“Because he thought I saw too much. And because I told him that he was cursed because a blue-eyed, blond-haired innocent English woman had died at the hands of his chief eunuch and the all-powerful sultan was too weak to do anything about it.”
Jonathan winced. “It’s a miracle he didn’t have Mustafa dispose of you.”
“He would have,” India said. “But he wanted what I had, so he punished Mustafa instead.”
“Something other than your innocence?” Jonathan tried but failed to keep the sting out of his voice.
“He took my innocence as a matter of pride because he could,” India told him. “But what he really wanted was knowledge. He couldn’t take the knowledge locked in my brain or force me to share it. He had to persuade me to share it. And my cooperation came at a price.”
“Why’d he bother?”
“Because he is allied with the French, but he fears Bonaparte’s ambitions.”
“He needed to learn English.” Jonathan guessed.
“Yes,” she said. “And about England. In secret so his ministers wouldn’t know he was gaining knowledge or question his motives. The sultan is ignorant of nearly everything that goes on in the outside world. He relies upon his ministers, but he doesn’t trust them. He spent the first thirty years of his life locked in the Cage, a vast warren of rooms beside the women’s quarters, wondering if he’d live to become sultan or if he’d be dispatched to make way for one of the other princes locked in the Cage.”
“Survival of the fittest,” Jonathan said.
“Or at least the luckiest or the craftiest.”
“Or the most ruthless.” Jonathan smoothed a stray lock of long dark hair off India’s cheek.
“Or the most ruthless,” she agreed. “It is very important that the sultan be on the winning side of any conflict. And with England and France at war . . .”
“He’s trying to hedge his bet.”
“I don’t know what that means,” India told him. “But the sultan doesn’t want his empire annexed by Bonaparte if France wins or carved up into little pieces if England is victorious.”
Jonathan grinned. “You’ve just given a perfect example of a man hedging his bets, trying to be on the winning side regardless of who wins.”
“Every time he complimented me on my knowledge, I reminded him that I had been taught by Miss Lockwood. That I knew only a fraction of what Miss Lockwood had known and that he could have learned so much more if Mustafa hadn’t murdered Miss Lockwood. I tried to convince the sultan that the only way to gain favor with England was to release all his English prisoners.” She looked at Jonathan. “I didn’t know there were ransom efforts under way. I didn’t know if there were survivors from the Portsmouth or that my father was paying for information regarding my whereabouts or that the trail had led to the dey of Algiers, and from there to the sultan. I didn’t know that my father had worked to persuade the East India Company to pursue ransom as a way to have me returned or that my grandfather was pursuing the same end in London until the sultan told me. All I knew was that I had promised Miss Lockwood I would do whatever it took to survive, and befriending the sultan seemed the best way. But in befriending the sultan, I made enemies in the harem.”
Jonathan furrowed his brow. “Mustafa.”
She nodded. “But we were at war with France, and I was afraid of becoming a traitor, so every time the sultan asked me to describe the vast numbers of wondrous ships of His Majesty’s navy or to compare England’s far superior modern weapons to his, I would smile and tell him that I was sure Miss Lockwood would have known the answer, but that she hadn’t completed my military education, that I was sorry, but I couldn’t tell a pistol from a rifle, and despite the fact that my grandfather was an admiral, all ships looked alike to me. Eventually the sultan tired of being reminded that his chief eunuch had murdered his greatest source of knowledge. But by that time, I was known in the seraglio as the witch who had enthralled the sultan. He used my eye color as an excuse to ransom me back to my grandfather, by saying that I was sorceress in human form.”
“You did what you had to do to survive.”
“Yes, I did,” she said softly. “When the eunuchs dragged Miss Lockwood’s body away, I swore I would survive. I swore I would keep my promise to her and that I would have my revenge on Mustafa. I hated every moment I spent in the sultan’s company,” India confided. “I would return from his chambers and scrub myself with the hottest water I could find, but I could still smell the stench of him. I’m afraid I always will.” To her very great mortification, her tears came with the force of the monsoon rains. She who hadn’t cried during her five years in a harem had turned into a veritable watering pot within a sennight of her return to England. She who had gone uncomforted and had not been allowed to mourn her dear friend suddenly had someone to hold her and comfort her and promise her everything was going to be all right.
“I am so sorry, Lord Barclay. I don’t usually cry, and I’ve suddenly become a watering pot.”
“Sssh,” Jonathan murmured, holding her against him. “There’s no shame in shedding tears for people you loved or for yourself upon occasion. Some of the strongest men I know have shed buckets of tears at one time or another.” He leaned closer and sniffed her ear. “And just so you know, you smell clean to me.” He breathed in the scent of her fragrance. “Cleaner than a spring morning. Cleaner than a field of daisies. Cleaner than a brook babbling in Scotland. Cleaner than a ray of sunshine. Cleaner than the prince regent’s wash on Monday morning. Why, I’ll vow you’re the cleanest girl in all of England.”
India smiled through her tears.
“Nothing you did and nothing the sultan or his eunuch did to you can ever sully you in my eyes.”
“Except murder,” she reminded him, sobbing harder. “I wanted him dead. I tried, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t . . .”
“That just proves how clean and good you are,” Jonathan told her. “And believe me, by morning, Mustafa will wish you had. So, let him suffer. Let him live with the fact that you bested him, that you would have killed him had I not pulled you away. Let him live with his failure. That’s a better revenge, because you’ll be free to live your life however you choose, and Mustafa will be back in Istanbul.”
“Back to his old life and his old ways,” India replied bitterly. “Back to strangling troublesome concubines for pleasure.”
“No,” Jonathan told her. “Because by the time Mustafa returns to Istanbul, someone else will be sultan’s most trusted chief eunuch. And if Mustafa ever sets foot on English soil again, it will be to stand trial for the murder of Miss Lockwood, I promise you that. Now,” he whispered, “close your eyes and go to sleep.”
“I can’t . . .”