Page 8 of Silver Angel

Several times she wondered what had happened to the little man who had spoken to her before. Why didn’t he come again? Any communication at all would have been a relief. But perhaps it was standard procedure to let captives suffer the agonies of the unknown to wear them down. Fear was debilitating. Yet he had spoken to her before. He had said she wouldn’t be harmed. But what exactly to a corsair constituted harm?

God, if only she didn’t know what they were. If only her tutors hadn’t thought to include world history and affairs in her studies. But the Ottoman Turks, who for hundreds of years had been intruding on Christian Europe, were known to her, as were the Barbary States, members of the Turkish empire, and the Barbary corsairs, pirates of the Mediterranean. They raided foreign coasts, they attacked foreign ships, they killed or sold all Christian captives into slavery without exception. So what would such men consider harm to a woman? Certainly not what she would reckon as harm.

When the door finally opened later that morning, it wasn’t to admit the sailor Chantelle had spoken with. Four men entered, two bare-chested, one tall, thin man in a long white robe, and one more impressive fellow in a bright silk jacket over loose Turkish pants. All wore turbans. All were sharp-featured, though light-skinned. Only the one in the white robe didn’t have a long, curved sword attached to his belt.

Chantelle sat up immediately, but she didn’t try to rise with only the blanket to cover her. She held it up to her chin, cowering back against the wall. Trapped in the small room, eyes huge with fear, skin translucent without color, she didn’t realize that she stunned them, especially the captain, who was having his first look at her in good light. Eyes like hers were unknown to them. And the hair, silver blond, with a lock falling over the blanket to reveal its glorious hip length, was prized in the East. Circassians were known to have blond hair, but sailors weren’t likely to ever see it, and these hadn’t. Her face was exquisite. If she had a body to match, she would be worth a fortune. If she was also a virgin, her price could increase tenfold.

It was precisely the latter that Rais Mehmed had come to judge, for her comfort on the voyage depended on her worth. Then, too, if she wasn’t a virgin, there was no point in denying himself or his crew the use of her body for the long trip home. Most of his crew were sodomites, but only by necessity. A woman aboard was a blessing—if she wasn’t a virgin. Mehmed began to hope she wasn’t.

“She is terrified, Rais,” the white eunuch said quietly by his side. “Shouldn’t you get Hakeem in here to tell her this is just a simple procedure?”

Mehmed shook his head without taking his eyes off the girl. “He must become her friend if he is to help her to adjust. The more he can teach her of her new life, the more malleable she will be, and so the more valuable. If he were here now, even to explain, she would never trust him later, never be willing to learn from him.”

“Then get it over with, before she faints.”

Chantelle didn’t faint. She screamed, piercingly, until a cloth was stuffed in her mouth to muffle the sound. And she fought, wildly but uselessly. Her blanket was used against her, trapping her arms beneath it as she was pushed down onto her back, the man in the silk jacket lying across her upper body, pinning her to the floor. She kicked, regardless that this dislodged the blanket from her legs, but in seconds, each foot was caught by a different man, and her legs were spread wide and held down with a hand pressed against each knee and ankle to keep them straight and still.

Her eyes were wild with horror, expecting the worst. She couldn’t see past the broad chest of Silk Jacket, who lay on her sideways, his hands on her shoulders, his heavy side gouging her stomach. She didn’t know that the sailors holding her feet had been ordered not to look at her, that White Robe was a eunuch who couldn’t have raped her if he wanted to, that he did this to all female captives. She could only feel what was happening, the shock of something pressing between her legs, being inserted into her body, probing painfully, then withdrawing. She thought she had been raped. She didn’t know she had just passed the test that would save her from it, at least while she was on the ship.

The blanket was pulled down over her legs, alerting her that apparently only one man was to violate her for now. Words were exchanged, and her legs were released. She didn’t try to move them. Depression was already setting in. She had feared the worst and the worst had happened. Nothing else mattered at the moment.

The two bare-chested sailors left the room before Silk Jacket removed his bulk from her. She didn’t care that he pulled her up with him. But she did snap out of her shock when he snatched her blanket away. She reached for it, only to drop her hands instinctively to cover herself instead.

It was the final humiliation, to be deprived of her dignity in this manner. They were animals, and she told them so, though they ignored her words, not understanding them. Her contempt and outrage were more easily understood, however.

“By the prophet’s beard, she’s magnificent,” Rais Mehmed got out, though he suddenly seemed breathless. Never in his life had he seen a woman like this.

“She does have spirit,” the eunuch allowed.

“Such curves—”

“She could be plumper.”

“I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Your tastes are not the usual,” the eunuch reminded him. “Nor is she for you. But Hamid Sharif will be pleased.”

Mehmed grunted, for the merchant Hamid Sharif, owner of their ship, already had four wives who nagged him to distraction. “He would rather have the profit, which will put more coins in our pockets. He might even be able to tempt the Dey with this one, though it has been a long while since he has bought any new women for his harem.”

“It is not for us to be concerned with whoever eventually buys her, Rais. It is for you to see she is delivered to Hamid Sharif in good condition.”

With that he handed the blanket back to the girl, offering her an apologetic smile. Mehmed laughed to see her take the blanket, cover herself with it, then spit at the eunuch’s feet.

Chapter Six

Caroline Douglas reined in the high-stepping mare and waited for Derek to catch up with her. She hadn’t expected him to call this afternoon, or to suggest they ride out when he learned her father had guests. But she hadn’t been caught unprepared. This was her chance to wear her new riding habit of dark navy wool, with a light blue satin waistcoat cut like a man’s. The masculine style of the outfit, made by a man’s tailor, was quite fashionable, and she knew she looked particularly fetching in these colors with her red hair. At least Derek thought so, since he said as much.

Under the brim of her tall hat, she watched him approach, admiring his handling of the half-trained stallion he rode. Raising Thoroughbreds was just a hobby to him, yet his stable produced some of the finest horseflesh in England, many of which were champion racers. Her own mare had been a gift from him when he asked her to marry him. She loved the animal. She loved Derek. She sighed, wondering for the hundredth time if it wasn’t a mistake to marry one’s best friend.

No, she had to stop it. She had already jilted two men, to her father’s vast displeasure. She couldn’t do it again, and certainly not to Derek Sinclair, Earl of Mulbury. She wanted to marry him, she really did.

She couldn’t think of a more perfect union. They had grown up together on neighboring estates. They knew each other so well. Her father looked on him as a second son. And then there were the incidental things, such as his charm, his handsomeness, his gentle nature. Of course he was a sensualist, but she couldn’t really fault that, not when his kisses made her feel like she was the most cherished, beloved woman in the world. The trouble was, she was afraid he made every woman feel that way, and he had had so many women, so many women at thesametime.

He used to tell her about each and every conquest, just as she had told him about her first infatuation and each subsequent one. As far as that went, they had no secrets. He had sworn to make her happy. She believed he could. She knew he had given up his mistresses when he proposed to her, and that included half the maids in his grandfather’s house. It wasn’t that she didn’t think he could be faithful to her. So what was it that made her keep having these doubts?

Bride’s jitters, no more. She had suffered them twice before as the wedding date approached, and it was no wonder. Decisions came hard for her because she rarely had to make any for herself. She didn’t have the confidence to be certain of her choice when she did make one. It had always been so. One of the things that drew her to Derek was that he gave of himself, his own confidence, his strength. When he made a friend, it was for life, as if that person belonged to him. Maybe that was what was wrong. She felt she had always belonged to him. She couldn’t imagine her life without him in it. Was that why she had said yes, so there would be no chance of her ever losing his friendship?

No, she loved him, always had. Well, not always. He had taken getting used to when he first came to England. She had been only six years old. He had been almost eleven. He spoke French, acted in strange ways. She hadn’t been taught French yet, so their communication was limited, but only for a short while, for he learned to speak English with amazing speed. He had been raised in some Near Eastern country where his father was an ambassador. The Marquis’s daughter, Melanie, had married the fellow while abroad and in all those years had not returned to England. But both Derek’s parents had died when he was ten, and so he had been sent to live with his grandfather, who had immediately had Derek’s name changed to Sinclair since, as the last male of the line, he was the Marquis’s only heir.