Stolen Splendor (42 page)

She was easily aroused, he mused, intense lust filling
him at the thought, centering upon the hot fire flaring in his loins. The sign
of a truly passionate woman.

Halil glanced up again, clearing his throat, his
narrowed gaze falling upon his Chief Eunuch. Unspoken communication passed
between master and slave, a command. The Chief Eunuch walked over to a large
chest, ornately wrought in silver and gold, and raised the lid. He pulled out a
silk bag, heavy with chinking gold coins, and held it in one huge hand as he
moved silently to Frederick. He held out the bag, his broad face
expressionless,
his
bald head glistening in the golden
light of myriad candles.

Frederick hesitated, looking from the silk bag to
Kassandra's prostrate form. But at Halil's questioning look he seized it from
the eunuch's hand, knowing from the bag's weight that it was more gold than he
had ever imagined. With this generous reward, and the payments he'd received
during the last few months, his
wealth
and comfort
were assured, for life.

"I am pleased with your gift, Count Althann,"
Halil stated simply, walking around Kassandra to stand at her slippered feet.
"If anything, your praise of this woman's . . . Kassandra's . . ." he
amended, "beauty was too modest. But now you must leave."

Indeed, Halil thought impatiently. He could hardly wait
to divest this Englishwoman of her silken garments, like the petals of a
flower, and reveal the fragrant hidden bud.

Frederick started, but quickly recovered. Of course you
must leave, fool!
he
berated himself. Your work is
done here. He bowed low at the waist, clutching the silk bag to his chest. Then
he remembered the message Mustapha had given him, hidden in his sash. He
straightened, pulling out the rolled parchment and handing it to the Chief
Eunuch, who inspected it and handed it to Halil.

"A message from His Grace, Mustapha,"
Frederick said, watching as Halil deftly slit the cord with the jeweled dagger
at his waist, broke the seal, and unrolled the slip of parchment, reading
quickly. The grand vizier's expression became one of extreme annoyance.
Frederick surmised there was no love lost between these two men, bound by blood
but little else.

Halil turned abruptly to the Chief Eunuch.
"Inscribe a letter. Tell my cousin exactly what was discussed earlier
today at the war council. It seems he wonders why I have not ordered an attack
upon the Imperialists. Sniveling fool! He grows weak with worry in his
fortress, fearing they shall make an unexpected move. Can he not see they are
quivering in their tents, the cowards, soon to retreat? They have no chance in
heaven against the strength of my army!"

Frederick said nothing. He had not been called upon to
answer. He stood silently, waiting as the Chief Eunuch sat down at a nearby
writing desk and put pen to parchment, recording his master's words and blowing
upon the rich black ink as it slowly dried. At last the letter was completed.
The eunuch folded it into a square, affixed the grand vizier's seal,
then
handed it deferentially to Halil.

"Take this to my cousin, along with this verbal
message," Halil
said,
his black eyes full of
anger as he gave the letter to Frederick. "If he wishes to retain his
position in Belgrade, he would do well to acquire some backbone. It seems he is
growing soft, perhaps spending too much time in the company of his women."

Frederick nodded and slid the letter within his sash.
"It shall be done, Sire." He stole a last glance at Kassandra,
then
turned on his heel, his flowing caftan swirling about
his long legs as he strode from the inner chamber of the tent, through a vast
adjoining antechamber, a shadowed corridor, then once again into the night.

Halil's forehead creased in speculation, watching the
heavy folds at the entrance to the tent cascade back into place behind
Frederick's tall figure. He had not missed the flicker of guilt in his
unsettling blue eyes as he looked for the last time upon the Englishwoman. It
was a surprising emotion in such a man. And a liability in a spy.

Perhaps Count Althann's days of service to the Sultan
should be drawing to an end, before such an emotion could lead to a fatal
misstep. But he dismissed the thought, deciding to wait until morning to take
any action. Now there was only pleasure on his mind.

He waved away his Chief Eunuch, who disappeared like a
creeping phantom into an adjoining chamber, and turned back to Kassandra,
kneeling beside her. She started, panting, as he cut the knotted scarf binding
her wrists. He could sense the fear emanating from her like a dense fragrance.
It excited him beyond measure.

Kassandra winced at the touch of cold steel against her
cheek and the sound of a sharp blade easily swiping through the gag just below
her ear. She ran her tongue across her dry lips, not knowing what her simple
gesture was doing to the man kneeling over her. Next the blade slit her
blindfold in two, the severed scarf falling away from her eyes. She blinked
from the sudden flood of light, squinting up into the piercing black gaze of
Halil Pasha. Her whole body tensed as he swept the long strands of hair from
her face, his fingers lightly brushing her skin.

Halil sucked in his breath, marveling at the wondrous
beauty of his new slave. She was perfection, a goddess, just as Count Althann
had said.

He had never seen such an incredible color as the
luminous amethyst pools staring up at him, set off by thick, dark lashes
beneath winged brows. He leaned over her, trailing a smooth-tipped finger from
the center of her forehead, down the straight line of her nose, brushing the
sensuous curve of her lips and resting on her trembling chin. Perfection. And
he could wait no longer to possess her. His need was great; it cried out for
satisfaction. He had held himself back from his other concubines all afternoon
in anticipation of this moment.

A pity he did not speak her language, he thought,
rising to his feet in one lithe movement to tower above her. No matter. What he
wanted to do at that moment required no words. It was a language of gesture,
expression, touch, perfectly understood by man and woman, master and slave. He
held out his hand to her, a commanding motion,
his
eyes reflecting his immediate intent.

Kassandra did not move. She did not even blink. She
simply stared up at him, looming like a great black falcon above her, her body
awash in loathing, fear, and terrifying awe. Everything about him was black,
his close-cropped hair, his glistening beard, his eyes, tinged with cruelty and
burning lust. Black pelisse, black trousers, black slippers . . . black,
absence of color, symbol of death.

His face was pale against the blackness, narrow with
long features, a high forehead, a hooked nose, and generous lips that curved
into a cunning half smile. His white hand reached out to her, but she would not
take it. She shuddered with disgust and turned away, repulsed, sickened . . .
fearfully defiant.

Halil's smile fled his lips,
incredulity
and rage welling up inside him. No slave had ever insulted him so before! Nor
had any slave ever excited him so . . . His blood coursed hotly through his
veins. He would take up her challenge. If she would not accept his hand and
allow herself to be led to the low dais, turning her back on the silken comfort
of his bed, then he would take her on the floor. She would learn not to defy
her sovereign master, her lord—this . . . this slave!

With a ragged sigh Halil fell on top of her, his lean
frame, toughened,
scarred
from battle, a warrior's
body, pressing her into the floor. She screamed, a high, piercing sound, but he
only laughed wildly in reply, his Chief Eunuch and numerous guards, standing at
attention just beyond the inner chamber, staying their hands upon their
scimitars, his laughter assuring them there was no cause for alarm.

Kassandra struggled and kicked, tossing her head, but
her strength was no match for his own. She heard a ripping sound, and inhaled
sharply as her tunic and chemise fell from her breasts, baring them to his
black gaze. He held her shoulders to the floor, kneeling astride her now, his
fingers splayed and biting cruelly into her flesh, while he bent his head and
captured a rose-crested nub with his mouth, suckling hungrily, his hideous
groans ringing in her ears.

Kassandra twisted desperately beneath him, crying out
again when he grabbed her wrists and wrenched them high above her head, his
other hand fumbling with her silken trousers, pulling them down around her
hips. His leg delved between her legs, forcing them apart.

"No!" she screamed, her breaths tearing in
great gasps from her throat. She summoned every ounce of her flagging strength
in a final effort to thwart him. "No!" She jerked sharply to one
side, her arms breaking free of his grasp, her hands flying to the wide sash at
his waist, groping, searching for the one thing that would save her, not from
death, which would swiftly follow her final act, but from this brutal rape.

She laughed in frenzied relief, her fingers suddenly
circling around the hilt of his dagger. Too late, Halil sensed her intent, and
his mortal danger. Before he could stop her, she brought it up high above him,
then down, down, the flashing blade slicing into his arm just as he managed to
roll away from her, saving his own life by the barest instant. He jumped to his
feet, screaming in pain and outrage, shouting curses, his hand pressed to his
upper arm, blood trickling between his fingers and running down his sleeve.

The Chief Eunuch was the first to rush into the inner chamber,
his saber drawn, followed by eunuch guards and Janissaries pouring in from the
front entrance and adjoining antechambers, scimitars poised. They converged
upon Kassandra, who lay on her back with her eyes tightly closed, her breasts
heaving, her body wracked by shuddering spasms, too exhausted to cover her
nakedness and beyond caring.

She said a swift prayer, expecting at any moment to
feel the sting of many blades cutting into her flesh. And, indeed, if she had
looked up at that moment, she would have seen a glittering canopy of scimitars
raised high above her, suspended, as the guards looked to Halil for the slight
nod that would end her life. All was hushed, deathly still, with no sound but
for jagged breathing and the faint ring of steel upon steel as scimitars
wavered, brushing blade to blade.

Halil exhaled slowly, glancing from his arm, the
bleeding partially staunched, to the woman lying defenseless upon the floor. He
quickly made up his mind. He shook his head, in that small gesture sparing her
life. The scimitars were withdrawn, and the Janissaries and guards moved back
to their places. Only the Chief Eunuch remained, with another eunuch of lesser
rank by his side.

"Cover her," Halil finally managed to say
through gritted teeth, struggling to catch his breath. He watched as the Chief
Eunuch lifted Kassandra roughly to her feet and threw his brocade pelisse
around her while the other eunuch supported her limp body. She opened her eyes
briefly, her gaze widening as if she was stunned to find she still lived and
breathed,
then
she closed them again, her chin
dropping to her chest.

Yes, you will live to regret what you have done, slave,
Halil thought fiercely, as if reading her mind. You will wish time and again
that you had died this day.

"Take her . . . to the harem," he said,
gasping. "Isolate her from the other women . . . but do not deal too
harshly . . . with my tigress. Perhaps a few days without food or water . . .
will tame her wild manners."

"Yes, Sire," the Chief Eunuch murmured,
though his expression, usually set and composed, was doubtful. He nodded to the
other eunuch, and together they dragged Kassandra from the inner chamber.

Halil winced, pulling away his hand to examine the
oozing wound. His private physician entered the chamber, rushing forward, but
he waved him away.

"It is only a scratch," he said, sinking down
upon a divan. His voice fell to a whisper. "Only a scratch."

Hardly worth the loss of such dazzling beauty . . . and
a passionate spirit to match,
he
mused. Cold cruelty
glittered in his black eyes. A spirit that he would break, bit by bit, until
she begged for his caress with open arms.

His full lips drew into a smile, the thought giving him
great pleasure. He leaned back upon the divan, allowing the hovering physician
to approach him at last.

Chapter 41

Frederick leaned well back in his saddle as the Persian
war-horse galloped down the steep hill leading from the Ottoman camp,
Kassandra's piercing scream echoing in his mind.

He had heard it carrying from deep within the grand
vizier's tent just as he mounted and rode away. The four Janissary guards
riding with him had laughed coarsely, praising the prowess of their commander.
He tried to blot it out, to think of anything but what was happening to her
right now, but he could not.

Damn it, man, you did what you had to do. It was either
this, or your own skin. At least she lives. But his reasoning
did little
to assuage his guilt, nor did the weight of the
gold, hidden in the folds of his trousers, which pressed against his hip. He
felt he was choking on guilt, drowning in it, even as he tried to force his
mind back to his mission . . . delivering Halil's letter to Mustapha.

Frederick eased up on the reins when he reached the
bottom of the slope, veering the stallion toward the rocky shore of the Danube.
The Janissaries pulled up behind him, flanking his rear.

It was pitch-dark, the moon barely visible in the sky,
a pale beacon hidden behind a thick bank of clouds. A swirling fog was settling
over the river, reaching out and blanketing the shoreline, making it difficult
to pick a path through the rocks and hulking boulders. It was even more
difficult to sight the small boat they had upturned and secured beneath
armloads of underbrush, the boat they would need to cross the river to the
fortress.