Devil's Daughter (Devil 2)

“Lady Arabella Welles, your highness,” said Raj, and gently pushed Arabella forward.

“Ah,” Kamal said slowly. He could not prevent himself studying her. In the soft candlelight her hair looked like spun gold. It flowed long and silky down her back, held off her forehead by a simple gold embroidered band. She was dressed in the Turkish fashion, and the gossamer veils did nothing to hide her. He finally met her eyes and smiled reluctantly, for she was staring at him as closely as he was her.

Arabella stood stiffly, her hands fisted at her sides. She would not show fear; she must not. She studied the man lounged on the soft cushions before her. She had not remarked earlier how very fine-looking he was. Not that it mattered. He was her enemy, the son of the vicious contessa. She heard Raj say, “It was walnut stain, highness, doubtless used to protect her on her voyage here. She is again as she was.”

A beautiful whore, Kamal thought, wishing perhaps that she weren’t so lovely. He could picture her dressed in her European finery. He wondered if she would try to seduce him to gain her ends.

Hassan said, “She does not wear a veil, Raj, nor does she kneel to his highness.”

Arabella felt a quiver of anger, and her fists clenched harder. She felt Raj’s soft fingers lightly touch her arm. “Lady Arabella is not Muslim,” he said.

She drew herself up straighter, narrowing her dark eyes at the old man, who was regarding her speculatively.

“Still—” Hassan said, taken aback by the fury in those dark eyes.

“I do not kneel to animals,” Arabella said in a loud, clear voice, “even though they pretend royalty.”

“I see that you could do nothing about her tongue, Raj,” Kamal said. He uncoiled his powerful body to stand in front of her. She raised her eyes to his face and looked at him with contempt. So, he thought, she was still bent upon her insults. He had planned to treat her as a European lady, to speak to her gently and try to explain why she was here. Evidentl

y, as a Muslim, he was worthy only of her insults. It angered him. Without warning, his hand shot out and wound about a thick mass of hair. Slowly he wrapped it about his hand, drawing her toward him.

“Kneel before your master,” he said pleasantly.

“Go to hell,” Arabella said.

Kamal released her hair suddenly and hooked his leg behind hers, throwing her forward. Arabella fell on her knees, momentarily stunned. She growled in fury and tried to jump up, only to feel his hands on her shoulders, keeping her down.

“That is where a slave and a woman belongs,” Kamal said. “You will stay there until I give you leave to rise.”

Raj stared at Kamal in consternation. Never had he treated any woman thus. He knew too that Arabella wouldn’t submit, and he feared for her life. He opened his mouth, but he wasn’t in time. Arabella thrust out her hands and shoved at Kamal’s legs with all her strength. He staggered backward, but kept his balance.

“Highness,” Raj said, quickly moving in front of the girl.

Arabella leapt to her feet and turned to run, but she got no farther than the door. Raj held her arm firmly. “No, little one,” he said.

“You protect the little slut?” Her eyes darted to his face and he saw fury in their depths. “Leave us,” he said. “I wish to dine now, and the slave will keep me company. Perhaps she can even be taught manners.”

Raj heard the low hiss of her breath and said quietly, “Take care, my lady. You might consider conciliation. His highness is as much European as he is Muslim.”

She blinked in surprise until she remembered that his mother was indeed European.

Why is he protecting her? Kamal wondered. They were quickly left alone. He saw her glance dart about the chamber, and he did not have to be told that she was searching for a way to escape.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing to the cushions set in front of the low sandalwood table. For a moment he thought she would refuse, but she eased herself down to the cushions. He rang a small golden bell beside him, and three young Nubian boys entered, each carrying covered silver dishes.

Kamal looked at the girl opposite him. She was paying him no attention, her eyes fixed on her plate, but her rigid body gave her away. He allowed the boys to serve them, then nodded his head for them to leave.

“It is baked mutton in curry and fennel. Eat.”

Arabella shook her head. “No,” she said. “I am not hungry.”

He said slowly, his voice very precise, “If you were in the presence of any other man in this country, you would now be dead, your body thrown to the dogs.”

“What is the matter?” she asked him in an equally precise voice. “You have no dogs for your barbaric sport?”

“Ah, certainly I have. But for you, little slut, I would have my soldiers take you. You would doubtless, however, find that quite enjoyable.”

The words were scarce out of his mouth when he felt the grains of rice strike his face. She was staring at him, her face perfectly white. She dropped her spoon to the table.