Chapter Seventeen #3
“You English have a quaint way with words, always using more than necessary.” There was a mocking slant to his mouth as he added, “If you don’t care, Shahar, then it will come as no surprise to you that I am in fact Jamil Reshid, Dey of this ‘whole bloody city.’”
It was a surprise, but only for one reason. “You declined to buy me when I first arrived, so why am I here?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. It was a trial of concentration to decipher her pronunciations and understand exactly what she was saying, though he had to admit her grasp of his language was far superior than could be expected.
But even so, he was arrested by the way her eyes and mouth had softened.
In her temporary confusion, her fear and revulsion were forgotten.
He surprised her further by replying in perfect French, assuming that if she was of the English nobility as she claimed, then this was a language she would be more familiar with. “It is my prerogative to change my mind.”
“Then would you change your mind about that poor girl you had whipped?”
“Interesting that you do not ask me to change my mind about you again instead.”
“I would have gotten to that.”
He almost laughed. It was refreshing to be spoken to with such audacity by a woman. His women did not argue with him, no matter how much they would like to. He might pamper and indulge them outrageously, but their awareness of his power and total control over their lives was never forgotten.
“If I grant you one request, English, which will you ask for?”
Her eyes widened. Was he serious, or was the question only rhetorical?
Either way, there was no choice, not one that her conscience would allow.
The girl’s fate was already sealed; hers was not.
And if he was the Dey, then his must be the largest harem in Barikah.
He might have bought her, but there was the possibility that he would forget about her once she became lost among so many women. No, her fate was not sealed—yet.
“The girl,” she said.
“You want me to keep her instead of sending her back?”
“No, rescind the further punishment you ordered.”
He turned and did so, and Chantelle watched in amazement as the order was relayed to a guard outside the door. She glanced back at him, not knowing what to think of this gesture on his part.
“Where is your gratitude, English?”
Now she knew what to think, and it wasn’t pleasant. “Thank you,” she said, but her tone was clipped.
“What? I have not redeemed myself in your eyes?”
“Her offense was too minor to warrant a beating,” she replied in answer.
“In your opinion,” he stated. “But she insulted my person, and that is not allowed. You do wish to be aware of what is not allowed, don’t you?
” It was a warning, and caused her eyes to narrow.
“Ah, I see you have remembered that you find me not to your liking. But you will change your mind, Shahar, if I decide to keep you. Shall we determine that now? Will you open your vest, or do I?”
Her whole body stiffened, and there was again that mixture of fear and impotent rage in her expression. But was she cowed enough to heed his warning?
“Will you spit on me, too?” he demanded, his voice brusque now.
She wouldn’t. She had wanted to know what she could do to get sent back to Sharif and now she did know, but what came first was unacceptable.
She shook her head, lowering her eyes. And after her earlier resentment, he was surprised to hear her plead, “Please, must you do this in front of so many people?”
“They are only slaves, English, as you are—” he began. Yet what he was doing was unusual, and only for Kasim’s benefit. “Very well,” he amended. “If you will step over here, no one need look at you but me.”
He walked over to the side of the room, waving his guard back.
She thought it best to follow him, though this was still not what she had in mind.
Her back might be to the room now, but others were still present, and she felt outraged that this could happen.
He had no right. He believed he had every right. God, she hated this!
She stood with head bowed and fists clenched. He wouldn’t allow it, so reached under her chin to force her eyes to meet his.
“Again I do what you ask, English. I am waiting.”
“I can’t,” she said simply, miserably.
“Very well.”
It was not a reprieve. Chantelle itched to slap his hand away when it dropped to her vest. But if you could be whipped and condemned to an even worse punishment for spitting on him, what would happen if you slapped him? Would a scimitar be drawn and used instead of a whip?
She groaned as she felt the material drop to each side of her breasts. She looked away, staring at the screened wall in front of her but seeing nothing, feeling only the acute embarrassment that spread color down her chest and made her cheeks burn.
He stepped to her side, saying in a soft voice, “You may cover yourself, Shahar. You will go with Haji Agha. He will have questions about your background for his records.”
She turned her head toward him, asked miserably, “Then you won’t send me back?”
He didn’t answer. He had already lost interest in her, turning his attention to the Portuguese girl.