“You would not dare!” But her eyes were filled with doubt.
“I would dare almost anything to see you again, dove.” He stood, drawing her up with him. Gently wrapping her cloak about her, he walked silently with her to the orchard door. “Until tomorrow night, Adora. Dream of me.” And then, vaulting up, he disappeared over the top of the wall into the night.
With trembling fingers she unlocked the door, went through, relocked it, and then fled through the gardens to her own house. Within the comparative safety of her bedchamber she relived in her mind the scene in the orchard. She realized that, though he had kissed her most thoroughly, he had not touched her otherwise. And yet she ached! Her entire body ached with a longing she did not understand. Her breasts were swollen, the nipples sore. Her belly felt tight, and the secret woman’s place between her legs was throbbing. If this was being a woman, she wasn’t sure she liked it.
But the greater problem was Prince Murad’s threat to appear at the convent gate. His rank would make the nuns obedient. Why should they refuse the sultan’s son permission to visit his stepmother? They might even believe that the sultan himself had sent him. When the truth was learned, the innocent little religious community would be punished and disgraced.
If she refused to see the prince, and told Mother Marie Josepha the truth, then Murad might be punished-perhaps even killed for his boldness. Theadora did not believe she could live with a death on her conscience. She was trapped. She would meet him tomorrow night.
Yet, as she lay in her chaste bed she remembered his deep voice saying, “My father will never call you to him. When he dies and I am sultan, I shall arrange for you to be my bride.” She trembled. Were men always so intense?
Was it possible that he might be her lord some day? It was a tantalizing thought. He was very handsome-with his jet black eyes, dark, wavy hair, tanned face, and the white teeth flashing that impudent smile.
She shivered again. The mere memory of his kisses made her giddy, and that was wrong! Very wrong! Even if Sultan Orkhan never called her to him, she was still his wife.
She could not sleep that night, and in the morning she was irritable. She could not concentrate on her book. She tangled her embroidery threads and angrily threw the linen to the floor. Her slaves were astonished, and when an older woman questioned her, fearing she was becoming ill, Adora boxed her ears and then burst into tears.
Iris, the slavewoman, was wise enough to pursue the matter. She was relieved when the princess sobbingly confided that she had not slept well. Immediately the woman prepared a warm bath for her young charge and, after Theadora had been bathed and massaged, Iris tucked her into bed. She was then fed a cup of warm spiced wine into which the slavewoman had put a mild sleeping potion.
When Theadora awoke, the last rays of the sun were staining the western sky, and the purple mountains about the city were already crowned with faint silver stars. Iris brought the princess a small, roasted pigeon, the skin crisp and golden. The tray also held new lettuce, a honeycomb, and a carafe of white wine. Theadora ate slowly, her thoughts sorting themselves.
The prince had given his word not to tamper with her virginity. And if he spoke the truth, she was not likely to ever see the sultan again. It was entirely possible that Prince Murad would one day be her true husband.
The night darkened. Finishing her meal, Theadora washed her hands in a silver basin filled with rose water. Her good humor had been restored by the sleep. She dismissed her slaves for the evening. Unlike the majority of women of her class, she was capable of dressing and undressing herself. She despised the awful ignorance and the idleness of most women of rank.
She slipped into a caftan of violet silk gauze with a row of little pearl buttons down the front. The color was meant to flatter her amethyst eyes, yet be dark enough that she would not require a cloak. Her feet were shod in matching kid slippers. Her dark hair hung freely down her back bound only by a silk ribbon.
She slipped silently into the orchard and found her way to the tree they had sheltered under the previous night. He was not there. But before she could decide whether to return to her house or wait, the heavily laden branches parted with a rustle, and he was with her.
“Adora!” He slid an arm about her tiny waist and kissed her, and she returned his kiss for the first time. Her soft lips parted willingly, her tongue darting like a little flame about his mouth. To her delighted amazement he shuddered, and she was filled with a triumphant awe that she, an inexperienced virgin, could rouse this sensual, experienced man! For the briefest moment it was she who held the upper hand.
But then, cradling her with one arm, his other hand parted the topmost buttons of her caftan and his warm hand slid in to caress a breast. She gasped, catching at his hand.
He laughed low. “Lesson two, my dove,” and pushed her hand away. She was trembling with a mixture that was half fright, half pleasure, though at first she could not identify the second sensation. His hand was gentle, tenderly stroking the soft flesh. “Please, oh, please!” she whispered, pleading. “Please, stop it!” Instead he rubbed the sensitive nipple with his thumb, and Adora almost fainted with the pleasure that swept over her.
When his mouth covered hers once again, she thought she would surely die with the sweetness of it. He was looking down at her now, his jet black eyes tender. “Always remember, my little virgin, that I am the master.”
“Why?” she managed, though her voice was ragged. “It is the woman to whom God gave the privilege of bearing new life. Why then, are we subservient to men?”
He was startled. She was not the soft, complacent female he had first thought her to be, but that most rare and intriguing of creatures-a woman with a mind. Murad was not sure he approved. But, he thought, at least she will not bore me. And what sons she might bear me!
“Did not Allah create woman second-and from a man’s rib?” he said quickly. “First came man. He must therefore have meant for man to be the superior, the master of woman, else he would have created woman first.”
“That does not necessarily follow, my lord,” she replied, unimpressed.
“Would you be my superior, Adora, and instruct me,” he asked, amused.
“Do not dare to laugh at me,” she stormed.
“I am not laughing at you, my dove, but neither do I wish to debate the logic of the superiority of men over women. I wish to make love to you.” And he felt her tremble against him as, again, he began to caress her soft breasts.
The gentle hand undid the remaining buttons on her caftan, rendering her naked. The hand moved lower to touch her little mound of belly. Her skin was like the finest Bursa silk, cool and smooth, yet the muscles were tense beneath his skilled fingers. This further confirmation of her innocence pleased his vanity.
He moved lower yet, one long, slim finger poised to touch her more intimately. And then, for a moment, their eyes met, and he saw her open terror. He stopped, and his hand gently touched her cheek. “Do not be afraid of me.”
“I do not mean to be afraid,” she said in a shaking voice. “It is wrong, I know, but I want you to touch me. Yet, when you do l am afraid.”
“Tell me,” he asked gently.
“I feel I am losing control of myself. I do not want you to cease, though I know you must.” Swallowing hard she said, “I want to know everything about being a woman, even the final act of love. I am married, but I am not your wife, and what we do is wrong!”
“No,” he said fiercely. “We do no wrong! You will never go to my father! You are nothing to him but a political necessity.”
“But when I am widowed I may not come to you either. If I belong to anyone I belong to the empire of Byzantium. Once your father is gone, my next marriage will be arranged for me, as this one was.”