Skye O'Malley (21 page)

“Thank you, my friend. You will come, of course, and celebrate with us.”

“Yes, I shall come. Is it to be a large celebration, Khalid?”

“No, Osman. Just a half-dozen or so are to be invited—my banker, the head of the merchant’s guild, the mullah, the Turkish commandant, and my secretary, Jean.”

“What of Yasmin?”

“I think not.”

“Yasmin loves you, Khalid.”

“Yasmin thinks she loves me, Osman, and therefore she will accept my plans because of her belief in me. Besides, she will have no further contact with Skye. I cannot allow my wife to associate with a whore.”

Osman had to laugh. “There, my friend Khalid, speaks both the Spaniard
and
the Moslem in you.” He stood up. “Until Saturday, my lord Bey, and I wish you luck with Yasmin.”

Khalid el Bey sat pondering for a few moments after Osman had left. The astrologer was right. Yasmin would have to be dealt with, and the sooner the better. Rising, he called for his horse and, in the silent midafternoon heat, he rode down to the heart of the city, to the House of Felicity.

The building in which this famous brothel was housed was built around a planted courtyard that had a spraying fountain at its center. The side of the house facing the streets was white and devoid of windows or any decoration save the double-doored entry of blackened oak with polished brass studs. Guarding the doors were two huge black giants in scarlet satin pantaloons with cloth-of-gold sashes, turbans, and ridiculously turned-up shoes. Their large bare chests and muscular arms were oiled so that they gleamed in either sun or torchlight. They smiled broadly with flashing white teeth as their master rode past them into the courtyard.

Khalid el Bey dismounted, tossing the reins to a pretty young girl of ten who smiled at him in an adult and provocative fashion.
Both her feet and her budding breasts were bare, and she wore only white gauze pantaloons that revealed her round little buttocks. A clever innovation, he thought, for many of his Berber clients liked prepubescent girls best of all.

For a minute he stood and looked about the courtyard with a proprietary air. Everything was in perfect order. He was pleased. The brick walks were well swept, the shrubs well trimmed, the flower beds colorful and fragrant.

“My lord Khalid, you honor us!” Yasmin swept down the steps to greet him, her black-and-gold silk caftan billowing. An odor of musk was strong about her, and he could see her vermilion-tinted nipples through the sheer silk. Her golden hair was plaited with black pearls, and behind one ear was a creamy gardenia. It continually amazed him that she always knew of the arrival of an important guest, and was instantly there to greet him.

“My dear Yasmin, you are as lovely as ever.” He chuckled inwardly as she bridled with pleasure. “Come. I wish to talk with you.” He led the way to her apartments, waiting patiently as she served him coffee and small honeyed almond cakes.

At length she asked, “How is Skye?”

“That is what I have come to discuss with you,” he answered. “I have decided she is quite unsuited for this sort of life.”

“Praise Allah! You have come to your senses!”

He smiled faintly. “You do not like Skye, do you?”

“No!”

“Then you shall not be burdened with her any longer, Yasmin.”

“You have sold her?”

“No. I am taking her to wife. The chief mullah of Algiers will join us on Saturday evening at moonrise.”

Yasmin’s face crumbled. Then, recovering herself as quickly as she could, she laughed weakly. “You jest, my lord. Gracious—how you startled me! Ha! Ha!”

“I do not jest,” he said quietly. “Skye is to be my wife.”

“She is a
slave
!”

“No, she is not. I have freed her. She was never meant to be a slave, Yasmin.”

“And I was?”

“You were born a slave of slave parents, of slave ancestors. It is your fate.”

“I love you! Does she love you? How can she? She barely knows you. But I know you, Khalid, and I know what pleases you. Let me!” and she fell groveling at his feet.

He looked down at her with genuine pity. Poor Yasmin with all her clever Mideastern sexual arts for pleasing a man. Yes, he had enjoyed them once, but they had also bored him to death. The Mideastern mode of loving was debasing to the woman. She was taught to please her master, who lay there, a nonparticipant except for the automatic ejaculation of his seed. It was up to the woman to please. The responsibility for his pleasure rested with her, and if she failed … the bastinado awaited.

How much better, he thought, the European way, where the man was in charge, his masculinity ruling and subduing his woman, her climax the most marvelous act of submission. It delighted the senses and soothed the male pride.

“I love Skye,” he said, “the decision was mine. And you, my most beautiful and valued slave, have no right to question me.”

“What will happen to me?” she whimpered.

“Nothing. You will continue your duties as before.” After a pause he asked, “Would you like your freedom, Yasmin? Then I should pay you for the duties you now perform for me.”

Yasmin was horrified. Her very slavery bound her to Khalid el Bey. Without it he could cast her off at any time, and now he probably would.

“Oh, no! No! No, my lord! I do not want my freedom.”

“Very well then, my dear, it shall be as you decree. Now, get up, Yasmin, and see me out.” He rose. Taking her arm, he raised her up. “You
really
are invaluable to me, my dear,” he said in a kindly fashion, and though she knew it to be a tossed bone, she was somewhat soothed.

“When may I come and wish the lady Skye happiness?”

“I would prefer you didn’t, Yasmin. Like any sensible man, I would prefer to keep my wife away from my business. And you, my dear, are a part of that business.”

“I understand, my lord Khalid,” she said smoothly, and thought bitterly to herself: Yes, I understand completely. You do not want your precious wife associating with a whore! And I am a whore!

They walked out into the sunlit courtyard, and the little girl brought Khalid’s horse to him. The Whoremaster of Algiers chucked the child underneath the chin, then slipped her a silver piece. “A nice touch, Yasmin,” he complimented her. Then, mounting the prancing animal, Khalid el Bey rode away.

CHAPTER 10

I
N THE NEXT FEW DAYS THE PREPARATIONS FOR
K
HALID EL
B
EY’S
wedding were made. The few invitations were issued, the feast and entertainment were planned, and the bridal chamber was decorated. Since Skye’s memory loss prevented her from having any religious preference, and since she had been a practicing Moslem since coming under Khalid el Bey’s protection, the chief mullah of Algiers found no impediment to the marriage.

On the afternoon of the nuptials six virgins from the House of Felicity arrived at Khalid el Bey’s estate and were housed in the women’s quarters. Unlike the Turks, who separated the sexes at a wedding, the inhabitants of Algiers were less formal. Although it was not necessary for the bride to be in attendance at the religious ceremony, which would be performed at the neighborhood mosque, she and other women were invited to the feast. For what was a celebration without soft and fragrant feminity?

The little French secretary, Jean, had been given his freedom in honor of his master’s wedding. Jean had, however, elected to remain in Khalid’s employ rather than return to his native land. He and the other guests were to be gifted with feminine companionship for the evening. Khalid and Skye looked over the girls and decided the pairing. “I think,” he said, “the pretty plump little Provençale with the black-cherry eyes will do quite nicely for the mullah. He is yet a young man, but inclined to be overserious and weighed down by the importance of his position.”

“Has he no wife to ease his travail?”

“No, Skye, he has not, although I know he is not a celibate.”

“Then the choice is an excellent one, my lord, for should she insinuate herself into his affections she will make him supremely happy. I see beneath the youth and sensuality a proper housewife and mother.”

Khalid chuckled. “Bravo, my Skye! I see that also, and should God will that it be so, think how grateful the mullah will be to me when his first son is born! Now … for the head of the merchant’s guild, and for my banker, the delicious blondes. Each of these gentlemen is well into middle life. Each has a carping wife and a houseful of greedy, brawling children and relatives. What is needed here is simple, and quite physical. Maidens whose light-colored eyes fill
with admiration easily, with big, soft breasts, and feather heads, who have only one desire, to please the master.”

Skye examined the two girls. They were fluffy creatures who would amply fill the bill. “What of Osman and Jean?” she asked.

“The petite creature with the soft hazel eyes and thick, chestnut-colored hair comes from his own Brittany. They will be quite a surprise for each other.”

“Oh, Khalid, how kind of you. The girl looks frightened, but Jean will reassure her nicely, and I will be delighted to have a friend in the house.”

“Yes, she will be a friend for you. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Let me guess the others, Khalid! The sweet-faced, grave-looking girl is for Osman!”

“Yes,” his eyes were amused.

“Then that leaves that rather fierce-looking creature for the Turkish commandant. God, Khalid! She looks like she could devour a man. Is that a wise choice?”

“My love, there are many things you don’t remember about human nature. The commandant of the Casbah fortress is a regular patron of the House of Felicity. His taste in women is, ah, somewhat sophisticated. Easy conquest bores him. He enjoys a woman who fights him. The girl I have chosen for him is half-Moorish, half-Berber. She is a wild little savage, and should delight him greatly. Now, my love, see that these maidens are bathed and clothed in time for the feast. The next time I see you, my sweet Skye, you will be my wife.” His golden amber eyes warmed her. His mouth brushed hers tenderly, and quickly he turned and was gone.

She sighed. He was so good to her. And she still worried that she should not be marrying him. Something deep inside her nagged at her, yet try as she might, she could not understand what it was. Sometimes in her dreams there was a man, always the same man, but she could never see him clearly, she could only sense him crying out to her. It made no sense.

Sighing, she clapped her hands and the slaves came running. She gave orders for the six girls to be bathed and perfumed. Then she set about choosing their garments from the vast wardrobe in the harem quarters.

For the mullah’s golden-skinned dark-haired Provençale it would be apricot silk pantaloons, a gold-embroidered sash, and a bolero fringed in little gold beads. Because of the heat and the lateness of the feast, she could forego the gauze blouses. The choice for the two blondes was simple: baby pink for both. For the Breton girl
with her chestnut hair and hazel eyes, apple green was perfect. For the girl chosen for Osman, a sky blue would set off her dark-blond hair. Lastly, she chose flame-colored silks for the Turk’s maiden. Handing the clothing to the servants, she gave orders for their distribution and returned to her own quarters to bathe and change into her own wedding garments.

At moonrise exactly, the chief mullah of Algiers performed the simple ceremony uniting Khalid el Bey in marriage with Skye, who became known from that moment as Skye muna el Khalid—Skye, the desired of Khalid. Then the groom and his guests returned to his house through the winding lantern-lit streets of the upper city, led by dancing, cavorting musicians whose reedy pipes and thumping drums pierced the dark velvet of the night.

The groom wore white silk pantaloons with silver-and-deep-blue-embroidered bands that stopped at the knee. His feet were shod in silver-colored leather boots. His shirt was also of white silk, open at the neck, with full sleeves and tight cuffs, over which he wore a white vest embroidered in silver and blue. It was all topped by a long white satin cape lined in dark blue. His dark head was bare, his short black beard had been well barbered.

Behind the closed shutters along his route, maidens and matrons alike peeped out and sighed with longing. The legendary Whoremaster of Algiers was a fairy-tale prince.

Behind Khalid el Bey walked the Turkish commandant of the Casbah fortress, Capitan Jamil. As tall as the bey, he was heavier set, and to the spying female eyes that watched, as sinisterly handsome as the bey was kindly. His face was long, as was his nose. His eyes were black and unfathomable, his mouth thin and cruel below a slim mustache. He was known to be cruel, even brutal, in his handling of fractious prisoners. Now, however, he strode along with his host and the other guests, chatting amiably.

“I understand your bride is a captive.”

“Was,” came the reply, “I bought her. Now she is legally free. And my wife.”

“I had heard you were training her for the House of Felicity. She must be quite good at whatever she does if you have decided to marry her.”

Khalid el Bey laughed lightly but he burned inwardly. “Skye has no memory of her past,” he said. “At first I thought that to train a woman such as she might prove amusing. But she is actually far too innocent for such a life. I had been considering marrying and siring sons for some time now. But what respectable father would
allow his daughter to wed the great Whoremaster? Skye is obviously of the upper class, wherever she comes from, and she is beautiful. Is that not an ideal choice for my purposes?”

“I am eager to meet your bride, Khalid.”

They had reached the house now, and entered through the wide doors into the square hall where the bey’s majordomo awaited. “Felicitations, my lord! Long life and many sons!” he cried, ushering them through into the banquet hall. Waiting slaves took the men’s cloaks, and brought silver-chased basins of rose water and soft linen towels so they might bathe their hands and faces. Refreshed, they sat down upon the large plump cushions strewn about the table.

“Gentlemen,” said Khalid el Bey, sitting at the head of the table, “it gives me great pleasure that you are here to share this moment with me. I would share my happiness with you, and so I present, to each of you, for your many nights of pleasure, a virgin who has been trained in my own House of Felicity.” He clapped his hands and the six girls, all dressed in their butterfly colors, entered and moved swiftly to the gentlemen for whom they were intended.