Historical Romance: April Books 1 - 4. Marguerite Kaye
said that?’
‘My father.’ His eyes blazed with something beyond fury which made Tahira’s blood run cold. And then it was over. His fists unfurled. He gave himself a shake. ‘He told me the story of a young woman, much younger than you, a mere girl, destined by her family to make an advantageous marriage. Her circumstances changed, but still, they were determined upon the course they had planned for her, whether she wished to follow it or not. Like you, she was quite powerless. We’ll never know how it might have turned out.’
‘What happened?’
His throat worked. ‘She died.’
‘I’m so sorry, Christopher.’ Tahira touched his hand. ‘Who was she?’
From dark, his expression turned carefully blank. ‘I never met her,’ he said, disengaging himself, getting to his feet. ‘But the comparison with you—I cannot help making it, though the circumstances, the stakes are so very different. Being no thoroughbred myself, at least I have been spared such machinations.’
Utterly confused, and now a little intimidated, Tahira knew he had not meant to hurt her with this last remark, knew he could have no idea that in her own way she was a thoroughbred, was being carefully mated, but she was bruised all the same. ‘Fortunate indeed,’ she said acerbically, ‘for if you ever do marry, it will be because you want to, and not because it is your duty.’
He said something vicious in his own language under his breath. ‘Forgive me, I have allowed my demons to blind me. Nine months ago, I would not have considered myself fortunate, but you put me to shame. I do have choices, while you—it goes against every grain of feeling with me that you should be bartered and sold for the sake of—what, a few camels, a small patch of land? No, don’t answer that.’ Christopher forced a smile. ‘I am a man of action, it frustrates me beyond words that I cannot help you. You deserve so much better, Tahira, and perhaps you will get what you deserve, against the odds. Any man who can call you his wife will be very lucky indeed. I trust that the man your brother finds for you appreciates you for what you are.’
With a sinking feeling, Tahira thought back to the conversation she had had with Juwan a few days ago. Perhaps it would not be so bad. Or perhaps it would be better if she accepted that it would be even worse, and adjust her expectations accordingly. But for tonight, she’d had enough of it. ‘I am not yet betrothed,’ she said. ‘Here in the desert night, my actions are dictated by no one and nothing more than my inclinations, and right at this moment, what I want is to gallop back on these beautiful horses you have risked so much to acquire.’
* * *
The next day was bathing day in the harem. The door to the Corridor of the Bath used by the men of the palace was locked and guarded, the door to the harem opened, and the hamam suite was given over to the female occupants. Emerging from the small outer anteroom where her clothing was exchanged for the single fringed linen sheet tied around the waist and the carved wooden pattens studded with pearls which kept her feet dry, Tahira paused as she always did, to drink in the atmosphere.
The main chamber of the hamam was circular, with no windows but with light flooding in through the high central dome which was supported by five pillars. The room was clad entirely in marble of different shades and striations, from pure glittering white to gold and dark brown, forming beautiful geometric patterns on the walls, on the massage tables and resting sofas, and on the central dais where the main fountain burbled. Around the walls were other fountains, graduating from ice cold to piping hot which filled the marble basins, each dedicated to a different intimate function. Doors set around the circular walls led off to other, much hotter chambers, a steam room, hot baths and icy cold plunge pools.
Though Juwan was not present today, for she found the baths too hot in her advanced state of pregnancy, her retinue maidservants were in attendance, along with many other women and girls, from the kitchen and chamber maids, laundry maids, to the herbalists, seamstresses and the personal maids of the four princesses. Women of all shapes and sizes languished on the marble divans resting after a massage or having their hair braided and oiled. Others gossiped in clusters while their nails were shaped, their feet decorated with henna. In the other rooms, ritual cleansing was undertaken, where the body was first soaked in oils, then given a vigorous rubbing with a cloth to stimulate the skin. Next came the soaping, the rinsing, the soaking in one of the hot baths, the plunge into a cold bath which made the skin tingle all over and finally the liberal sprinkling of the body and hair with attar of rose.
The chamber was abuzz with a myriad of conspiratorial conversations. Here in the baths, all women were equal, the strict laws of precedence abandoned, the hamam handmaidens serving each woman in turn regardless of rank or status. Tahira looked forward to hamam day, listening to the lively gossip, enjoying the relaxed atmosphere and the spirit of equality that allowed her to forget that she was a princess and to feel, for a few hours, that she was simply another woman, like all of those around her, albeit one, unlike some here, who was not permitted to mingle with the world outside these walls.
Today, however, she was restless, unsettled by last night and struggling to understand why, after a dream come true, and the delightfully, blissfully satisfying experience which had followed, she had woken this morning in such a strange, dissatisfied mood.
Forgoing her usual glass of tea and ration of gossip, she lay down on her tummy on the central dais, where it was the custom for women to be left with their own thoughts and to await a masseuse. Part of the problem was that last night had been so perfect. She had learned to suppress her childhood memories of horse riding so as not to endure the pain of missing it. Allowing the hubbub of the hamam to fade into the background, Tahira opened her mind now to those memories and discovered that they were no longer painful but soothing. Mama’s face was hard to recall, but she could remember her laughter, the way she threw her head back and gazed up at the sky when she rode, trusting to her horse to guide her, as if she was imagining herself flying, just as Tahira did. Had Mama felt suffocated by the harem? It hadn’t occurred to her until now. Mama had always seemed so very content with her lot, but then Tahira had been so young, and she doubted Mama would have confided in her, even had there been anything to confide. Only at the end, when she knew she was dying, had she been forced to speak frankly, and even then...
Tahira blinked away a tear. Promise me that you will take care of your sisters, because I fear your brother will not. Aged ten, she had taken her vow so very seriously, a sacred promise. Over the years, she had read so much into these few words. Too much? Was she choosing to interpret her promise selfishly now, twisting her vow into something that Mama had never intended in order to support her deep-seated reluctance to marry? For it was deep-seated, much more than she had realised until last night.
A soft whisper, a gentle hand on her shoulder told her that the masseuse had arrived. Warm oil trickled between her shoulder blades, and the woman started to gently knead Tahira’s muscles, which were stiff from the horse ride.
The woman’s touch was deft, impersonal, yet she could not relax. Why was she finding it so very difficult to do her duty? She had always, ever since she could remember, instinctively resisted doing Ghutrif’s bidding, but she wasn’t a child now. She was a grown woman, and she knew her own mind, yet no one save Christopher accepted that she had any right to an opinion, and that was the crux of the matter. As the masseuse began to work on the knots on her spine, Tahira could feel herself becoming ever more tense. She wasn’t a thoroughbred horse, to be bought for breeding in exchange for—what was it Christopher had said? A few camels, a small patch of land! It made no difference that it was more likely to be an vast herd of camels, and an entire kingdom. She was a person, not a—an object!
Tahira sat up abruptly, grabbing her linen towel. ‘‘Thank you, but I am not—excuse me, I think I will repair to the steam room.’
But seated on a marble bench, her skin damp, the only sound the hiss of the steam rising from the floor, the steady drip of condensation running down the walls, her ire rose even higher than the temperature in the room. Christopher was right, she did deserve better. She deserved to have a say in her destiny. She deserved a husband who valued her as a woman, not a—a dynastic brood mare. She deserved a husband who desired her, and only her. Who cared for