"A rose of dawn," Mahmoud was understood to say. "A pearl. Very beauteous, cheeks as blossoms, and hair as the rising sun. The Man of the Sea has always been a judge of the fair sex."
She felt her face burning.
"I am well inclined to your gift," was the next bland translation of the Sultan's words. "I will take great pleasure in her."
Olympia looked at the Greek girl with a start.
"With respect and sorrow," the girl translated as Sheridan answered in Turkish, "I cannot give her to you. We are married."
Mahmoud's amiable expression altered a little. He looked puzzled. "I was told that you brought me a gift."
There was a tension around Sheridan's mouth. "I come empty-handed," the girl translated him. "I own the air that I breathe, and nothing else."
There was a silence in the tent.
"You have not prospered since you left me."
"I have not."
Mahmoud smiled. "And you have come back. That is very well. I have work for you, and rewards in plenty."
Sheridan said nothing.
"Tell him," Olympia whispered to Sheridan, "that you're escorting me to Rome."
He didn't glance at her, nor did he say anything else to Mahmoud.
"I lost much of my navy in the conflict at Navarino," the girl interpreted as the Sultan continued. "It is the will of God—a perfect time for complete reform. I wish to take the opportunity to rebuild on the English model. You will tell me what is best, inspect my new ships—teach strategy and seamanship to my capitan pashas. I will make you Grand Admiral."
The matter-of-fact assumption that Sheridan would be staying made Olympia jump to her feet. "Tell the Sultan," she said, to the Greek girl this time, "that he's already the Lord High Admiral of the Navy of Oriens, and isn't available for the Sultan's service."
The girl looked horrified.
"Tell him," Olympia insisted.
In a barely audible voice, the girl spoke rapidly, ending the speech with a series of bows with her forehand to the floor.
"Did she tell him?" Olympia demanded of Sheridan.
He flashed a look sideways at her. "Yes," he muttered. "Now sit the devil down!"
She hesitated a moment and then lowered herself onto the rich rugs. But she kept her gaze leveled at Mahmoud. She wasn't the foremost Princess of Oriens, the Falkland Islands and Points In Between for nothing. She hoped she gave him the Evil Eye. "And tell him—" she began.
"Olympia," Sheridan murmured, without looking at her. "Do you see those guards?"
She glanced at the impassive guards who stood on either side of the divan. Their curved scimitars gleamed dully in the delicate blue light of the tent.
"If he raises his hand," Sheridan said in a soft, neutral voice, "all our heads will go out of here in silver bowls."
Olympia bit her lip. She glanced again at the silent guards. Then she lifted her chin and said to her interpreter, "Tell him that I don't wish to insult him, but I am a princess, and if he executes me, it will create an international incident."
The Greek girl fumbled out a squeak of translation.
Mahmoud tilted his head. A wry smile curled in the trimmed beard. He spoke.
"He says Madam reminds him of his mother," the girl whispered.
Olympia lifted her chin. "Thank you," she said clearly.
Mahmoud laughed even before he heard the translation. "The Man of the Sea has taken a lioness to wife."
"A sultana," Sheridan responded, which sent Mahmoud into a great howl of amusement.
"Yes, I know the like," he said. "Daughters and sisters I have in plenty. I will bestow another such upon you, and they can growl at one another and leave you to your pipe and God's peace."
Olympia stiffened, but Sheridan answered by gently skirting the topic. "You make me feel old, Mahmoud. Do you have grown daughters?"
"Beautiful daughters. You have none?"
"No. No children."
Mahmoud looked with vague disapproval at Olympia. She felt like announcing that it was certainly no fault of hers, but decided the subject was beneath her dignity to recognize.
Mahmoud sighed. "Life is fleeting. You should have children, my friend." He looked at Sheridan, his dark eyes wistful. "You would not be a beggar if you had stayed with me. Your life would not be barren of family and friends."
Sheridan said nothing again. Olympia reached up and took his hand. For a long, long moment he didn't react, and then his fist tightened firmly around hers. He spoke—paused, and spoke again.
"I have what God has seen fit to give me," came the girl's whispered interpretation. "I am more fortunate than I deserve."
Mahmoud's dark eyes rested on them. "You are modest, but that is good; it is God's grace in you. I have recently been told of your deeds with the English." He tilted his head quizzically as the Greek girl quoted him to Olympia. "You were a favorite with me, always. I searched for you many years, do you know that? I sent out pursuit. But no one knew the name the English call you, and I had no word of the man who wore my crescent."
The girl sucked in a dismayed breath at Sheridan's answer, making Olympia listen anxiously to the quiet translation.
"With respect," the gift interpreted him, "I did not wish you to have word."
Mahmoud sat still, his hands on his knees. Only his eyes moved, flicking toward Sheridan and away and back again, almost shyly. "Do you remember the day I found you?" the girl translated his murmur. "The first day I ever dared venture outside the palace, I found you hiding from your owner and the dogs in the Street of Nail. Do you remember how I felt compassion when I saw how you had been beaten, and put off my disguise, and ordered him to give you up to me?"
Sheridan bent his head in silent assent.
"And I do not forget," the girl whispered as Mahmoud spoke. "I do not forget how the crowd in the street gathered when they recognized their prince, and howled and pushed, and I was stupid with fear of them—and you were clever and calm and showed me the way to safety. That was the first time. Many times after that we went outside together in secret masquerade. Outside The Cage. And then when the upstart's dogs—may they burn for eternity—came for Selim and I, you showed me safety again. I have not forgotten. We are the same, you and I. We like to roam outside the walls."
"We are not the same," came Sheridan's answer. "Mahmoud—the walls belong to you."
The Sultan sat silent for a moment. Then he looked at Olympia and spoke suddenly.
"He asks—do you enjoy this palace at Beykoz?" the girl murmured to her.
"Oh, yes. It's magnificent," she said, relieved to go on to a neutral subject. "Truly superb."
His dark eyes slid to Sheridan, rested on him intently. "I will give it to you."
Sheridan's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on hers. Before he could answer, Mahmoud spoke again.
"The Grand Admiral of the Fleet must have a worthy residence. The Chief Eunuch will see that it is staffed properly, and a household purse dispensed with regularity. It is a post of many gifts, my friend. You will prosper. The capitan pashas will be diligent in pursuing their favor with you."
"You would do better to have them diligent in pursuit of the enemy's ships." The girl's murmured translation was serious, but Olympia caught the slight curl at the edge of Sheridan's mouth. "If it is a navy you desire."
Mahmoud gave his quick, white grin, unoffended. "That is your task."
Sheridan lifted his chin. He said something—soft and even.
The smile faded from the Sultan's face, and the Greek girl moistened her lips without translating. Olympia glanced toward her, and in a barely audible voice, she muttered breathlessly, "No, he says; no, it is not his task. Oh, madam—he says his loyalty is to you, madam."
Olympia glanced back, to find Mahmoud's eyes on her. He stroked his beard, the light flashing off three huge diamond rings. When he spoke, his voice was equally as soft as Sheridan's.
Olympia felt Sheridan go taut beside her. She had to pinch the trembling girl be
fore she would interpret the Sultan's words. "The Sultan says—the Sultan says—" She ducked her head even farther down. "'I hold her in my hand…therefore your loyalty is ultimately to me.'"
The whisper of the English words died away into silence. Mahmoud tilted his head with another low comment.
"Is that not true?" the gift mumbled, hastily interpreting his words.
Sheridan answered, his voice slow and inflexible.
"As long as you hold her safe…it is true," came the quivering translation. "For that long only."
Mahmoud stared at Sheridan, his lips pressed in a faint, peculiar expression, petulant and wistful. For a moment he looked more like a small, sad, thwarted boy than the Sultan of All the World. The Greek girl was shaking visibly now, the only indication that this somber man had the power to take their heads with just the lift of one diamond-studded finger.
Mahmoud raised his hands and clapped. The girl made a tiny moan and Olympia sucked in her breath. There was a rustle behind them at the door of the tent.
Sheridan rose. Olympia turned her head.
On the carpet behind them, each person held strictly at the right elbow by a eunuch, stood a small European delegation. It was composed of a tall, elegantly dressed blond man, two shorter male strangers, Captain Francis Fitzhugh…and Mrs. Julia Plumb.
Twenty-Six
* * *
When Sheridan lay down, he was shaking inside. He stared into darkness, and all he could think was that they had taken her from him—and he'd let them: Julia and Fitzhugh and some beef-brained blond Prince of Somewhere; the British ambassador had been there, all the big guns, too much power, too much civilized muscle; there hadn't been a chance—not a chance, if Mahmoud wouldn't stop them. And he hadn't.
Now Sheridan was trapped, made by the wave of a hand into a Grand Admiral and a slave, because every one of Mahmoud's ministers, right up to the Grand Vizier, was the Sultan's slave in Ottoman eyes. They ran the country, but they were slaves, their lives circumscribed by the whims of absolute sovereignty. Not that it had ever been a whole devil of a lot different in the British navy. Here they just called a spade a spade.
His bloody big show of defiance with Mahmoud had got him nowhere. Sheridan hardly knew what he'd meant by it anyway. It was all so pointless—why hadn't he known they would be waiting, Julia and the ambassador, with a writ for Sheridan's arrest and their own schemes for his princess? Why hadn't he been planning for it, all those drifting days in the desert and mountains? Where the hell had he been?
He got up from the rich pile of bedding and paced out onto the terrace. The Bosporus gleamed faintly under the starlight, the lights of fishermen scattered like more stars on the surface.
Now they were going to marry her off to that great blond hulk, that was what Julia had announced. Prince of God-Knew-Where; the politics were all different; Sheridan was no longer the topping wonderful choice he'd appeared to be a year ago—this other chap was going to bring law and order to the entire European continent if only they could get him leg-shackled to Princess Olympia, and thank God there'd never been a Christian ceremony with Sheridan, how fortunate, no need to treat him to a knife between the ribs in order to free her up after all.
And Fitzhugh—Fitzhugh had called him out five times already, poor, hysterical bastard. The upright captain wasn't having any of Olympia herself now that he knew the truth, of course, but he was panting to avenge her honor. He seemed to have got it all mixed up with patriotism and public spirit and a whole barrel of other unrelated rot, carrying on like bejesus until Mahmoud got tired of it and had him removed.
Sheridan ran his palms down his face and sighed. It had been one deuce of a day.
But it all had a certain inevitability. He found balance in it. He stood there in the darkness, furious and miserable and alone—and strangely comfortable with himself. Things were just as they'd always been before his princess had come along: he was solitary, expecting nothing, giving nothing, no demands and no dreams and no contact. Just survive—one day at a time.
Angry as he was, at Julia and Mahmoud and the rest of those diplomatic snakes, he was in complete control. There was no chance he'd wake up and find he'd started some lunatic one-man battle with armed guards. Not now. Something had happened to him when he'd seen them whisk his princess away so fast that she hardly even had a chance to change expression before she was gone. Something had fallen back into place.
In that instant, he'd been brutally compelled to face life again as it really was and see his proper place in it. He despised himself for being a pawn, but it was a familiar spite. It fitted like a well-worn shoe.
He could quit trying, because there was no way he'd win. They were taking her away from him, and he could relinquish this haunting fantasy of love at last.
He was meant to be alone; he understood that now. It felt hard and real and right. It was bitter, yes, but solitude was an old, old friend. He was not meant to be close to another human being; that was the source of this mess inside him. She was the source. He'd been weak and a fool: wanting, wanting…believing in that dream, but it just made his feelings into mayhem, believing things like that.
He should have known better. But their time on the island had made him forget that some doors were shut and locked for damned good reasons. Where there were unicorns, there were tigers, too. He couldn't open to one without letting out the other.
He felt better, safer, now that he'd sealed it all away. He was himself again. In control. His future didn't look so bad. Mahmoud wanted a Grand Admiral—Sheridan was willing to do that. He could live like a king, keep a hareem, smoke a narguile and spend his days plotting for honors and riches and licking the Sultan's slippers.
Right in Sherry's line.
He stared into the shadows of the trees. The turmoil inside him was gone. He wasn't exactly at peace, but he was empty, at any rate. Better to be a desert than a maelstrom.
He thought of Olympia, of her round breasts beneath the gauzy fabric. It occurred to him suddenly that she would be gone tomorrow. They'd take her from this country palace down to Stamboul and put her and her new fiancé on a ship for the royal wedding in Upper Burgomeisterstein or wherever. Sheridan's one regret was that he'd gone through all that frustration to save her maidenhead just for some Teutonic bastard who walked around with his medal-laden chest stuck out like an oversexed rooster.
For a few moments, he brooded on that injustice. Behind him, the palace was silent and dark, just the constant whisper of fountains and the wind in the trees. Slowly, a hard, intent smile curved his lips. He turned back to the room. Armed with a slipper lamp and a satin robe trimmed with sable pulled on over his breeches, he began a midnight prowl of his new home.
Olympia dreamed she was running. The Sultan's eunuchs chased her with whips and scimitars, and she kept trying to find Sheridan, but she couldn't, not in all the halls and courtyards and gardens. Then as she despaired, he was there, whispering her name in the darkness, his arms pulling her close, hiding and protecting her…
She clung to him. It was his kiss that brought her to full awareness: deep and demanding; she opened to him with a cry of gladness as she realized he was really there.
She tried to say his name, but he pressed her back against the cushions. Dim lamplight touched the side of his face. "Don't talk." His breath was a heavy warmth at her throat. "Do you want me?"
"Are we—"
He stopped her question of escape with another kiss. There was something different about him, something purposeful. Instead of whispering a plan of evasion for spiriting them both to safety and freedom, he fingered the pearl buttons that held her caftan. They sprawled open, and he cupped her naked breast. His body moved over hers.
She felt his urgency. He was rough, spreading the silk away from her with primitive moves, capturing her hands and pinning them together above her head. The golden lamplight caught the hot intent in his face.
"Sheridan?" she whispered in confusion.
"Love me," he m
uttered, pressing a line of swift kisses down the side of her face to her lips. "Open for me."
Then he forced her to it without waiting, made her accept his tongue seeking deep in the kiss. He wore nothing; everywhere he'd bared her, his skin touched hers. His weight spread her legs, a burning warmth against her thighs.
Olympia whimpered a little under the aggressive power of his body. His maleness pressed her, sparking the eternal urge to arch upward into the demand even as he hurt her with his ruthless hold. Then shock and animal excitement flowed through her. She understood at last what he wanted: the stiff swell of his body pushed hard, seeking entry.
Of course—of course! She made a wordless sound of passionate accord. She'd wanted him this way forever; now she'd be his, utterly; protected from this crazy new marriage to a stranger that they'd planned for her. The humiliation of the doctor's examination she'd suffered that afternoon evaporated under Sheridan's possessive touch.
"Oh, yes," she whispered, and unfolded like a flower. "Oh, please…"
He responded, thrusting strongly into her warm invitation. She tilted her head back and drew a sharp breath, surrendering to his conquest, reveling in the pressing burn of his body forcing hers. It hurt a little, yes—but it felt so glorious. This prince would never want her now—she'd seen enough of his icy blond pride to know that. Sheridan's kiss was like a flame against her throat, his hands a brand around her wrists.
Soft moans escaped her. His invasion filled her. Her body tightened and moved beneath his. He seemed to fill up the whole world, the sounds in his throat filled her ears, the glistening curve of his neck and shoulder filled her sight—he was everything, every inch of her belonged to him, joined with him.
She buried her face in his shoulder as he thrust again and again, taking full possession of her in power and mindless passion. Something in her responded as it had not before: before, when he had always been in control; before, when he had put her pleasure ahead of his own, never forgetting himself, never losing himself to the ecstasy that drove them now—satin and silken rug at her back, his breath in her ear, heavy with the low sob of fervor as he pressed deep within her and held there. Her body was full of him, molten with him, rising beyond thought into pure sensation. It was so different, so vivid—this was real, and all that had gone before a dream.