Page 35 of Silver Angel

“Don’t worry, Omar,” Derek interrupted the warning. “I’ll be sure to summon at least one of his favorites. That ought to appease him.” And he knew exactly whom, for he was certain that one of the women he had seen earlier tonight was the missing Miss Charity Woods.

“Thank you,” Omar said, surprising Derek.

“For what?”

“For loving your brother.”

Later, after Derek had retired for the night, he found he couldn’t sleep for still thinking of the blonde. Who was she? Would he recognize her name if he heard it?

Not that it mattered. Princesses, grand ladies, peasants, they were all the same here if they were unfortunate enough to be captured; slaves, without rights, capable of being used, misused, sold, resold, even killed, all at the whim of their owner. And after hearing Haji Agha’s explanation of how this girl had been captured, Derek knew he was indirectly responsible for her being here. How he felt about that he wasn’t at all sure. Ironic, as Jamil humorously thought, was putting it mildly, especially now that technically she belonged to him.

What was he going to do with her? He knew what he would like to do. Christ, from the moment her veils had been removed, he had been unable to take his eyes off her. Granted, she was too thin even for his taste. He liked at least alittleflesh on his women. But that didn’t seem to matter when she stood before the screen, so close, and he experienced the most incredible excitement, knowing what Jamil was going to do and waiting for him to step away from her. And when her small, perfect breasts were in his view, his flesh reacted instantly, filling, swelling, aching for her touch.

But would he actually do anything about it? She was a virgin. She was not here willingly. She was English, for God’s sake! And more to the point, she held Jamil in abhorrence after what he had done tonight, and he would be taking Jamil’s place. How could he in good conscience take advantage of her, knowing all that?

Chapter Nineteen

Chantelle sat with her knees tucked under her, her hands gripped prayerlike in her lap, the whites of her knuckles revealing her inner tension. The dull white of her clothes was stark against the deep blue satin of the plump pillow beneath her. This served as her chair, for there were no ordinary chairs in the room, no chairs in all of Barikah, if what she had seen so far was any indication.

Across a low table, Haji Agha sipped his second cup of the thick, foam-topped brew that was Turkish coffee. Chantelle’s first cup was cold by now, untouched. Across the room, a clerk sat on another pillow, his hand poised over his writing tablet, waiting for the interrogation to continue. No one else was in the room. And itwasan interrogation, a prying into her life from the day she was born until the night she was captured beneath the Dover cliffs.

Her name, family, home, position, even her birth date were demanded. Her education was picked apart, her accomplished skills, which included the piano, a fine stitch, excellent horsemanship, sailing, and a passable voice for singing. Only the sailing had drawn a note of interest from the Chief Black Eunuch, who did all the questioning while the clerk diligently recorded the answers.

If she weren’t in a state of nervous exhaustion after her ordeal in the Dey’s presence, she never would have been so cooperative, answering almost absently anything put to her, her mind still back in that other room, still shuddering in embarrassed memory. When her mind did finally clear enough to wonder about the reason for this interrogation, there wasn’t much left to know about her. It was a particular question about her guardian, bringing back an old anger, that snapped her out of her lethargy.

“What is the point of all this? I thought it was encouraged to forget the past when you enter this hell!”

The old man smiled at her choice of words. It always amused him, the boldness and defiance these new slaves possessed on arrival, before they learned to fear him. He would give this one a week before her tone became respectful, her manner subservient. She wouldn’t dare to question him then.

“You are correct,” he deigned to answer her. “But before your past is forgotten, it must be recorded for our information in case inquiries are ever made of you.”

“For ransom, you mean, so you know how much to ask for?”

He nodded, but added deliberately, “That is not likely to happen in your case.”

“And why not?” she demanded. “I believe I told you I’m an heiress.”

“But who, unless Hamid Sharif’s ship was seen off your English coast and recognized as belonging to Barbary corsairs, will ever guess you are here?”

She had realized that herself, but to hear him state it so plainly was demoralizing indeed. She almost pointed out defensively that if Barikah’s English consul knew about her, then her release would be immediately demanded, but she didn’t want anyone knowing that she still harbored hopes of contacting the consul. Those hopes were not very high at the moment. In fact, her only hope at this particular moment was that Jamil Reshid would decide not to keep her.

“Aren’t these questions a bit premature?” she pointed out testily. “It hasn’t even been determined yet—”

Chantelle broke off when a guard hurried into the room and bent down to whisper a few words to Haji Agha. The old man nodded, not in the least surprised, and stood up.

“Come, Shahar.”

He directed her with a wave of his arm toward the door. She didn’t move, her limbs feeling suddenly leaden.

“Don’t call me that.”

“It is all you will be known by henceforth. Chantelle Burke is dead.”

“Then—”

She couldn’t finish. She didn’t have to. The old eunuch nodded again, reading her mind.

“Did you really think it would be otherwise after he was so generous in his dealing with you?”