Devil's Daughter (Devil 2)

From a great distance she heard Kamal’s voice. “Enough. Stop, Lam, it is enough.”

He couldn’t bear it any longer. Two more lashes and he would have thrown himself at Lam.

“But, highness—”

“Be silent, Hassan,” he said. He was at her side in but a moment, wincing at the raw welts across her back. Blood trickled down over her trousers.

He walked around the column to see her face. Arabella felt his presence, just as she had heard his voice. Slowly she opened her eyes and stared up at him. He said her name.

She pursed her dry lips and spit at him, full in the face. “Jackal,” she whispered. The simple action brought her immense, crawling pain that overpowered her. She gave a soft cry and collapsed against the column, blessed darkness claiming her.

“Raj,” Kamal called. “Cut her down and care for her.”

“Yes, highness,” Raj said with careful calm. Never before had he seen Kamal so angry, or now, so distraught.

Kamal stared at her pale face for a moment longer, then whirled about, calling his men together to leave the harem. He paused a moment, seeing Elena walking toward Arabella, her hands clenched into fists. “Raj,” he called out. “Do not let anyone near her. You are responsible for her care. You alone.”

Elena stopped in her tracks. She wasn’t stupid. Kamal wanted the English girl, no matter what she had done. She felt a lump of misery in her belly. What hold did the proud bitch have on him that she, Elena, could not break? She lowered her head and wheeled about.

Kamal walked slowly, like an old man, back to his quarters in the palace. How, he thought, can a man’s pride bring him so low? She had guile, damn her, but not enough to ply him with soft phrases, to make him believe that she could not live without him, to gently guide him toward what she wanted to achieve. And now she hung beaten and unconscious, all because of him. He didn’t blame Elena. She was a child, with a child’s rage and a child’s gloating triumph. But he was a man, and a damned fool.

“Highness.”

“Leave me, Hassan,” he said wearily.

“Lam told me she would not be scarred. He said he treated her as gently as he could.”

“I know. But she is a woman, not a battle-hardened man.”

“A woman who attacked you, highness.”

“I have lost her,” Kamal said, amazed at his simple words. He stared almost uncomprehending at Hassan.

Hassan felt a knot in his throat. “You never had her,” he said slowly. “She is not one of us, highness. She was never yours to keep.”

“She was a virgin, until I took her.”

Hassan blinked. “But your mother—The letter—”

Kamal gave him a twisted, cold smile. “Yes,” he said, “my mother. No man had touched Arabella, but I was too stupid to realize her innocence until it was too late.”

“What will you do, highness, when the Earl of Clare comes?”

“With her or with her father? By Allah, Hassan, I feel like an actor in a play, and I do not know my lines.” He paused a moment, rubbing his fist over his forehead. “I would see the earl’s captain, Sordello. Have him brought to me.”

Sordello, though treated kindly enough over the past weeks of his captivity, felt a frisson of fear when the guards came for him.

The slave market, he thought. I will be gelded and sold on the slave block. The guards were silent. They did not hurt him.

He was taken into a beautiful chamber, its furnishings crimson and gold, the tapestries on the walls of exquisite woven cloth. They were Italian, he realized numbly.

“Sit down, captain.”

Sordello gazed at the man who had taken him. Slowly, he eased himself down on the fat cushions across from him.

“Would you care for wine, captain?”

Sordello shook his head.