Chapter Thirty-six
Chantelle was the one pacing now. She was still in her bedchamber, but she was no longer calm. Kadar and Adamma both had been browbeating her for the past thirty minutes. Jamil had been told that she was ill, but he didn’t care. He insisted she make an appearance. She refused.
“If you do not go, the Dey will come here,” Adamma told her.
“No, he won’t. You said he rarely bestirs himself to enter the harem because of the commotion it causes.”
“But if he does? And if he does, he will be furious.”
“Good,” Chantelle snorted. “Anger loves company just as much as misery.”
Both servants grimaced simultaneously at such a sentiment. They had been warned to get results or else. It was the “or else” that kept them trying, but they were getting nowhere.
Haji Agha waited in the outer room, too old and set in his ways to resort to mere cajolery with a concubine when so many other options were usually available to him. But all they could do was argue in this case, after the Dey had ordered no punishments for the girl.
“Soon the Keeper of the Jewels will be here,” Kadar said now. “The Mistress of the Wardrobe, too. Do you want them to think you are pouting because you weren’t summoned yesterday?”
That infuriated Chantelle. Pouting? The very idea!
“I’ll have you know—”
“It will make no difference what you say, lalla. The harem will draw its own conclusions.”
“I don’t care.”
“Don’t you?” they both asked together.
Chantelle glared at them. How the hell had they gotten to know her so well so quickly? Damn, but pride could be bloody awkward.
“All right,” she said testily. “But if I get my head chopped off tonight, you’ll be as much to blame for forcing me to see him.”
“That won’t happen, lalla.”
“Won’t it?” she snapped. “If he so much as touches me, I’ll scratch his eyes out. We’ll see how long my head holds up after that.”
Adamma paled, taking her seriously. Kadar repressed a grin. The little English was angry, not stupid. And besides, the Dey was not an insensitive man. He knew she did not want to see him, and so he would be expecting the worst.
Derek was indeed expecting the worst, and had been even before Shahar had tried tendering an excuse of illness.
The wise thing to do would be to give the girl a few days to get over her pique, which was what he had originally intended to do.
But that was yesterday, when he had decided to send for Charity Woods, when he had thought he had gotten enough of Shahar to last him for a while.
He realized differently last night. He had had the lovely Charity at hand, could have easily availed himself of her charms, and they were nice charms indeed, but instead he had spent the evening playing chess with her, and losing, because all he could think about was Shahar and her reaction to his supposed perfidy.
But there had been no help for it. He had had the option of putting off summoning Charity Woods until later or getting it out of the way now.
Later might have been too late, since there was no telling when Jamil would return.
And unless it was recorded in the harem records that the favorite known as Jamila had been summoned to his bed, she wouldn’t be released when this was over.
If she wasn’t one of Jamil’s favorites, Derek could have simply asked for her release. As it was, with Omar’s insisting he had to make love to at least one of Jamil’s women, it had worked out ideally. But getting it out of the way now had put him back to the starting point with Shahar.
He’d bungled the whole thing, really. Shahar wouldn’t be upset now if he had seen to Miss Woods earlier.
But no, he had let his body rule him then, and he was doing it again today, and why?
What was it about Shahar that put him into a fervor of impatience?
She muddled his thinking. She controlled his body more than he did.
Why her, especially when there were dozens of other beauties available to him who would be more than willing to appease this hunger that one silver-haired blonde had created?
He couldn’t figure it out, but one thing was blazingly apparent.
He had become obsessed, and he had to get over her before Jamil returned.
His future was mapped out. It did not include a beautiful concubine who technically didn’t even belong to him.
He had the use of her temporarily, but that was all.
So there was nothing for it but to wallow in her charms while he could and hope that an overindulgence would soon have him bored and free of this obsession.
Derek dismissed the Nubian guards ahead of time, as well as his other attendants. Dinner for two was prepared and already served. Roses graced the low table set before the garden doors, an English touch for Shahar’s benefit. Muted music drifted over the garden walls.
They would be alone once she arrived. Derek wanted no witnesses to the argument he anticipated, not when he was supposed to be Jamil, and Jamil wouldn’t tolerate any argument at all.
Derek was going to be more than tolerant.
He would do anything short of groveling to appease the lady he wanted in his bed.
Her entrance was subdued, after he had almost expected her to be carried in kicking and screaming.
But he should have known she’d have more control than that.
She was in fact stiffly regal in her posture, as if she were cloaked in dignity rather than the silver tissue in which she had been dressed.
From her hair to her silver sandals, she was all aglitter, with sequins banding her skimpy costume and diamonds circling her neck, wrists, and ankles.
She had worn not a single jewel that he had given her, which was a telling statement.
She nonetheless took his breath away with her beauty.
She stood in the center of the room, her head held erect, her hands at her sides forming little fists. She stared straight ahead, not even bothering to locate him in the room. She looked like she would break if he spoke too loud.
He came up behind her. “I trust you have recovered from your illness?”
She didn’t reply at once. “Actually…I’m feeling rather nauseated.”
Derek grinned at the bold-faced lie. “Too ill to share a meal with me?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse to dine with him, but the fact was, she was famished now that her stomach had settled itself. “A meal would be nice,” Chantelle allowed.
He moved in front of her and, with an arm, motioned her to proceed to the low table behind them. She wouldn’t look at him other than to follow his direction. And once seated on a plump pillow, she stared only at the many platters of food spread out before her.
It was disheartening that she didn’t even comment on the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding that had been obtained from the English consulate especially for her, as well as the cook to prepare them.
Sir John Blake was undoubtedly wondering what Jamil Reshid was up to, but then the Dey didn’t have to explain himself to the English consul, who wouldn’t dream of refusing such a minor request as a raid on his larder.
But Derek would have liked at least some acknowledgment, when he had gone to the trouble just to please her.
It was not to be, however. Her manner was stiff, cold, uncommunicative, so he wisely decided to forgo conversation while they ate. Humors were generally improved on a full stomach, and by her attitude, he needed all the help he could get.
But when he poured her tea, also acquired from Sir John’s household, he finally ventured to ask, “Was the meal to your liking?”
“The meat was a bit tough.”
Derek gritted his teeth. So it was. Mr. Walmsley, the Marquis’s butler, would have been appalled. But what did she expect here in Barikah, where the main staple was sheep?
“It was the best I could arrange under such short notice.”
She didn’t reply. She sipped her tea, keeping her eyes lowered.
Derek was becoming distinctly uncomfortable under this treatment, not to mention annoyed. He would have preferred she just lay into him and get it over with, though he still wasn’t sure what he could say to her when he couldn’t tell her the truth. And that, too, was annoying.
He stood up abruptly. “Come.”
Chantelle ignored the hand he offered and stood up by herself, moving over to the couch of pillows. But she didn’t sit down there. She couldn’t. She stared at the setting of her seduction and experienced again the full fury of her stupidity.
Derek came up behind her and took matters into his own hands, pulling her down onto the cushions with him and then straight into his arms. Her reaction was to immediately push away from him and scoot back several feet.
He allowed this after a brief connection with her eyes.
They were glittering as brightly as the diamonds she wore, but with hostility.
“This won’t do, Shahar,” Derek said after a moment’s indecision. “It is my right to touch you.”
“And my God-given right to fight you, and I warn you I will.”
He had her full attention now. She had come up on her knees to face him, her fists clenched on her thighs, tensely ready for any move he might make.
Derek sighed and gave her a smile that was vaguely apologetic. “But you cannot win, so there is no point in even trying. You will only expend your energy, when we can put it to a much better use.”
She caught her breath. “No! Never again!”
“Never?” He shook his head, as if the word were alien to him. “You are angry, but at least be realistic, Shahar. You know full well that when I want you, I will have you.”
“And I will fight you!”
“So you have said. Shall I show you how little good it will do you?”
There was a brief flash of fear before she exploded. “Damn you, have you so little pride that you would force yourself on a woman who despises you?”
“Do you really think force will be necessary?”
She bristled at the confidence in his tone. “Just try anything, and you will—”