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.
“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
“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.”
“You belong to me,” he said huskily, “now and always.”
She knew that she was lost, whatever happened. She loved him. “Yes,” she whispered, amazed at her own words. “Yes! I do belong to you, Murad!”
And as his mouth savagely moved against hers, she felt a wild joy flood her. She was no longer afraid. Hands passionately caressed her, and her young body rose eagerly to meet his touch. Only once did she cry out-when his fingers found their way to the sweet core of her. But he stilled her protests with his mouth. He felt her wildly beating pulse beneath his lips. “No, dove,” he murmured hungrily, “let my fingers have their way. It will be sweetness, my love, only sweetness, I promise you.”
And he could feel her slowly relaxing in his arms. Smiling he teased the sensitive flesh while the girl beneath him moaned softly, her lashes dark smudges against her white skin, her slim hips writhing. At last, satisfied that she was ready, he gently thrust a finger into her.
Adora gasped, but before she could protest she was lost to the sweet wave of delight that possessed her completely. She arched to meet his hand, floating weightless until the tightness building within her shattered like a mirror into a rainbow of flashing lights.
Her amethyst eyes finally opened, and she asked, her voice soft with the wonder of it, “How can such sweetness be, my lord?”
He smiled down at her. “It is but a taste of delight, my dove. Just a taste of things to come.”
Chapter Three
In Constantinople, the night was as dark as Emperor John Cantacuzene’s mood. His beloved wife, Zoe, was dead in a last futile attempt to give him another son. The awful irony was that she had given her last bit of strength to push twin sons from her exhausted and weakened body. Misshapen scraps of deformed humanity, they were joined at the chest and shared, so the physician claimed, a single heart. These monstrosities had been, praise God, born dead. Their mother, curse God, had followed them.
If this tragedy were not terrible enough, his daughter, Helena, wife to the co-emperor John Paleaologi, was plotting with her husband to overthrow him, to take complete control of the empire. While her mother had lived Helena had been recognized only as wife to the young Paleaologi. Her mother had been recognized as the empress. Now Helena wished to be recognized as empress.
“And if I remarry?” asked her father.
“Why on earth would you remarry?” demanded his daughter.
“To give the empire more sons.”
“My son, Andronicus, is the heir. Next comes the child I now carry.”
“There is no decree to that effect, my daughter.”
“Really Father!”
Every day Helena sounded more and more like her mother-in-law, the wretched Anna of Savoy.
