Page 73 of Silver Angel

It was her terse tone that finally got his attention. He smiled and joined her on the bed, stretching out next to her so that she felt the heat of his body along her entire side. One hand cupped her cheek and slid up into her hair to bring her mouth to his for a disturbingly gentle kiss.

“You think another could put out the fire you ignited?” His lips moved on to the side of her neck, ending by her ear, causing an explosion of hot, liquid pleasure that shot clear to her toes. “I have been able to think of no one but you since my eyes first beheld you. How then could I invite another to my bed, Shahar? Only you would do.”

She chose to believe him, because those words were as inflaming as the tongue delving into her ear. Once more all thoughts deserted her as she gave herself up to the pleasure of his touch.

Chapter Thirty-four

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Chantelle shrugged without raising her cheek from the heated marble slab. “Not at—” Her head snapped up, for that was her own language she had heard, clear and precise. “Are you from England, too?”

It was Jamila, one of the other fiveikbals, who unself-consciously opened her robe and lay down next to Chantelle on the warm marble shelf in the center of the communal chamber. She was naked beneath the robe, and her full, young breasts jutted out as she anchored herself on both elbows. That Chantelle was just as naked beneath her robe to enjoy the heat was precisely why she wouldn’t assume that position.

“I thought someone would have told you,” Jamila said with a smile. “My family is from Gloucester, though I was pretty much raised in London.”

“No, no one mentioned it. I thought Rahine was the only other Englishwoman here. Why didn’t you say something when you came to visit me the other day with Lady Sheelah?”

“It was Sheelah who taught me to speak Turkish, but it’s taken me so long to learn that she still insists I speak nothing else until I get it right. She’s so patient with me, but I was never very good at languages. My French teacher almost despaired of me.”

“But this is wonderful, to hear the mother tongue again. I’m so glad—” Chantelle flinched. “I don’t mean that I’m glad you’re here. I wouldn’t wish this enslavement on anyone.”

“No, I understand. I was sorry to see you arrive, and for the same reason.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Not long, really. Just over six months. I was the last woman to enter the harem until you arrived. And there was such a row over that, I thought surely there wouldn’t be any others. Everyone thought so, too, which was why you were such a surprise.”

“A row?”

“Oh, yes.” Jamila grinned, remembering. “I can laugh about it now, but I was terrified at the time. The Dey was so furious with his mother, he didn’t even wait until they were alone to chastise her, but came right into the harem to do it. I was sure I would be sold again or worse.”

“But why should you be sold again if he bought you? What was he angry about?”

“Hedidn’t buy me. Lalla Rahine did.” And then Jamila frowned. “I thought you knew. The Dey hasn’t bought a woman for himself in five years, not since he came to realize how much Sheelah meant to him. More than half the women here have been given to him or purchased by his mother. It was when she bought me that he finally laid down the law and told her absolutely no more.” She giggled. “He’s not like those other Turks and Arabs who think the more the merrier. He actually exhausts himself to assure that none of his women are neglected for any great length of time. So you can see why he might be upset to find his harem growing any larger.”

Chantelle refrained from snorting at that observation. What was she doing here, then, if he didn’t want any more women to wear him out? She recalled their first encounter and how he had seemed so indifferent to her. If he had stayed like that, she could understand what Jamila had told her. But there was last week. There was last night. There were his words that she had believed and still did, that he hadn’t made love to any of his other women since he’d first seen her.

Yes, last night. He hadn’t let her go until the dawn, and neither of them had slept at all during the long hours of the night. She had lost count of how many times they had made love, how many times his voice and touch had stirred the embers that he never quite let die out. She had returned to her rooms to sleep the morning away, exhausted, but with a contentment she hadn’t tried to analyze yet. She still hadn’t really thought about it, preferring to savor a while what she was feeling before she picked it apart to understand why she wasn’t upset or even a little disappointed at her own easy surrender.

“You can understand why there’s so much speculation since he’s bought you,” Jamila continued, playing with a lock of her dark brown hair, flicking it against her cheek and lips. “Everyone’s wondering if he simply couldn’t resist you or if your coming signifies a change, that there’ll be more after you to fill the ranks.”

Chantelle was not about to consider that when there were so many other, more important questions she was avoiding. A change of subject was in order.

“Do you miss home, Jamila?”

“Oh, yes. I can’t seem to get used to the inactivity here. I was always so busy at home, making the rounds, you know. There never was enough time in a day to fulfill all of my commitments. Here there’s too much time with nothing to do. I was convinced the boredom would have me fit for Bedlam, but of course, that was because it took so long for the Dey to get over his anger and finally notice me.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice to confide, “I’ve only been anikbalthis past month, but it’s made all the difference. Now there’s the anticipation of never knowing when I might be summoned, but knowing I will be because the Dey never ignores his favorites for more than a week. The wait is exciting, the day I’m actually summoned so thrilling, with everyone so envious. But you know that now. He’s such a wonderful lover, isn’t he?”

Yes, wonderful. There was no denying it to herself, and certainly not to any of his women who knew firsthand that it was so. Chantelle shied away from that thought, remembering again Jamil’s words that had assured her he had been with no other woman.

Jamila hadn’t waited for confirmation of her last statement. She was still rambling on. “Poor Sheelah doesn’t know what to think, as you might imagine. She loves him so.”

“Do you?” Chantelle couldn’t resist asking.

The brunette shrugged. “I don’t know, really. Each time I’m with him, I think surely I must love him. I was so relieved when I first saw him, that he wasn’t old, or fat, or ugly. And having seen him, I thought I would die, waiting for him to notice me. Actually, I can’t think of a single man of my acquaintance in England who can compare with him, he’s so handsome. But—” She paused for a moment and glanced around to make sure no one was within hearing of them before she whispered, “If I could be ransomed tomorrow, I wouldn’t be disappointed to leave here. The Dey is wonderful and kind and so sexy, and I’ve been so lucky that I was bought for him rather than someone else, but I’d rather have a man I could call my own, who would be available to me anytime I wanted him. I guess I’m a little selfish.”

“Not at all,” Chantelle assured her. “It’s the way we were raised.”

“Then you don’t like it either, having to share him?”