“No, highness. Your mother sends you the wench. I bring you a letter from her.”
Kamal quickly unfolded the quartered piece of paper and read: “My son, this is Arabella Welles, the daughter of my betrayer. She is a whore who has bedded many men in the court of Naples. Enjoy her, my son. I have written to her father. Though she is a worthless creature, he will feel bound to come for her.”
Arabella was breathing heavily, momentarily stunned. She forced her eyes away from the man reading the letter and quickly took in the dancing girl who was wrapping thin veils about her body, and two other, even younger girls, dressed in outlandish veils, giggling behind their hands. She began to shake. She heard a man’s voice ask, not unkindly, “Can you stand up?”
Arabella pulled herself to her feet and looked straight at him. He was taller than she had first thought, clean-shaven, and deeply tanned. His hair curled about his ears, the color of ripe wheat. His blue eyes seemed out of place in this land of dark swarthy people, and at the moment, were narrowed on her face.
“Who are you?” she whispered, though she knew well who he was. But he had no look of the contessa.
Her arm was suddenly grasped from behind and twisted. “This is your master, girl, Kamal El-Kader,” Risan said.
Kamal saw a flicker of pain in the girl’s eyes. “Let her go, brother,” he said. “You are the daughter of the Earl of Clare?”
“Does your honorable mother’s letter not tell you so?”
“My mother’s letter also tells me your morals were a blessing to many of the gentlemen at the court of Naples.” He saw a flash of fury in her dark eyes, and added slowly, “She suggests you might use your talents to amuse me until your father arrives to claim you.”
Arabella looked about at the barbaric luxury, then back at the man who was looking at her with contempt in his eyes. She said, her voice filled with furious calm, “You must have the morals of an animal, if you are stupid enough to believe lies from a woman who beds men young enough to be her son.”
Kamal stared at her, unaccustomed rage building in him. An animal. It was fortunate his soldiers did not speak Italian, else one might have slit her throat for her insult. He turned slowly away from her and said to Hassan, “It appears my mother makes a jest. I am supposed to enjoy myself with this slut, who believes me an animal. Allah. The wench smells as foul as she looks.”
Arabella was shaking, but not from fear. She flung her head back and shouted at the man, “I would like to see what you look like, you savage, after spending a week in the hold of a stinking ship.”
There was another moment of silence. Kamal felt shamed. She was an English noblewoman who had suffered vilely, in the name of his mother’s vengeance. She was not to have been used. But she was a whore, dishonest and guileful.
“Why,” he asked her quietly, “would my mother claim you for a whore if it were not true?”
“I am not a whore. You filthy barbarian.” She took a step toward him, and felt her arms jerked behind her back. She was thrown to the floor. She lay there, her cheek pressed against the cool marble, stunned, hearing angry voices above her.
“Shall we slit her throat, highness?”
She heard the sound of steel being drawn from a scabbard. She closed her eyes, a brief prayer on her lips.
“Raise her to her feet, Risan,” Kamal said.
“I shouldn’t have fed her,” Risan said.
She faced him, her arms held painfully behind her back. “You are not worth the dung it would take to cover your worthless body.”
“And you appear to be a fool,” Kamal said, controlling his anger.
“At least I am not the son of a whore.”
Kamal stepped toward her and without a word drew back his hand and slapped her. Her head jerked back with the force of his blow, and she would have fallen if Risan weren’t holding her.
“Filthy jackal.” Tears stung her eyes. “How brave you are, striking me while I am held.”
“Release her,” Kamal ordered quietly. He stared at the furious girl, and could see no fear in her dark eyes. Very slowly he drew back his hand and struck her again. It was he who prevented her fall.
“You are held only by me now, girl,” he said.
“May the devil take your soul,” Arabella whispered.
They faced each other, Arabella pale, Kamal flushed a furious red. “You are a fool. I could have your filthy throat slit.”
He then saw a glimmer of fear in her eyes, but it was gone quickly.
“You are a perverted heathen,” Arabella said, her voice calm and cold now, for she knew that she faced death. “You surround yourself with other heathens, to make you feel important. Kill me, I do not care.”