The Kadin Read online

  She moved to draw the two halves of her robe together.

  “Hold!” he commanded. “It pleases me to look at you.”

  She paled at the sharpness of his words, then blushed, and he laughed. A bold hand cupped her breast. He could feel the dainty nipple harden against his thumb, and her heart beating wildly against his palm.

  “Say my name,” he demanded. “I have never heard you speak it”

  “Selim,” she whispered.

  “Again.” Releasing her breast his hand brushed the curve of her hip.

  “Selim.”

  Reaching up, he loosened her hair, and it tumbled like a sunset over her shoulders.

  “How fair you are,” he murmured almost to himself. “I have known many beautiful women, but never have I seen one as exquisite as you. Little virgin, I want you. If I must wait in order to win your heart, I will wait; but by Allah, I would take you now if I dared!”

  She drew him down to her. “Yes, my lord,” Cyra said softly.

  He looked at her wonderingly, and she smiled softly back at him. Then she was beneath him, and he heard the word “Gently” pounding in his head as his throbbing manhood entered her. Her maidenhead blocked his passage, and, feeling her body tense, he stopped for a moment to tenderly kiss her face and stroke her silken hair. Gradually she relaxed, and in that instant he swiftly plunged through the barrier.

  She did not cry out, nor did her green eyes close. Instead, they widened in surprise at the sweetness of the pain, then in wonder at the pleasure she felt racing through her body. She heard a low, animal moan and, startled, realized it came from her own throat

  At that moment Cyra felt herself plunged into a whirlpool of pain and delight Her lithe body arched to meet him; her young breasts, their nipples hard, pressed against his chest She felt him moving rhythmically within her, and as the pain subsided, she was drawn into a whirling vortex of dizzying warmth.

  Suddenly she sobbed his name, and tears spilled onto her cheeks. He buried his lips in her hair, and then unable to control any longer the storm of passion he had contained he released it into her. throbbing body.

  In the split second that their souls touched he lost himself to her forever. He adored her. He could not get enough of her. She belonged to him completely, and yet it was he who felt enslaved

  The moon had set and he looked over at the sleeping girl. She lay on her side facing him, one arm beneath her head His eyes feasted on her naked body—the moist pearly sheen of her skin, the coral-tipped nipples of her breasts, the sooty fringe of her lashes against her cheek, her hair a red-gold mass of disarray against the pillows. He shuddered with hunger for her, but remembering how newly opened the bud of her maidenhead was, he rose instead from the bed and going to the door, called a slave to bring a basin of warm water, linen, cool drinks, and sweet cakes.

  When all he had requested had been brought and placed by the bed, he gently rolled the sleeping girl upon her back. Dipping the soft linen into the scented water, he tenderly sponged the dried blood from her thighs. A slave should have done this, but he wanted no one else in the room to break the spell their love had created.

  Finished, he pushed the basin aside and after drawing a light cover over the still form, walked out onto the terrace. Breathing deeply, he inhaled the cool air, and slowly his mind began to clear. I am in love! The words rang jubilantly in his head. Never before had Selim Khan had a real relationship with a woman. There had been soft, compliant bodies upon which he had vented his desire, but these had lasted no more than a night or two.

  She had bewitched him, his little love. Never before had he felt the emotions that now assailed him. He felt loving, tender, and protective. How could one innocent little girl stir up so much confusion in a grown man’s heart and mind? He shook his head and walked back inside. He wanted to talk with her, hear her musical voice, and know that she felt the same.

  Taking a cup of fruit juice in one hand, he sat down on the bed and playfully ran his other hand down the curve of her body. She murmured in soft protest and then, stretching like a newly awakened baby, opened her eyes. He handed her the cup, and she drank greedily.

  “Have I slept long, my lord? I have never felt so rested.”

  “A few hours, little love.”

  He could not take his eyes off her, and she flushed shyly beneath his gaze. Placing the cup on the table near the bed, she drew his head down to her breasts.

  “If you continue to stare at me so, my Selim, I shall burst into flame and become a cinder.”

  She looked at the man who lay contentedly on her breasts. “Have I pleased you, my lord?” The power of her conquest sang in her voice.

  Looking up at her, his eyes twinkling, his voice amused, he murmured. “You are incomparable, o moon of my delight!”

  Realizing the foolishness of her question, she turned her face from him and giggled. The prince sprang from their couch, clutched her hand, and vowed passionately that never had one such as she graced his bed. They both dissolved into gales of laughter, and the slaves outside the door nodded to one another that their master’s first ikbal must indeed be wise to please her young lord so much that they could laugh so happily in the midst of their love-making.

  She pulled him tumbling back into the bed, and he looked down on her. “If you tell anyone of this farce, I shall strangle you,” he glowered, but his eyes were laughing.

  “My lord, I am well aware of your position,” she answered him, and he realized their silly byplay was something she would never share with anyone, because it was theirs alone. Was it possible she loved him a little? he wondered.

  Cradled in each other’s arms, they talked softly until they fell asleep.

  She woke at a touch of her shoulder. “My lady, it is almost dawn,” said the slave.

  Nodding, she rose slowly.

  “Where are you going, Cyra?”

  “It is almost dawn, my lord Selim. Custom demands that I return to the women’s quarters.”

  “You will come again?” His eyes adored her. “When my lord commands me.”

  “Tonight?”

  Her brilliant smile assented. “My lord must officially summon me.”

  “You will be summoned.” He stood, picked her up, and carried her to the waiting litter. The astounded slaves kept their faces impassive as they padded back down the cold, silent corridor.

  Cyra thought how frightened she had been but a few hours past Now her heart felt as if it would burst with happiness and joy.

  The litter returned her to the harem where Lady Refet waited. Cyra ran to her.

  “Oh, madam, I am so happy.”

  “And so you should be,” smiled the older woman. “Now, I have ordered the masseuse, and your bath awaits. Then to bed, my child.”

  Cyra allowed the bath attendant to sponge the perfumed water over her, and the masseuse to lull her overexcited body and mind into a more restful state. When they had finished, Lady Refet appeared again.

  “Come, dear child. I will escort you to your new quarters.”

  “I am not to go to my old room, madam?”

  “It would not be fitting for Prince Selim’s ikbal to sleep in the quarters of an ordinary gediklis,” replied the woman. “For several weeks now, my nephew has had the slaves working secretly on your apartments. They have been decorated to please just you.”

  “But he has been away, and returned only today.”

  “Yet we have had several messengers from him in that time.”

  “But how could he know he would choose me first?”

  “He has known from the beginning, Cyra. I know that Europeans find it difficult to believe that an Oriental prince, surrounded as he is by many lovely maidens, could love honestly; but did you find your first visit to my nephew tonight a simple physical experience?”

  “Oh, no,” cried the blushing girl. “It was beautiful, and pure, and—” She stopped, suddenly at a loss for words.

  Lady Refet smiled gently. “Say no more,” she said, pat
ting the girl’s hand. “Once I, too, felt the same way.” She flung open the doors at the end of the female sleeping quarters, and they entered the reception room of Cyra’s new suite.

  The walls were tiled in a rich blue glaze decorated with a yellow geometric pattern. Directly facing them was a small fountain of polished, dark-red stone. At each end of the room was a door.

  “The eunuchs guarding you are quartered there,” said Lady Refet, pointing to the left. “Your own female slaves will be here.” She motioned to the right

  Beneath their feet the floor was of the same polished red marble as the fountain. On the fountain wall were two doors. One was small, the other a large double door of carved and gilded wood which opened into a charming salon.

  Cyra gazed about her in delight The yellow walls were set with heavy wooden beams decorated with painted floral designs in reds, blues, greens, and golds. The paneled ceiling repeated the motif of the beams. The floor was a creamy marble.

  In the center of the room stood a round fireplace tiled in red and yellow. Above it hung a highly polished, conically shaped copper hood. The fire, blazing merrily, warmed the salon and cast its sparkling reflection into the windows at the far end of the room. Small glass panes covered almost the entire wall and concealed a door that opened onto a colonnaded porch and out into a private walled garden that hung above the sea.

  Walking into the chill of the early morning, Cyra looked about her. The garden had been perfectly laid out Narrow paths wandered among the flower beds. There were flowering trees and shrubs, now dormant with thickly covered buds awaiting the spring to come. There were firlike trees that reminded Cyra of her childhood Scots homeland. Moving along one of the paths, she came upon a pool with a little waterfall designed to appear as if nature had placed it there.

  Suddenly the girl realized that the garden had been made to look like Glen Rae, a favorite childhood haunt of which she had often spoken to Lady Refet. Hot, silent tears splashed down her cheeks, and she quickly brushed them away.

  “We thought to make you happy, my dear. If the memory is too painful, the garden will be changed.” She placed a motherly arm about the young woman.

  “No, madam. Change nothing. I weep with discovery of the love that surrounds me. I have no regrets. The garden is lovely.”

  “Very well, then come and see my nephew’s crowning touch, for he had a bit of Turkey placed in your Highland glen.” Leading her charge away from the pool, she pointed to the exquisite pale-pink marble kiosk at the far end of the garden. “Selim calls it the ‘dawn kiosk,’ because the first rays of the morning sun touch it and reflect the aurora colors on its dome. Do you like it?”

  Wordlessly, Cyra nodded.

  Lady Refet smiled. “There will be time to explore later, but now it is time for you to rest.”

  They reentered the salon, and Cyra again silently admired her new riches—the thick, colorful rugs spread about the floors, the shining brass and copper lamps, the polished woods of the furniture, the rainbow silks and velvets of the cushions and draperies.

  Lady Refet moved to a wall. “Here is a secret entry and exit to your bedchamber.” She gently pressed a barely visible raised carving on a beam. The wall slid open, and she stepped through, beckoning Cyra to follow her. “Tell no one of this and use it only in an emergency,” she counseled.

  The bedchamber was a miniature of the salon. A large sleeping couch hung with green silk curtains and set on an elevated gilded platform dominated one wall. In the corner next to it was a tiled fireplace.

  At a clap of her hands, two pretty slave girls appeared before Lady Refet “This is Fekriye, and this is Zala. They are yours,” she said.

  The two girls bowed and, without a word, set about divesting Cyra of her garments and replacing them with her nightclothes.

  “And now, my dear, I leave you to your dreams. I am sure they will be happy ones.” Kissing her nephew’s new ikbal on the forehead, she left the room.

  “When shall we awaken you, my lady?” asked Zala.

  “At the hour before midday,” replied the suddenly exhausted girl.

  The two slaves bowed and left their mistress.

  Cyra lay down on her couch, but she could not sleep. Restlessly, she shifted her position several times. She finally arose and, snatching a cloak from her wardrobe, walked out into the garden. The sky was awash with color, the sun just beginning to rise as she reached the kiosk. Here, alone with herself, she could try to sort out the thoughts that tumbled through her mind.

  Prince Selim was in love with her. This much she was certain of, for no man other than one in love could have been so gentle with her. That she was young and inexperienced, she knew; but only a fool could have missed the hunger in his eyes. He was the master, and she the slave. Yet he had gone out of his way to please her. Would he be the same with the others? No, she decided, he would not He would expect them to behave as they had been taught in his father’s harem.

  With a shock she realized the power that was potentially hers. She must tred lightly, for he was not a man to be ruled by a woman, no matter how deep his feelings. And unless she gave him a son before one of the others.… His influence was good only as long as he lived.

  The others! She felt a stab of jealousy prick her. He could send for any one of the others at any time; and even if he did not right away, when she became pregnant he would not wait Selim Khan was a healthy and lusty young man, and Cyra was a realist.

  “No, no, no,” she whispered fiercely, and then, remembering his kisses, his caresses, his hands gently exploring the secret places of her body, she flushed and grew warm. She wanted to go back to his bed and be loved, and then afterward sit facing him and talk.

  Am I in love or am I simply a shameless wanton? she questioned herself. She did not know. Slowly she rose and walked back into her bedchamber. I must sleep, she thought. If I do not, I shall look like an ancient hag tonight. Oh, Allah, let the day go quickly.

  14

  THE SUMMONS CAME AT NOON, and, with it, Selim’s gifts to his beloved in honor of their first night together—and as a token of his pleasure with her.

  The little harem had gathered in Cyra’s new quarters. At first they were shy, but the new favorite, though aware of her exalted position, was the same Cyra they loved, and soon her chambers hummed with lively chatter and occasional bursts of giggles. Sherbets, fresh fruit, and coffee were being served when a slave entered and whispered something to Cyra.

  “He may enter.” Turning to her friends, she said, “The prince’s messenger is here.”

  The room became silent as the eunuch entered. Placing the traditional wrapped handkerchief in front of her, he said, “Most blessed and exalted of women, I bring you greeting from our lord, Prince Selim Khan. May he live a thousand years! He sends these tokens of his affection to you and asks that you join him at the tenth hour this evening.”

  “Tell our gracious lord that his slave thanks him for his gifts. I shall obey his commands at the tenth hour this night,” she answered.

  The eunuch bowed and left

  She stared at the handkerchief. She had heard talk of Sultan Bajazet’s gifts in the Eski Serai. It was said that the more ornate the cloth, the higher the compliment The square was of the palest eggshell-blue, embroidered on all four sides with a two-inch border of gold thread, small seed pearls, coral, and turquoises. She touched it reverently.

  “In Allah’s name,” Sarina’s voice cut through the quiet “open it before we die of curiosity.”

  For once they all agreed with the prickly Spaniard. Cyra loosened the intricate folds, and the silk opened to reveal an exquisite Kashmiri shawl of soft spring green, a necklace and matching earrings of turquoise set in gold, a heart-shaped ruby ring, and several charming gold bracelets, carved with flowers, that Selim had made himself. Like all of Osman’s line, the prince had learned a trade. He was an extremely competent goldsmith.

  Cyra was speechless at the generosity of it all but her companions exclaimed in
delight.

  Sensing her friend’s mood, Firousi spoke gently. “There is more, Cyra.”

  “More?”

  “The slave who accompanied the eunuch also left this.” She pointed to a large carved-ivory box at Cyra’s feet.

  Opened, the box revealed the traditional bag of gold coins, two bolts of cloth—the first a peacock-blue silk, the second a sheer golden gauze—and, lastly, a dark-green leather case fitted with two gold brushes, half a dozen tortoise-shell and gold combs, a crystal box holding tortoise-shell hairpins set with pearls, four crystal scent bottles, and a carved gold mirror set with real Venetian glass.

  “You have obviously found favor with the prince,” said Sarina archly, fingering the silk.

  Lady Refet looked up from her embroidery.

  “I do not know why he chose me first,” said Cyra. “I thought surely it would be you. You danced so beautifully last night. Or perhaps Firousi, who sang so well.”

  “In Allah’s name,” snapped Sarina, “must you always be the diplomat? Of course I’m jealous of you, Cyra! All of us are, but you are the chosen one. I could have danced my feet off, and Firousi could have sung until she was hoarse as a crow, and still our Lord Selim would have seen no one except you. I accept that.” She laughed, “However, when you ripen with child, he will see one of us, and then you’ll be the jealous one!”

  “I think you’re hateful and spiteful to spoil Cyra’s happiness,” cried Firousi.

  “No,” replied Cyra. “She is simply reminding me of the truth. Each of you will be called to our lord’s couch eventually, and then you will know the happiness I know. This is our fate, and we must not allow petty jealousy to turn our quarters into a nest of intrigue like the sultan’s harem. This is a small household, but it must always be a happy one for our lord.”

  Lady Refet bent again over her embroidery. Such wisdom in one so young, she thought Praise Allah—and Hadji Bey’s sharp eye!