Chapter 40
Halil Pasha appraised the trembling, long-limbed woman lying at his feet, his black eyes lighting with keen interest. He glanced up at Frederick. “Quite a presentation, Count Althann,” he murmured with a low chuckle.
Rubbing his pointed beard, he looked back down at her and stepped over her supine body to study her from a different angle. The sable trim of his black pelisse swept lightly across her chest, and he noted with a smile her raised nipples, hardened and taut, straining against her silver tunic.
She was easily aroused, he mused, intense lust filling him at the thought, centering upon the hot fire flaring in his loins. The sign of a truly passionate woman.
Halil glanced up again, clearing his throat, his narrowed gaze falling upon his Chief Eunuch.
Unspoken communication passed between master and slave, a command.
The Chief Eunuch walked over to a large chest, ornately wrought in silver and gold, and raised the lid.
He pulled out a silk bag, heavy with chinking gold coins, and held it in one huge hand as he moved silently to Frederick.
He held out the bag, his broad face expressionless, his bald head glistening in the golden light of myriad candles.
Frederick hesitated, looking from the silk bag to Kassandra’s prostrate form.
At Halil’s questioning look he seized it from the eunuch’s hand, knowing from the bag’s weight that it was more gold than he had ever imagined.
With this generous reward, and the payments he’d received during the last few months, his wealth and comfort were assured, for life.
“I am pleased with your gift, Count Althann,” Halil stated simply, walking around Kassandra to stand at her slippered feet. “If anything, your praise of this woman’s…Kassandra’s…” he amended, “beauty was too modest. But now you must leave.”
Indeed, Halil thought impatiently. He could hardly wait to divest this Englishwoman of her silken garments, like the petals of a flower, and reveal the fragrant hidden bud.
Frederick started, but quickly recovered.
Of course you must leave, fool! he berated himself.
Your work is done here. He bowed low at the waist, clutching the silk bag to his chest. Then he remembered the message Mustapha had given him, hidden in his sash.
He straightened, pulling out the rolled parchment and handing it to the Chief Eunuch, who inspected it and handed it to Halil.
“A message from His Grace, Mustapha,” Frederick said, watching as Halil deftly slit the cord with the jeweled dagger at his waist, broke the seal, and unrolled the slip of parchment, reading quickly.
The Grand Vizier’s expression became one of extreme annoyance.
Frederick surmised there was no love lost between these two men, bound by blood but little else.
Halil turned abruptly to the Chief Eunuch.
“Inscribe a letter. Tell my cousin exactly what was discussed earlier today at the war council. It seems he wonders why I have not ordered an attack upon the Imperialists. Sniveling fool! He grows weak with worry in his fortress, fearing they shall make an unexpected move. Can he not see they are quivering in their tents, the cowards soon to retreat? They have no chance at all against the strength of my army!”
Frederick said nothing. He had not been called upon to answer.
He stood silently, waiting as the Chief Eunuch sat down at a nearby writing desk and put pen to parchment, recording his master’s words and blowing upon the rich black ink as it slowly dried.
At last the letter was completed. The eunuch folded it into a square, affixed the Grand Vizier’s seal, and then handed it deferentially to Halil.
“Take this to my cousin, along with this verbal message,” Halil said, his black eyes full of anger as he gave the letter to Frederick.
“If he wishes to retain his position in Belgrade, he would do well to acquire some backbone. It seems he is growing soft, perhaps spending too much time in the company of his women.”
Frederick nodded and slid the letter within his sash.
“It shall be done, Sire.” He stole a last glance at Kassandra, then turned on his heel, his flowing caftan swirling about his long legs as he strode from the inner chamber of the tent, through a vast adjoining antechamber, a shadowed corridor, then once again into the night.
Halil’s forehead creased in speculation, watching the heavy folds at the entrance to the tent cascade back into place behind Frederick’s tall figure.
He had not missed the flicker of guilt in those unsettling blue eyes as Frederick looked for the last time upon the Englishwoman.
It was a surprising emotion in such a man—and a liability in a spy.
Perhaps Count Althann’s days of service to the Sultan should be drawing to an end, before such an emotion led to a fatal misstep.
Yet Halil dismissed the thought, deciding to wait until morning to take any action. Now there was only pleasure on his mind.
He waved away his Chief Eunuch, who disappeared like a creeping phantom into an adjoining chamber, and turned back to Kassandra, kneeling beside her.
She started, panting, as he cut the knotted scarf binding her wrists.
He could sense the fear emanating from her like a dense fragrance. It excited him beyond measure.
Kassandra winced at the touch of cold steel against her cheek and the sound of a sharp blade easily swiping through the gag just below her ear.
She ran her tongue across her dry lips, not knowing what her simple gesture was doing to the man kneeling over her.
Next the blade slit her blindfold in two, the severed scarf falling away from her eyes.
She blinked from the sudden flood of light, squinting up into the piercing black gaze of Halil Pasha.
Her whole body tensed as he swept the long strands of hair from her face, his fingers lightly brushing her skin.
Halil sucked in his breath, marveling at the wondrous beauty of his new slave. She was perfection, a goddess, just as Count Althann had said.
He had never seen such an incredible color as the luminous amethyst pools staring up at him, set off by thick, dark lashes beneath winged brows.
He leaned over her, trailing a smooth-tipped finger from the center of her forehead, down the straight line of her nose, brushing the sensuous curve of her lips and resting on her trembling chin.
Perfection. He could wait no longer to possess her. His need was great; it cried out for satisfaction. He had held himself back from his other concubines all afternoon in anticipation of this moment.
A pity he did not speak her language, he thought, rising to his feet in one lithe movement to tower above her.
No matter. What he wanted to do at that moment required no words.
It was a language of gesture, expression, touch, perfectly understood by man and woman, master and slave.
He held out his hand to her, a commanding motion.
Kassandra did not move. She did not even blink.
She simply stared up at him, looming like a great black falcon above her, her body awash in loathing, fear, and terrifying awe.
Everything about him was black, his close-cropped hair, his glistening beard, his eyes, tinged with cruelty and burning lust. Black pelisse, black trousers, black slippers…
black, absence of color, symbol of death.
His face was pale against the blackness, narrow with long features, a high forehead, a hooked nose, and generous lips that curved into a cunning half smile.
He had reached out his hand to her, but she would not take it.
She shuddered with disgust and turned away, repulsed, sickened… fearfully defiant.
Halil’s smile fled his lips, incredulity and rage welling up inside him. No slave had ever insulted him so before! Nor had any slave ever excited him so…
His blood coursed hotly through his veins.
He would take up her challenge. If she would not accept his hand and allow herself to be led to the low dais, turning her back on the silken comfort of his bed, then he would take her on the floor.
She would learn not to defy her sovereign master, her lord—this… this slave!
With a ragged sigh Halil fell on top of her, his lean frame, toughened, scarred from battle, a warrior’s body, pressing her into the floor.
She screamed, a high, piercing sound, but he only laughed wildly in reply, his Chief Eunuch and numerous guards, standing at attention just beyond the inner chamber, staying their hands upon their scimitars, his laughter assuring them there was no cause for alarm.
Kassandra struggled and kicked, tossing her head, but her strength was no match for his own.
She heard a ripping sound, and inhaled sharply as her tunic and chemise fell from her breasts, baring them to his gaze.
He held her shoulders to the floor, kneeling astride her now, his fingers splayed and biting cruelly into her flesh, while he bent his head and captured a rose-crested nub with his mouth, suckling hungrily, his hideous groans ringing in her ears.
Kassandra twisted desperately beneath him, crying out again when he grabbed her wrists and wrenched them high above her head, his other hand fumbling with her silken trousers, pulling them down around her hips. His leg delved between her legs, forcing them apart.
“No!” she screamed, her breaths tearing in great gasps from her throat.
She summoned every ounce of her flagging strength in a final effort to thwart him.
“No!” She jerked sharply to one side, her arms breaking free of his grasp.
Her hands flew to the wide sash at his waist, groping, searching for the one thing that would save her, not from death, which would swiftly follow her final act, but from this brutal attack.
She laughed in frenzied relief, her fingers suddenly circling around the hilt of his dagger. Too late, Halil sensed her intent, and his mortal danger.
Before he could stop her, she brought it up high above him, then down, down, the flashing blade slicing into his arm just as he managed to roll away from her, saving his own life by the barest instant.
He jumped to his feet, screaming in pain and outrage, shouting curses, his hand pressed to his upper arm as blood trickled between his fingers and ran down his sleeve.
The Chief Eunuch was the first to rush into the inner chamber, his saber drawn, followed by eunuch guards and Janissaries pouring in from the front entrance and adjoining antechambers, scimitars poised.
They converged upon Kassandra, who lay on her back with her eyes tightly closed, her body wracked by shuddering spasms, too exhausted to cover her nakedness and beyond caring.
She said a swift prayer, expecting at any moment to feel the sting of many blades cutting into her flesh.
And, indeed, if she had looked up at that moment, she would have seen a glittering canopy of scimitars raised high above her, suspended, as the guards looked to Halil for the slight nod that would end her life.
All was hushed, deathly still, with no sound but for jagged breathing and the faint ring of steel upon steel as scimitars wavered, brushing blade to blade.
Halil exhaled slowly, glancing from his arm, the bleeding partially staunched, to the woman lying defenseless upon the floor.
He quickly made up his mind. He shook his head, in that small gesture sparing her life.
The scimitars were withdrawn, and the Janissaries and guards moved back to their places.
Only the Chief Eunuch remained, with another eunuch of lesser rank by his side.
“Cover her,” Halil finally managed to say through gritted teeth, struggling to catch his breath.
He watched as the Chief Eunuch lifted Kassandra roughly to her feet and threw his brocade pelisse around her while the other eunuch supported her limp body.
She opened her eyes briefly, her gaze widening as if she was stunned to find she still lived and breathed, then she closed them again, her chin dropping to her chest.
Yes, you will live to regret what you have done, slave, Halil thought fiercely, as if reading her mind. You will wish time and again that you had died this day.
“Take her to the harem,” he commanded. “Isolate her from the other women…but do not deal too harshly with my tigress. Perhaps a few days without food or water will tame her wild manners.”
“Yes, Sire,” the Chief Eunuch murmured, though his expression, usually set and composed, was doubtful. He nodded to the other eunuch, and together they dragged Kassandra from the inner chamber.
Halil winced, pulling away his hand to examine the oozing wound. His private physician entered the chamber, rushing forward, but he waved him away.
“It is only a scratch,” he said, sinking down upon a divan. His voice fell to a whisper. “Only a scratch.”
Hardly worth the loss of such dazzling beauty…and a passionate spirit to match, he mused. A spirit that he would break, bit by bit, until she begged for his caress with open arms.
His full lips drew into a smile, the thought giving him great pleasure. He leaned back upon the divan, allowing the hovering physician to approach him at last.