Page 67 of Silver Angel

“My dear, you could never be that,” Rahine said gently. “No concubine could when she is restricted to only one man’s attentions. But you must know that Jamil already prizes you. He breaks customs for you. He appears obsessed with you in every way. Can you truly find no tender feeling for him?”

“Why do you do this?” Chantelle cried.

“Because I live for his happiness. What else do I have to live for?”

Oh, God, how pathetic. Chantelle couldn’t stay angry with the woman after hearing that. “Can’t you go home? Why do you lock yourself away in here when you don’t have to? You’re his mother. He wouldn’t keep you here if you wanted to go, would he?”

“No, but I have nowhere to go. Thisismy home now, Shahar. Jamil, his children, his women, they are my family. This is my life. There is nothing for me anywhere else.”

“You’re not an old woman. You could still find another husband.”

Rahine smiled at that. “I can do that here, Shahar, if that is what I want.”

Chantelle gave up. “Very well, so you like it here. Kindly accept the fact that I don’t and never will.”

“I wonder if you will still feel that way, say, a week from now.”

Rahine didn’t wait for a reply but left Chantelle alone to wonder what could happen in a week that might change her mind. It didn’t take much intelligence on her part to guess. Rahine was warning her that Jamil’s patience wouldn’t last any longer than that. So be it. She had known, deep inside, that he would get his way eventually, one way or another. She knew her days were numbered. But she would still hold out to the bitter end, and her feelings weren’t going to change when that end came.

Chapter Thirty-two

If Chantelle didn’t know better, she would swear she was being courted. During the past five days she was summoned to Jamil every evening, and each time was the same. He was charming, witty even. He told stories about his childhood in the harem, some that even made her laugh. They would walk in the garden or play games, and once they read to each other.

It was all very proper by her standards, which was why she was learning to relax in his company, at least for most of each visit. But before the evening was over he would inevitably make his move, and she would inevitably resist it, though God knew it was getting harder each time to do so. When Jamil turned amorous, he was plainspoken, telling her exactly what he wanted to do to her. She would have not only his hands to contend with but his words, too, and what they could make her feel. But she prevailed, despite her traitorous body’s reaction to him.

Amazingly, she was not treated to another display of anger, even when she rejected his advances. She almost wished it were otherwise, for her image of the cruel tyrant was receding more and more, especially when little gifts would arrive during the day, or notes to remind her that he was thinking of her.

Last evening had been the same as the others, except he had been drinking when she arrived. That had made her extremely nervous, until she realized he wasn’t drunk, just different, more relaxed, more—well, truth to tell, he seemed more English than ever. This “courtship” seemed more English than ever, too. If she didn’t have to return to the harem, filled with women who belonged to him, she could almost forget who he was and where she was.

But the women, his many women, could never be forgotten. He might spend his evenings with her, but she didn’t know with whom he spent his nights. No one else was summoned to him; any enemies she had in the harem would have made sure she knew about that. But he was known to spend his nights with one of his wives, to go to her apartment rather than have her brought to his. This could be done in secrecy, so Chantelle couldn’t know what he did after she left him.

That she should wonder about it at all disturbed her. She shouldn’t care about whom he slept with, as long as it wasn’t with her. But if she was going to be honest, at least with herself, she had to admit she didn’t like the notion that his patience with her could very likely be the direct result of his getting his pleasure elsewhere.

This made her less agreeable toward his wives, who had since paid her several visits. Noura she hadn’t liked before they’d even met, and that opinion was reinforced at their second meeting, when the black-haired beauty showed her true colors. She had an attitude of superiority that was only more pronounced by her conceit and imperious manner. She might have reason to be so condescending, since, according to Adamma, Noura was the only woman in the harem who was not a slave, having been given in marriage to Jamil to seal a treaty with some desert pasha. But that was no excuse for such overweening arrogance, or for her cutting remarks. Noura could turn her spite on anyone who gained her attention.

The other two wives were totally different. Sheelah, especially, was hard not to like. The hummingbird that the firstkadinehad given her was indicative of her generous and friendly nature. In fact, Chantelle couldn’t find a single reason to dislike her—except that she was Jamil’s beloved first wife, and that reasoning was so illogical that it didn’t bear close examination.

There was a certain anticipation today as Chantelle prepared herself for her sixth consecutive evening with Jamil Reshid. She accredited it to nerves, because she knew her time was running out. That she might be looking forward to his company was not considered.

For tonight she was dressed in a delicate pink muslin that softened the color of her eyes and went well with her platinum tresses. Those Adamma still arranged loose, pinning only the front locks away from her face. She now had earrings, two bracelets, hairpins, and a large amethyst ring to go with her necklace, gifts that Jamil still sent her even though she hadn’t earned them in the traditional way.

“You will take his breath away,lalla,” Adamma assured her happily.

“Do you think he will expire from suffocation, then?” was the hopeful reply.

Adamma giggled. She didn’t take Chantelle’s disparaging remarks about Jamil seriously anymore, perhaps because Chantelle only said such things from habit now. A week ago she might have looked upon his demise as her salvation and felt not a moment’s sorrow. Now she might still pray for escape, but not through his death.

It was Kadar who took her to the Dey each evening and waited for her return. He had become like her shadow, escorting her everywhere she went, guarding her door when she was in the apartment, sleeping in the front room with Adamma at night. She had wondered whose side he would take if she were to refuse Jamil’s summons again. He seemed completely loyal to her, but she wasn’t quite ready to put it to the test. After she had figured out a way to escape, she was going to need help, and she was hoping Kadar would supply it. But it was too soon yet to trust him completely.

Tonight she found Jamil standing by the garden doors. He never received her in any room but this one, with the ever-threatening bed close by. But he had had large pillows brought in to form a cozy couch by the windows, through which moonlight would filter in. Not that the room wasn’t always well lit to begin with. Yet somehow the lighting seemed to dim before the evening ended, as if invisible servants came to extinguish each lamp. She wouldn’t know if they did. Jamil always claimed her attention so completely, an army could march through and she probably wouldn’t notice.

He was wearing a dark gold tunic in a rich Venetian brocade that molded across his chest and shoulders. The typical loose trousers were white Persian silk and tucked into high boots of a European design. The wide sash about his waist was gold tissue and held a dagger that was lethal in its unadorned simplicity. The only jewels tonight were his rings, a large amber stone and the emerald that he always wore. And as usual, he was without his turban. She hadn’t seen him turbaned since they had first met.

She wished it were otherwise, for with that smoothly shaved face and the thick black hair that parted in the middle and fell in waves to his shoulders, there was nothing Eastern about him from the waist up. How often had she gazed at him and thought how normal he would look in an English drawing room. She had pictured him in a well-cut coat, tight knee-high breeches, with a silk cravat at his throat, and knew he would cut a dashing figure. He cut a dashing figure anyway, damn him.

At Jamil’s insistence, she no longer prostrated herself when entering the room. But she never approached him either, remaining by the door until he called her forward. Tonight he didn’t say anything at first, though he stared at her with those penetrating green eyes of his. Perhaps he was merely waiting for the recital to finish. A Reader of the Koran sat in a corner, reading aloud from the book on his lap.

When the little Muslim’s voice rose suddenly, Chantelle turned toward him, unable to ignore him any longer.