Yasmin’s face crumbled. Then, recovering herself as quickly as she could, she laughed weakly. “You jest, my lord. Gracious-how you startled me! Ha! Ha!”
“I do not jest,” he said quietly. “Skye is to be my wife.”
“She is a slaver?”
“No, she is not. I have freed her. She was never meant to be a slave, Yasmin.”
“And I was?”
“You were bom a slave of slave parents, of slave ancestors. It is your fate.”
“I love you! Does she love you? How can she? She barely knows you. But I know you, Khalid, and I know what pleases you. Let me!” and she fell groveling at his feet.
He looked down at her with genuine pity. Poor Yasmin with all her clever Mideastern sexual arts for pleasing a man. Yes, he had enjoyed them once, but they had also bored him to death. The Mideastern mode of loving was debasing to the woman. She was taught to please her master, who lay there, a nonparticipant except for the automatic ejaculation of his seed. It was up to the woman to please. The responsibility for his pleasure rested with her, and if she failed… the bastinado awaited.
How much better, he thought, the European way, where the man was in charge, his masculinity ruling and subduing his woman, her climax the most marvelous act of submission. It delighted the senses and soothed the male pride.
“I love Skye,” he said, “the decision was mine. And you, my most beautiful and valued slave, have no right to question me.”
“What will happen to me?” she whimpered.
“Nothing. You will continue your duties as before.” After a pause he asked, “Would you like your freedom, Yasmin? Then I should pay you for the duties you now perform for me.”
Yasmin was horrified. Her very slavery bound her to Khalid el Bey. Without it he could cast her off at any time, and now he probably would.
“Oh, no! No! No, my lord! I do not want my freedom.”
“Very well then, my dear, it shall be as you decree. Now, get up, Yasmin, and see me out.” He rose. Taking her arm, he raised her up. “You really are invaluable to me, my dear,” he said in a kindly fashion, and though she knew it to be a tossed bone, she was somewhat soothed.
“When may I come and wish the lady Skye happiness?”
“I would prefer you didn’t, Yasmin. Like any sensible man, I would prefer to keep my wife away from my business. And you, my dear, are a part of that business.”
“I understand, my lord Khalid,” she said smoothly, and thought bitterly to herself: Yes, I understand completely. You do not want your precious wife associating with a whore! And I am a whore!
They walked out into the sunlit courtyard, and the little girl brought Khalid’s horse to him. The Whoremaster of Algiers chucked the child underneath the chin, then slipped her a silver piece. “A nice touch, Yasmin,” he complimented her. Then, mounting the prancing animal, Khalid el Bey rode away.
Chapter 10
In the next few days the preparations for Khalid el Bey’s wedding were made. The few invitations were issued, the feast and entertainment were planned, and the bridal chamber was decorated. Since Skye’s memory loss prevented her from having any religious preference, and since she had been a practicing Moslem since coming under Khalid el Bey’s protection, the chief mullah of Algiers found no impediment to the marriage.
On the afternoon of the nuptials six virgins from the House of Felicity arrived at Khalid el Bey’s estate and were housed in the women’s quarters. Unlike the Turks, who separated the sexes at a wedding, the inhabitants of Algiers were less formal. Although it was not necessary for the bride to be in attendance at the religious ceremony, which would be performed at the neighborhood mosque, she and other women were invited to the feast. For what was a celebration without soft and fragrant femininity?
The little French secretary, Jean, had been given his freedom in honor of his master’s wedding. Jean had, however, elected to remain in Khalid’s employ rather than return to his native land. He and the other guests were to be gifted with feminine companionship for the evening. Khalid and Skye looked over the girls and decided the pairing. “I think,” he said, “the pretty plump little Provencale with the black-cherry eyes will do quite nicely for the mullah. He is yet a young man, but inclined to be overserious and weighed down by the importance of his position.”
“Has he no wife to ease his travail?”
“No, Skye, he has not, although I know he is not a celibate.”
“Then the choice is an excellent one, my lord, for should she insinuate herself into his affections she will make him supremely happy. I see beneath the youth and sensuality a proper housewife and mother.”
Khalid chuckled. “Bravo, my Skye! I see that also, and should God will that it be so, think how grateful the mullah will be to me when his first son is bom! Now… for the head of the merchant’s guild, and for my banker, the delicious blondes. Each of these gentlemen is well into middle life. Each has a carping wife and a houseful of greedy, brawling children and relatives. What is needed here is simple, and quite physical. Maidens whose light-colored eyes with admiration easily, with big, soft breasts, and feather heads, ho have only one desire, to please the master.”
Skye examined the two girls. They were fluffy creatures who would amply fill the bill. “What of Osman and Jean?” she asked.
“The petite creature with the soft hazel eyes and thick, chestnut- )lored hair comes from his own Brittany. They will be quite a surprise for each other.”
“Oh, Khalid, how kind of you. The girl looks frightened, but tan will reassure her nicely, and I will be delighted to have a friend the house.”
“Yes, she will be a friend for you. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Let me guess the others, Khalid! The sweet-faced, grave-looking girl is for Osman!”
“Yes,” his eyes were amused.
‘Then that leaves that rather fierce-looking creature for the Turkish commandant. God, Khalid! She looks like she could devour a ian. Is that a wise choice?”
“My love, there are many things you don’t remember about human nature. The commandant of the Casbah fortress is a regular patron of the House of Felicity. His taste in women is, ah, somewhat sophisticated. Easy conquest bores him. He enjoys a woman who fights him. The girl I have chosen for him is half-Moorish, half- berber. She is a wild little savage, and should delight him greatly. Now, my love, see that these maidens are bathed and clothed in time for the feast. The next time I see you, my sweet Skye, you will be my wife.” His golden amber eyes warmed her. His mouth brushed hers tenderly, and quickly he turned and was gone.
She sighed. He was so good to her. And she still worried that she should not be marrying him. Something deep inside her nagged her, yet try as she might, she could not understand what it was. sometimes in her dreams there was a man, always the same man, butt she could never see him clearly, she could only sense him crying out to her. It made no sense.
Sighing, she clapped her hands and the slaves came running. She gave orders for the six girls to be bathed and perfumed. Then she went about choosing their garments from the vast wardrobe in the rem quarters.
For the mullah’s golden-skinned dark-haired Provengale it would apricot silk pantaloons, a gold-embroidered sash, and a boleronged in little gold beads. Because of the heat and the lateness of the feast, she could forego the gauze blouses. The choice for the two blondes was simple: baby pink for both. For the Breton girl with her chestnut hair and hazel eyes, apple green was perfect. For the girl chosen for Osman, a sky blue would set off her dark-blond hair. Lastly, she chose flame-colored silks for the Turk’s maiden. Handing the clothing to the servants, she gave orders for their distribution and returned to her own quarters to bathe and change into her own wedding garments.