The Love Slave Read online

  Zaynab’s heart began to hammer against her ribs. What was it about this man’s touch that could render her so confused? “Does a Love Slave always undress her master?” she asked him, trying to regain control of her own emotions.

  “If it pleases him. She bathes him as you did me today, and both dresses and undresses him. Everything she does for him is meant to give him pleasure of some sort. She is not simply a concubine. She is more. She must learn how to release her own passions so that even if her master is not the best of lovers, he will believe that he is. His mere touch must send her into a swooning fit of pleasure.” He tipped her face up to his. “Yet a Love Slave never loses command of the situation, even while in the throes of ecstasy. She is mistress of herself at all times, Zaynab. Do you understand me?”

  “I am not certain,” Zaynab said slowly.

  By Bertrice Small

  THE KADIN

  LOVE WILD AND FAIR

  ADORA

  UNCONQUERED

  BELOVED

  ENCHANTRESS MINE

  BLAZE WYNDHAM

  THE SPITFIRE

  A MOMENT IN TIME

  TO LOVE AGAIN

  The O’Malley Saga

  SKYE O’MALLEY

  ALL THE SWEET TOMORROWS

  A LOVE FOR ALL TIME

  THIS HEART OF MINE

  LOST LOVE FOUND

  WILD JASMINE

  Skye’s Legacy

  DARLING JASMINE

  BEDAZZLED

  BESIEGED

  INTRIGUED

  JUST BEYOND TOMORROW

  VIXENS

  The Friar’s Gate Inheritance

  ROSAMUND

  UNTIL YOU

  PHILIPPA

  THE LAST HEIRESS

  The World of Hetar

  LARA

  A DISTANT TOMORROW

  THE TWILIGHT LORD

  THE SORCERESS OF BELMAIR

  The Border Chronicles

  A DANGEROUS LOVE

  THE BORDER LORD’S BRIDE

  THE CAPTIVE HEART

  LOVE, REMEMBER ME

  THE LOVE SLAVE

  HELLION

  BETRAYED

  DECEIVED

  THE INNOCENT

  A MEMORY OF LOVE

  THE DUCHESS

  THE DRAGON LORD’S DAUGHTERS

  PRIVATE PLEASURES

  A Fawcett Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 1995 by Bertrice Small

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Fawcett Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  FAWCETT is a registered trademark and the Fawcett colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 97-93374

  eISBN: 978-0-307-79487-1

  Map by Mapping Specialists, Ltd.

  v3.1

  To my friend Janelle Williams Taylor, with love and admiration from her Yankee “cousin,” Bertrice Williams Small.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue - Scotland: A.D. 929

  Part I - Scotland: A.D. 943

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part II - Ifriqiya: A.D. 943–944

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part III - Al-Andalus: A.D. 945

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Prologue

  SCOTLAND

  A.D. 929

  Sorcha MacDuff grunted sharply with her pain. Outside the gray stone keep, the early December winds keened mournfully, as if they shared her suffering. A grimace, almost a hard smile, touched her lips briefly as yet another pain tore through her frame. The room inside the keep was cold; so cold that its hard walls were lightly dusted with a thin overlay of frost despite the small fire in the fireplace. The tiny blaze struggled hard to maintain itself, crackling and sending small showers of sparks up the narrow chimney. Its energies were wasted, for the room was made no warmer by its presence.

  The naked, straining woman did not feel the icy air creeping between the stones, or from beneath the closed door. She was far too intent upon bringing forth her child. It was her first childbirth, but there would be no others unless she remarried; and she had no intention of doing so. Her husband, Torcull MacDuff, the laird of Ben MacDui, was dead these three months past. Killed in a land dispute with Alasdair Ferguson, laird of Killieloch. Her child, children, she silently amended, for the midwife had said she would bear two bairns, would revenge their father upon the MacFhearghuis, and destroy all the Fergusons of Killieloch so that not a trace of them would remain in the history of the land hereabouts. She was exultant with the thought of her vengeance. “You will not have died in vain, my dear lord,” she whispered to herself.

  The midwife brought her back to the present. “Push, lady!” the crone urged her. Sorcha MacDuff pushed with all her strength while the midwife groped between her outstretched legs, muttering and nodding. “Again!” the old woman commanded her.

  Sorcha bore down with grim intensity. Then, to her amazement, she felt something bulky and slimy sliding from her wet body. She struggled to sit up more and see. The midwife grasped the bloody infant by its ankles, held it up and smacked its bottom. The child instantly began to howl loudly.

  “Gie me my son!” Sorcha MacDuff growled menacingly. “Gie him to me this instant!” She held out eager arms.

  “ ’Tis a girlie ye’ve born, lady,” the midwife said as she swiftly wiped the birthing blood from the wailing child. Then wrapping a shawl about the baby, she handed her to her mother.

  A daughter? She had not even considered a daughter, but as the second child was certain to be a son, Sorcha decided that she was pleased to have a daughter as well. Two sons would have been difficult They would have probably spent more time fighting each other than fighting the Fergusons of Killieloch. Nay. A daughter was a good thing. She could be used to cement an alliance with an ally. Sorcha looked down on the baby in her arms. “Gruoch,” she said softly. “Ye’ll be called Gruoch. ’Tis a family name.”

  The baby looked up at its mother with wonderful blue eyes. She was a very pretty creature with a tuft of gold down upon her head.

  “Lady, ye’ve the other yet to birth,” the midwife said, breaking her reverie. “Hae ye nae pains?”

  “Aye,” Sorcha MacDuff replied bluntly. “I hae pains, but I dinna mind them for I hae been too fascinated wi’ my wee lassie.”

  “Ye hae best put yer mind to t’other one, lady,” the midwife said sourly. “A laddie is more important to the MacDuffs than the lassie yer cradling. Gie her to me now. I’ll put her in her cot where she belongs.” The midwife almost snatched the infant from her mother, tucking her into the carved cradle by the struggling fire so that Sorcha MacDuff could put her mind to the business of bearing the MacDuff son now striving to be released from her womb.

  The second child, its passage unblocked by the birth of its sibling, was born far more quickly. It pushed impatiently into the world, crying loudly as it came.
/>   “Gie me my lad!” Sorcha MacDuff cried excitedly.

  The midwife wiped the blood from the twin, peering carefully down at it as she did so. Then she shook her head sadly. “ ’Tis another lass,” she told the pale-faced woman. “The MacDuffs of Ben MacDui hae died wi’ out a laird.” She wrapped a shawl about the second squalling infant, sighing mournfully even as she did so. Then she handed her to her mother, but Sorcha MacDuff recoiled angrily.

  “I dinna want her,” she hissed. “What guid is a second daughter to me? I wanted a son!”

  “Will ye question the will of God above, lady?” the midwife demanded. The children were both girls, and there was no help for it. “God hae seen fit to gie ye twin daughters, lady. Both are healthy bairns. Surely ye canna deny them. Thank God for your guid fortune. Many a childless lass would envy ye.”

  “I’ll nae deny my wee Gruoch,” Sorcha MacDuff said, “but the other is naught but a burden to me. Gruoch is the heiress of Ben MacDui now, but what good is the other? I needed a son!”

  “ ’Tis a harsh land and time in which we live, lady,” the midwife reminded her. “The bairns are both strong now, but what if one took sick and died? Wi’out the other, there would be nae MacDuff at all to inherit. The secondborn has her place as well, I’m thinking. Ye hae best gie her a name too.”

  “Call her Regan, then,” said the disappointed woman.

  “ ’Tis a laddie’s name,” the midwife said, shocked.

  “She should hae been a lad,” Sorcha MacDuff replied stonily. “ ’Tis the price she must pay for disappointing me.” Then she grunted as a final pain swept over her and she birthed the placenta.

  Shaking her head, the midwife placed Regan MacDuff in the second cradle waiting by the little fire. Then she turned back to attend to her mistress. She had hardly finished this final task when the door to the room burst open with a bang. Several armed men strode boldly in, having pushed their way past the feeble and frightened MacDuff clansmen guarding the keep. The midwife shrieked, recognizing the green Ferguson plaid wrapped about the intruders. She cowered by her mistress.

  A tall, hard-eyed man grasped the terrified woman by the arm, and gazing fiercely down into her face, demanded, “Where are the bairns?” The midwife was speechless with fear, but Alasdair Ferguson followed her gaze to the two cradles by the fire. “Kill them!” he ordered his men fiercely. “I’ll hae nae more MacDuffs threatening my lands.”

  Naked, and still bloodied, the new mother struggled to arise from the birthing table, her hands reaching out to grasp at the MacFhearghuis’s dagger. Without even looking at her, he slapped her hands away. “Bastard!” she shrieked at him.

  “They are lasses, my lord!” the midwife finally managed to gasp in defense of the helpless babies. “Lasses canna harm ye!”

  “Lasses? Both bairns?” His look was incredulous. Then his eyes swung to the naked woman on the birthing table. “So,” he said mockingly, “Torcull MacDuff could only get lasses on ye, Sorcha. I’d hae gie ye sons, and yet will, my hot-eyed bitch. Ye should hae wed wi’ me instead of MacDuff.”

  “Is three wives not enough for ye, MacFhearghuis?” she demanded scornfully. “I wed wi’ the man I loved. Though ye hae killed him, I dinna regret my decision.” She made no effort to cover herself before him, or before his men, who were wise enough not to stare.

  “I could kill yer bairns, Sorcha MacDuff,” he said coldly, his eyes narrowing to contemplate her. Even naked and bloody with the efforts of her childbirth, she was still a handsome woman to be desired, and desire her he did. She had refused to marry him almost two years ago this very month, choosing his enemy instead. Torcull the Fair, the MacDuff had been called. He was a tall young man with shining gold hair and an easy smile. Well, thought the MacFhearghuis, he would not be so handsome now that the worms were feasting on him; and his widow would regret her previous actions toward the laird of Killieloch. To protect her bairns she would do exactly what he wanted her to do. Her maternal instincts would far outweigh her pride and her outrage when he made her his leman. He had once sworn to her that she would suffer for refusing him and choosing the MacDuff instead. Now he would have her, and he would dispose of her as he saw fit.

  Alasdair Ferguson released his iron grip on the midwife’s arm, shoving her toward the cradles. “Unwrap both bairns,” he said. “I would see for myself if ye both speak the truth. Unwrap them, and lay them on their mam’s belly so I may see them together. Quickly, old crone! I hae nae any more time to waste this day.”

  The midwife scurried to do his bidding, unwrapping the protective covering from each of the babies and laying them atop their mother’s now shivering body. “There they be, my lord,” she quavered. “Two wee lassies as ye can plainly see.”

  The laird of Killieloch stared down at the infants. With a single finger he gently examined each one’s genitals, seeking for a tiny manhood, but there was none. Both were lasses, without a doubt. He grinned briefly, pleased, and then an idea came to him. “Which of them is the firstborn?” he demanded.

  “This one,” the midwife said, pointing. “Her name is Gruoch.”

  “How can ye tell?” he asked her. “They seem to be identical in both features and form to me. How can ye separate them, old woman?”

  “The firstborn has clear, bright blue eyes, my lord,” the midwife said. “Look and see. The secondborn’s eyes, though blue now, hint of possibly another hue to come in time. Nae the firstborn. Her eyes are wi’out a doubt blue. Can ye nae see it?”

  He peered down at the children. “Aye,” he said impatiently, although he really could see no difference between the twin girls. “Wrap them up and put them back in their cradles.” He turned to the woman lying on the birthing table. She was pale, but defiant. “I’ll spare yer bairns, Sorcha MacDuff. The old woman is right. Lasses are nae a danger to me and mine. But I’ll hae yer firstborn, Gruoch, for my heir, Ian. The feud between our clans is now settled, for the lands in dispute between us will be Ferguson lands wi’ this match.”

  Sorcha glared at him. She knew she had no choice in the matter. He would have her precious Gruoch for his lout of a son, whatever she said. In that moment Sorcha MacDuff hated Alasdair Ferguson with every fiber of her being, but she would have to accept his terms. She was a clever woman, and despite her ire she could see the good side to the situation. The stronger Fergusons would consider the lands of Ben MacDui theirs from the moment the betrothal agreement was signed and sealed. They would aid the weaker MacDuff clansmen to defend those lands. Gruoch would grow up in peace and safety. And I will have my leisure in which to consider my revenge upon the Fergusons of Killieloch, she thought craftily. They had killed her Torcull. Now they were annexing his lands. They would pay dearly for their treachery one day.

  “What if Gruoch dies? Children are fragile,” She said practically.

  “Ye’ve two daughters, and if Ian should perish of some childish complaint, I’ve half a dozen sons to take his place. If both yer lasses die, however, these lands are forfeit to me and mine. But ye need nae fear, Sorcha MacDuff, yer lasses face nae danger from me. It is better to be united by our blood than by conquest, I think. It will ensure a real peace between our peoples. Then I can turn my attentions to yer Robertson relations,” he mocked her.

  “What of my other lass?” Sorcha asked him. “She must have a respectable portion for a dowry, for she’ll want a husband one day.”

  “She goes to the Church,” the MacFhearghuis answered firmly. “I will hae nae other clan laying claim to these lands through the other wee wench. But she’ll nae go until Gruoch and Ian are properly wedded, and bedded, Sorcha MacDuff. If, God forfend, we lose the firstborn, we’ll hae the secondborn in reserve.” Then seeing her shiver, Alasdair Ferguson took his own plaid and put it over her. “I’ll fetch the priest and hae him make all the arrangements. Ye’ll be informed when all is in readiness. Ye and yer lassies are now under my protection, Sorcha MacDuff. Ye nae fear any longer.” So saying, he turned, and signaling to his men to
follow him, the MacFhearghuis departed.

  As the door slammed behind him, Sorcha struggled to climb from the birthing table. Stumbling across the room, she tore the dark green and blue plaid with its narrow red and white stripes from her body and flung it into the fire. “Fetch me water, old woman!” she snarled at the midwife. “I would wash the Ferguson stench from my person!”

  The midwife scuttled to obey her mistress, quickly bringing a basin of warm water from the kettle over the fire, along with a clean rag. “Here ye be,” she said, a little afraid of the look on the lady’s face.

  Sorcha MacDuff scrubbed at her body almost violently. Dark thoughts swirled about in her head. She was not certain yet how she would revenge herself upon the Fergusons and their ilk; but she would do it! The MacFhearghuis had foolishly given her all the time she would need to effect her plan, whatever it was to be. In his great arrogance he had decided that all was settled, but it would not be settled between them until she had taken her vengeance for Torcull’s death and the robbery of his lands. No Ferguson would ever hold sway over Ben MacDui. She would let them protect her, and protect her bairns, but in the end she would find a way to triumph over Alasdair Ferguson and his clan. Suddenly a wave of weakness swept over her, and she staggered slightly.

  “Lady, ye should be in yer bed,” the midwife said, coming to her aid. “Ye’ll need all yer strength if yer to nurse both those sweet bairns. They’ll be hungry soon enough, I’m thinking.”

  “I cannot nurse them both,” Sorcha said. “Find someone to nurse Regan. She can take the lass to her cottage as soon as possible.” The new mother climbed into her bed. A bed empty of a husband now, she considered bitterly, yanking the fox robe over herself.

  The midwife pursed her lips in condemnation. “There is nae reason ye canna nurse both yer bairns, lady,” she said sternly. “Yer a strapping lass, and I can see the milk is already rising in yer breasts. There’s more than enough for two.”

  “My milk is for Gruoch only, old witch,” Sorcha snapped irritably. “Find a wet nurse for the other.” Then she turned her face to the wall.

  Shaking her head with disapproval, the midwife moved to the cradles to look down on the two infants, who slumbered peacefully now, unaware of the fates they faced: one to be a bride for the Fergusons, the MacDuffs of Ben MacDui’s bitterest enemies, and the other little lass for the Church, whether she would or no. The heiress, and the abbess, the midwife thought wryly with a soft chuckle. Then she slipped from the room quietly, closing the door silently behind her.