress. I will bathe and eat and face the sultan in my own clothing.”

Never in all her years had Badria met a more obstinate creature. So be it, she thought, disgruntled. At least she’d tried to save the Berber vixen. Defying the Sultan was not wise.

Zara allowed Badria to disrobe her, paying little heed to the woman’s gasp of shock and outrage when she noted that Zara’s body hair had not been removed.

“What manner of men are Berbers that they allow their women to keep their body hair?” Badria sniffed. “I will personally see that you appear before the sultan as smooth as a newborn babe.”

In that respect, Zara knew Berbers and Arabs agreed. Berber men like their women smooth, hairless and clean, but Zara had found little time of late to groom herself properly. Besides, no man had ever seen her undressed. Not even Sayed. The proper time and place had never arrived for them to consummate their love.

Zara shrugged. “If you wish, for all the good it will do either of us. Never let it be said that Princess Zara met her death with an unclean body.”

Zara was led to the pool, trying not to feel self-conscious as the sultan’s wives and concubines watched with avid interest. She ignored them as Badria scooped soft soap from a jar and spread it over her body. Then the bath mistress took a flat tool and scraped off the lather, removing both dirt and soap at the same time. Next, her arms, legs and groin were spread with a pale pink substance that when rinsed off left her skin smooth and hairless as a babe’s. Then she immersed herself in the pool, sighing with pleasure as the warm, scented water soothed her body.

Badria washed Zara’s hair, scrubbing and rinsing several times before she was satisfied. When Zara emerged from the pool, Badria dried her hair with silk until it glistened and shone like the purest sunlight. Then Badria robed Zara in a diaphanous dressing gown and sat her on a cushion before a small table. Moments later a slave brought in a tray and placed it before Zara.

Zara ate heartily of
couscous
cooked with lamb, peeled green figs, newly made yogurt, fresh bread, grapes and oranges. The beverage maker came with his brazier, charcoal and kettles and brewed mint tea, which Zara drank in copious amounts. She ate her fill, then sat back, replete. After such a meal she was ready to face anything, even arrogant Sheik Jamal.

Jamal was taken to the Hall of the Sultanate, where Moulay Ishmail awaited his report. He made his obeisance and waited for the sultan to speak.

“I trust you met with success.” It was a statement
rather than a question. The sultan did not accept failure.

“The caravan will reach the city gates intact before sundown tomorrow. We met the Berbers and turned them back. I left men behind to gather the wounded and protect the caravan from further attack.”

“What of that jackal Youssef? Have I seen the last of him?”

“Youssef escaped, my lord sultan.”

Ishmail rose angrily from his ornate throne of carved ebony inlaid with gold and precious gems. “You failed? Surely not, Jamal. I’ve never known you to fail. I cannot tolerate failure. If what you say is true, then Youssef will continue his raids. He will strike again and again.”

Jamal smiled, not at all intimidated by Ishmail’s anger. Other men might quail in their boots, but not Jamal. The sultan had come to depend upon the plunder from Jamal’s pirating.

“I hope you’ll forgive me when you see the gift I’ve brought you. My gift will stop Youssef from raiding your caravans and keep his people in their mountain fortress.”

Ishmail sat down, eager now to listen. “What game do you play, Jamal? I’m thoroughly sick of the Berber raids upon my caravans. What wondrous gift have you brought me?”

“Youssef’s daughter.”

Ishmail’s face grew mottled with rage. “His daughter?
His daughter?”
he repeated shrilly. “Of what use is a daughter to a man like Youssef? Had you brought me his son I would have given you half my kingdom.”

“Hear me out, mighty sultan. Youssef has no living sons. His daughter rides at his side and is as fierce as any son. Youssef highly values Princess Zara. Let her be your weapon against her father.”

Somewhat mollified, Ishmail mulled over Jamal’s words. “I would like to see this princess upon whom Youssef dotes. I will judge her worth for myself before determining her use to me.” He turned to a guard standing nearby. “Tell Assad to bring the Berber wench to me.”

Jamal felt his heart slam against his chest. He had known this moment had to arrive but now he felt an unreasonable fear. Zara wasn’t a woman to hold her tongue, and the sultan wasn’t a man to condone insolence in a woman. Fireworks were bound to occur when the two met face to face. A fierce protectiveness toward Zara welled up in him, one that both surprised and annoyed him. He prayed that Allah would take pity and strike Zara mute.

Zara knew the moment she saw Assad enter the harem that he had come for her. She had already donned her pantaloons, shirt and blue robes in anticipation of her summons and was waiting for him. She thanked Badria for her care and followed the plump eunuch through the lush interior of the women’s quarters into the marble and mosaic hallways beyond the guarded entrance.

Zara was taken directly to the Hall of the Sultanate, past a pair of fierce guards carrying scimitars and wearing short knives strapped to their upper arms. Zara dragged in a shaky breath,
lifted her head proudly and stared straight ahead into the vast hall as she approached the throne. Her gaze found Jamal and she faltered. He seemed to be conveying a silent warning that she chose to ignore.

“The sultan is waiting,” Assad said, giving her a little shove when her legs refused to move.

Zara stumbled inside the huge hall, righted herself and walked on wooden limbs toward the dais.

“That’s far enough,” Ishmail said when Zara reached Jamal’s side. Then he waited for her to make her obeisance.

“Pay homage to your sultan,” Jamal hissed into her ear when she boldly glared at the sultan and showed no sign of prostrating herself before him.

“I will bow before no tyrant,” Zara contended. Despite her courageous words, her knees were knocking against one another.

Jamal suppressed a groan. Did the vixen not realize she was flirting with danger? Did her life mean so little to her? He could see that Ishmail was becoming incensed and decided to defuse the explosive situation. Catching Zara by the scruff of the neck, he pushed her to her knees and shoved her forehead to the carpeted floor, holding it there with the sole of his boot.

“What manner of female is this who insults my imperial person?” Ishmail thundered. “No respectable woman would dress like a man and refuse to pay homage to her master. Release the Berber wench, Jamal. I wish to speak with her.”

Jamal’s foot eased on Zara’s neck and she leaped to her feet, sending Jamal a searing look
that singed the air around him. Then she whirled to confront the sultan, her hands clenched at her sides, her gaze defiant.

“What is your name, lady?” Ishmail asked harshly.

“I am Princess Zara, daughter of the great Berber chieftain, Youssef,” she said haughtily.