Devil's Daughter (6 page)

“Master,” she whispered, and knelt before him, touching her lips to his leather slippers.

“You may rise,” he said abruptly. The smile faded from her face, and he saw she was trembling. He sighed deeply, knowing she was afraid she displeased him.

He gentled his voice. “Your name is Maya?”

“Yes, highness.”

“You are lovely, Maya,” he lightly caressed her silken hair. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen, highness.”

He heard a tremor in her voice. She was not to blame that the last thing he wanted this night was a fifteen-year-old virgin in his bed.

“Shall I disrobe, highness?”

“Yes.” Hoping she would not see the flat disinterest in his eyes, he added, “It would give me great pleasure, Maya.”

He reclined on his fur-covered bed, pillowed his head on his arms, and stared a long moment at the ceiling. He heard the rustle of clothing, and forced his eyes back to the girl.

She was undressing slowly, with great skill, her every movement meant to whet his desire. He found he was unstirred by the sight of her pale breasts and dark pink nipples. Her woman’s mound was shaved, her nether lips lightly rouged with henna.

She stood uncertainly, her young body gleaming in the pale candlelight, staring toward him. Kamal knew he did not have to treat her gently, though she was a virgin. She was likely as skilled as any courtesan in Europe, her maidenhead merely a technicality. For a moment he was angered that this girl had known little of childhood, that her training had likely begun before she had even begun her monthly flow. He knew his anger would change nothing. He must take her, else she would be shamed.

“Come here, Maya,” he said.

She walked seductively toward him, her hips swaying, and sank to her knees beside him. He rose from his bed and allowed her to undress him. He was relieved at her skill, relieved that her fingers were well trained to heighten his senses. When he was naked, he discovered to his chagrin that his thoughts were still on his incredible conversation with his mother, and not the anxious girl who hovered over him.

“Tell me of your home, Maya,” he said, drawing her down beside him on the bed.

She stared at him in dismay. “Alexandria is a large city, highness,” she managed after a few pained moments. “I did not live in the city. I do not miss it. I want only to make you happy, master.”

Kamal sighed and reached for her. She mewled and whimpered softly as he caressed her. He did not know whether she feigned pleasure at his touch. He knew
she did not expect him to care what any of his harem girls felt. She was here for his pleasure, and not her own.

He kissed her soft mouth and let his hand rove over her breasts and belly. She parted her thighs as he gently stroked her. He knew a moment of surprise that she was warm and moist, until he realized that her maiden’s passage had been oiled. It was a reminder she wasn’t a woman who desired him, but a slave whose body belonged to him. He stretched out on his back, knowing she would know how to arouse him. He closed his eyes and let himself respond to her fingers and mouth. He was at the point of taking her when he chanced to look into her eyes. They were wide with fright. I am being a pig, he thought, treating her as if she had not a thought or a feeling.

“I will try not to hurt you, Maya,” he said softly. Slowly, as gently as he could, he pushed into her. He felt her taut maidenhead, and stilled, waiting for her to absorb the feel of him inside her. To his surprise, she suddenly thrust up her hips against him, drawing him deep within her. He heard her cry out. He had the cynical thought that she had likely been taught to cry out. She started to writhe beneath him, and he said sharply, “Maya, hold still. You but hurt yourself needlessly.”

When at last he lay on top of her, his head resting beside hers on an embroidered pillow, he realized she was stiff beneath him and came up on his elbows.

“Thank you, Maya,” he said, and lightly kissed her. He saw that she was staring at him uncertainly, and said in a weary voice, “You gave me great pleasure. You may go now, Maya, and rest. Hassan Aga is waiting outside. He will give you a token of my pleasure.”

“Yes, highness,” she said, and quietly left him.

His body was eased somewhat, but his mind was not. Maya was like all the other women in his possession. Even Elena would only pretend to listen to him, lower her lashes seductively, and tell him that she didn’t understand him. He remembered with vague regret the European women he had known. Though they lived by rules as rigid as any in the Muslim world, they knew freedom that neither a Muslim man nor a Muslim woman could conceive. They spoke their minds, loved with discretion, and had spoiled him with their willful and entrancing freedom.

Kamal sighed and rolled over on his belly. He knew he must take a wife soon; it was expected of him. It was his duty to his people and his position. If he did not marry and produce a son, his half-brother, Risan, now nearly twenty, would be his heir. Until Lella’s child was born. Risan could never cope with the com-plexities and the responsibilities that would face him as Bey of Oran. Risan was happiest among the
rais,
captaining his own ship, preying on the hapless merchant vessels that had not paid tribute to the Dey of Algiers.

“The girl, Maya, highness. She did not please you?”

Kamal looked up to see Hassan Aga standing uncertainly in the doorway. “Enough, old friend. I trust you gave her a jewel or something to compensate her for her maidenhead.”

“Indeed, merely a small token.”

Hassan turned to leave, but Kamal stayed him. “No, Hassan, remain with me a moment. Come, sit down.”

Kamal pulled on a bed robe of soft crimson silk and
joined Hassan beside a small table surrounded with soft embroidered cushions.

“You do not act like a man who has just relieved his needs, highness. You are thinking about Europe, perhaps, and the Corsican who keeps England’s eyes focused away from us? Or perhaps”—his voice deepened—“you dwell on the two ships taken under your seal?”

“Yes, and ordered, as you suspected, by my mother.” Kamal rubbed his fingers over the knotted muscles in his neck. “At the moment, I think about honor. There is little of it in any of us, it appears. Do you know that I stopped years ago telling anyone in Italy and France that my home is in Algiers, indeed that I am half-Muslim, for they made me the butt of jokes and treated me like a rabid barbarian.”

“Intolerance is bred into every culture, highness,” Hassan said quietly. “A man, it appears, cannot be content with himself and his station unless there is another man he can disdain.”

There was silence between them for several minutes before Kamal recounted to Hassan, his voice expressionless, the story his mother had told him. “Do you know anything of this, Hassan?” he asked when he had finished.

“No, highness, I know nothing of what your mother told you. I have met the Earl of Clare—the Marchese di Parese, as he is known in Genoa. Your father and your half-brother Hamil knew him better. I met him but once, in Algiers, shortly after I arrived here, some ten years ago. He has paid tribute for many years.” He paused a moment, his eyes on his crooked fingers that pained him when the weather changed. “It is
distressing,” he said finally, “that your mother took action against him without your knowledge or consent.”

Kamal’s lips tightened into a thin line. “ ‘Distressing’ is a mild word, Hassan. It scarce touches my feelings in the matter.”

“What do you intend to do, highness?”

“I have not as yet decided. As I told you, if I allow her her revenge, she will no longer be welcome in Oran. She will return to the life she forfeited over twenty-five years ago. This English nobleman, the Earl of Clare, what do you remember of him?”

Hassan spoke slowly, dusting the years off his memories. “I remember him as a man who understood his power, as a man of ability.”

“An honorable man?”

“I would have said so, yes.”

“Did he deal well with my father?”

“As I recall, there was a certain coolness between them. But they were two vastly different men. He dealt quite well with Hamil.”

“Anyone with half a notion of honor dealt well with Hamil. Hassan, your eyes tell me there is something more you would say.”

“There are many motives, highness, that men may not understand. A motive of vengeance can be clear in one man’s mind and a tangle of confusion in another’s. I understand vengeance, highness, but in this matter I am not sure. I ask you to tread carefully in this.”

“I shall, old friend.”

“Your learning is important for our people,” Hassan continued after a thoughtful moment. “They live as they lived a hundred, nay, two hundred years ago.
When I think of Cairo, my home, and its vast libraries, I would weep for what we have lost here. The Moors no longer hold learning above all else; the Turks are content to spit on the Jews and Christians and slaughter anyone who intrudes upon their sport. The Europeans loathe and fear us, and want only to crush us. I fear for the future, highness. The Grand Turk cannot help us. Your half-brother Hamil sought change for our people, but more than that, he sought honor.”

“I did not wish to become the Bey of Oran. You know that, Hassan. And never at the sacrifice of Hamil’s life.”

“Hamil was proud of you, highness. Each letter he received from you, he read proudly.” Hassan paused a moment, then added quietly, “I do not think he was a man to be governed by a woman.”

Kamal met Hassan’s wise old eyes. It was a bold statement for Hassan, who usually spoke obliquely, in the Muslim way.

“Nor am I, Hassan,” Kamal said, “though women in Europe are vastly different than they are here.”

“Women who understand guile are the most dangerous of creatures, here or in Europe. To trust a woman is folly.”

“Even if the woman is one’s mother?”

“Ah, that is different, and yet not different. I am pleased that you are bred to two cultures, highness. It gives you wisdom that is mysterious to a Muslim. I feared you would not be accepted by our people. Yet I see you, a young man, rendering justice that men twice your age accept without question.”

“Sometimes I feel very old, Hassan. Not particularly wise, just weary from what I have seen.”

“You are a young man, highness. I pray that your life is not cut short as was your half-brother Hamil’s. He was an excellent sailor, at home on a ship as he was on land. I still cannot believe that he fell overboard during that storm.”

“The Koran teaches us to accept such tragedy as Allah’s will, Hassan. You are tired, old friend. And I weary you with useless talk.”

Hassan waved a bony hand, and stared toward the heavy tapestry that draped from ceiling to floor on the opposite wall. “Remember that vengeance is for men, highness. A woman’s vengeance knows no honor.”

Kamal grinned suddenly. “I should have reminded my mother that if it were not for this hated earl and his countess, I would not be on this earth.”

“Such logic is not convincing to a woman, highness.” Hassan rose slowly to his feet and bowed deeply. “Do you wish to retire now?”

Kamal sighed. “Yes. There is much to consider.”

“May Allah guard you,” Hassan said, and walked silently from the chamber.

A
wispy fog swirled from the bay, curled over the docks, and crept through the narrow streets of Naples. Three men, shrouded to their feet in thick black cloaks, huddled against the side of a building in a crooked alley, waiting. One of them, by far the oldest of the three, eased his narrow shoulders around the corner of the building and stared through the murky fog down the street.

“Quiet, lads,” he hissed. “He’s coming, but not alone. There’s someone with him.”

“Give us some sport,” another of the men said. He spat neatly toward a mangy cat that was pawing a pile of refuse.

The Comte de la Valle negligently twirled his beribboned cane as he listened to his friend Celestino Genovesi.

“
Gesù,
” Celestino growled, “it’s as black as a pit in hell. You tempt fate, Gervaise. I’d feel uneasy walking here during the day, what with all the riffraff hanging about.”

“Stop whining,” Gervaise said. “As for its being a black night, it will give you practice for when you leave this earth.”

“You’re a cold-blooded bastard, Gervaise. I still don’t like it.”

“Why not think about that lovely little morsel you shared in tonight?”

Celestino, a paunchy young Italian nobleman with crispy chestnut side whiskers, shuddered in distaste, knowing Gervaise could not see his expression. He said only, “With four of us taking the little whore, she quickly lost her desire to please.”

“Perhaps next time you will be first,” Gervaise said, sounding bored. “She did whimper quite prettily. That must have pleased you, Tino.” He shrugged his elegant shoulders. “She was paid for her services. The gold I placed into her grimy little hand was the amount her father demanded. It was overpayment, I think, for her maidenhead.”

The silence was suddenly rent by coarse shouts. “Get ’em, my lads. Break their heads.”

Three black shadows flew from the alleyway. Celestino howled in startled fear. Gervaise, Comte de la Valle, quickly drew the dagger at his belt and tossed aside his useless cane.

“Fight, you fool,” he shouted at Tino. “You cannot run from the scum.” He lunged at one of the men, his dagger slicing downward toward his breast. He felt his arm suddenly wrenched behind his back in a grip that made him gasp. The man who held him had twice his strength. He struggled in silence, Celestino’s howling cries ringing in his ears. Like a damned girl. He closed his eyes when he felt the point of a knife touch his bare throat.
Merde,
he thought very precisely. To die at the hands of wharf rats bent upon robbing his purse.

Gervaise heard another yell from the gloom. He
whirled about to see a man hurtling toward them, his sword glistening silver in the swirling fog. For an instant he was held immobile, watching the figure lunge toward one of the thieves. The man dodged his sword, then shouted at the top of his lungs, “Away, my boys. Away.”

The three thieves disappeared into the darkness as if they had never existed. Gervaise calmly sheathed his dagger and brushed off his sable-lined cloak.

“For God’s sake, Tino,” he growled toward his friend, who was leaning against the side of a derelict building, vomiting into the street, “get hold of yourself.”

“Are you all right?”

Gervaise strained his eyes to see more clearly. He heard a young voice, smooth and educated, speak in Italian. He saw a flash of silver as the sword slipped back into its scabbard.

“
Si,
” he said easily. “Your timing was exquisite, my friend. Christ, Tino, pull yourself together.”

“He is shaken,” the man said. “The thieves are gone. There is nothing more to fear.”

“Who are you?” Gervaise asked him.

The figure before him bowed elegantly at the waist. “The Marchese Pietro di Galvani,” the cultured voice said.

Celestino, feeling more a man now that his belly was emptied of food and fear, straightened and strode toward them.

“What were you doing down here alone?”

The man shrugged. “I was bored. I thank you both for the excitement. The scum didn’t put up much of a fight,” he added with scorn in his voice.

“Bored,” Tino shrilled. “
Dio,
man, you could have been killed.”

The man gave a low, amused laugh. “Then I would have again escaped boredom, would I not?”

Gervaise said suddenly, “I wish to repay you, sir. Celestino and I were on our way to my house. Join us for a drink.”

The marchese seemed to hesitate.

“Do,” Tino seconded. “Can’t see your bloody face in all this dark and fog.”

He appeared to shrug. “Very well.”

“I am Gervaise, Comte de la Valle, and this is Celestino Genovesi—Conte Genovesi, I should add. Perhaps it will help him regain his balance and his bravery.”

“You are French,” the Marchese Pietro di Galvani said easily in that language. “I am new to Naples. You have provided me my first taste of sport.”

“
Oui, je suis français,
” Gervaise said. “Unlike you,
mon ami,
I have been here for more days than I care to count.”

The three men began their walk in silence, except for occasional blasts from the foghorns and the clopping of their boots on the cobblestones.

“You are a royalist,
enfin,
” Pietro said.

“Speak Italian,” Tino complained.

“He asked me if I were a royalist,” Gervaise repeated. “Yes, you could call me that. There are many of us here at the court of Naples, outlawed from our country by the miserable Jacobins and that upstart Napoleon.”

“Then I will say good night,” the Marchese Pietro di Galvani said, and spun about on his heel.

“But why?” Celestino said, grabbing his sleeve.

Pietro said slowly, shaking off Tino’s hand, “I am, as I said, new to Naples. I have no desire to consort with”—he nearly spat the word—“with supporters of the Bourbons or Capets.”

“Ah,” Gervaise said softly. “Wait, my friend. Perhaps you should withhold your judgment, if just for tonight.”

“Yes, do come with us. Gervaise is not what he seems—”

“Shut up, Tino,” the comte said pleasantly. “
Monsieur?
”

“The night is young,” Pietro said.

“And you wish to escape boredom,
n’est-ce pas?
”

The marchese shrugged. “Very well.”

“Where do you come from?” Celestino asked, puffing slightly to keep up with the swift stride of the two other men.

“Sicily,” the marchese said shortly. “Yet another part of the Bourbons’ kingdom.”

“Then why, my friend,” Gervaise said, “did you come here to Naples?”

“I came for business reasons, and—”

“And?” Celestino prodded.

“To see that harridan of a queen and her lecherous fool of a husband fall to Napoleon. It cannot be long now.”

“Ah,” Gervaise said. “No, I suppose it cannot be much longer. The Treaty of Amiens that keeps Naples safe will fall soon. Then we shall see.”

The three men turned onto a lighted street, wide and surrounded by tall, elegant houses. The stench of the dock was behind them.

“My humble abode,” Gervaise said, pushing open a wrought-iron gate. He withdrew a key from his pocket and unlocked the narrow oak front door. “My servant is asleep, or at least the fool should be,” he said over his shoulder. He led the two of them through a narrow entrance hall and stepped inside an adjoining room to light a branch of candles.

“Quite cozy,” the marchese said, gazing about. The drawing room was long and narrow, and furnished with cherrywood pieces of delicate beauty. He watched the comte walk to the sideboard and lift a decanter.

“Brandy?”

The marchese nodded and unfastened his cloak.

Gervaise watched him unbuckle his sword and place it with careful precision by his cloak on a tabletop. He eyed his rich clothing and his tall, powerful body. When the marchese turned, he stared into his black-bearded face.

“You look like a bloody pirate,” Celestino said.

The marchese shrugged. “I am from Sicily,” he said, as if that were explanation enough.

“Your brandy, sir,” Gervaise said, handing him a crystal goblet.

“A toast,” Celestino said, raising his glass. “To the rescue of two of Naples’ finest young noblemen.”

The marchese arched a thick black brow, but said nothing. He sipped his brandy and moved to seat himself on a brocade sofa.

Gervaise continued to drink his brandy, studying the young man. “You have odd coloring,
monsieur.
Your eyes. Never have I seen an Italian with blue eyes.”

For the first time, the marchese smiled, displaying even white teeth. “That is what I told my father,” he said, smiling still.

Celestino gave a shout of laughter. “I’ve heard much about the Sicilians.”

“And you speak French well,
monsieur,
” Gervaise continued, disregarding Tino’s comment.

“Of course. What man of education does not?”

“See here,” Celestino sputtered.

The marchese’s smile alighted on Tino’s face. “You did not allow me to finish, my friend. A man of education who wants above all to free the rest of Italy must be able to speak the language of its liberators.” He saw that the Comte de la Valle had stiffened, and added pleasantly, “But I insult you,
monsieur.
Tonight that is not my intention. Had I realized that you were a royalist, I would still have joined the melee.”

The Comte de la Valle proffered the marchese an elaborate bow. “You are honest, if nothing else,” he said in his soft, hoarse voice.

“Don’t be too certain of that,” the marchese said, tossing a smile, as if it were a careless bone, toward them. “You,
monsieur
le comte, are blessed with fair looks. I have never seen a Frenchman with hazel eyes and light hair.”

“
Touché,
” Gervaise said.

“Do you plan to go to court?” Celestino asked, depositing his bulky frame in a wing chair opposite the marchese.

The marchese looked bored. “What else is there to do in Naples?”

“There are many beautiful women at the court,” Celestino said.

“Ah, that is something, I suppose. Can one be assured they will not give a man the pox?”

The comte, who had been standing negligently against the mantelpiece, straightened and smiled. “They give their favors freely. I have heard it said that when the queen was younger she kept as many as three lovers at the same time. Of course she is a raddled hag now.”

“I think,” Celestino said with a sharp glance toward the comte, “that a man is only safe taking virgins.”

“Ah,” the marchese sighed. “If I were to pay a gold piece for every virgin I could find, I would still be a rich man at the end of a week.”

Celestino chortled and opened his mouth to speak, but swallowed his words at a frown from Gervaise.

“You are doubtless right in part,
mon ami,
” the comte said. He gazed down into the amber liquid in his goblet and said slowly, “I would suggest, marchese, that you do not speak so openly of your French leanings in the court. The queen has more secret police than most imagine. More than one innocent man has been butchered because of her hatred and fear of Napoleon. Your exalted rank and your wealth would not save you, I fear.” He paused for a long moment, and added, “Why, even Celestino and I could be in the pay of her majesty. Yes, you must be more careful.”

The marchese stretched his long legs out before him. His dark blue eyes were hooded, almost as if he were nodding off to sleep. “I thank you for your . . . advice, comte,” he said, not looking up. “I trust whatever my father did, he did not raise a fool.”

“Do you play cards?” Celestino said, leaning forward in his chair.

“What gentleman does not?” the marchese said.

“The night is still young,” the comte said. “Name your game, marchese, and Tino and I will contrive to amuse you.”

Adam did not awaken until noon. When he left his room, Daniele Barbaro was awaiting him in the drawing room.

“Well?” he asked without preamble.

Adam yawned. “You and the men did excellently, Daniele. I did not stagger home until dawn. I allowed the Comte de la Valle to relieve me of a bit of gold,” he added.

Adam’s valet, Borkin, entered the drawing room bearing two cups of steaming coffee and a tray of rolls.

“Will you join me, Daniele?”

At the older man’s nod, Adam seated himself in front of a small circular table and began to eat. He said nothing further until Borkin had bowed himself out of the room and pulled the door closed.

“It is not that I doubt him in any way,” Adam said, more to himself than to Daniele. “I don’t want him to know anything that could place him in danger. I trust none of your men were harmed last night?”

“Nay, your feint with your sword was impressive, no damage done to Vincenzo. Did you learn anything?”

Adam stretched, took another bite of a flaky roll, and sat back in his chair. “Not much, but then again, I didn’t expect to. But I expect that the comte’s friend Celestino Genovesi will sooner or later divulge the game. I accompany them to court tonight. There is a ball, or some such thing. The comte will present me to
the queen. The king, I hear, is at his palace at Caserta, hunting and whoring.”