The lady of a sultan, p.5
The Lady of a Sultan, page 5
“This is as fine as any Aubusson carpeting,” she murmured as she knelt to run her palm over the wool fibers.
The sight of a platter of fruits set atop the dressing table was a reminder they hadn’t eaten since that morning. Helping herself to a cluster of grapes, Charlotte thought they tasted better than any she had eaten in England. She held out a bunch to Parma, and grinned when she noted how her eyes rounded in appreciation.
About to select an apple, Charlotte gave a start at seeing her trunks and the valise shoved up against one wall. Apparently the luggage had been delivered to the chamber whilst they were in the sultan’s presence. She winced at seeing their condition, though. A quick glance inside showed their clothes appeared the same as when the pirate had tossed them about. She found a night rail and pulled it out, grimacing when she noticed the fabric was stained with fingerprints left by the pirate. Parma was quick to pull out another for her, and the two prepared for bed.
Feeling ever so exhausted, she gave Parma an encouraging word as she helped herself to one of the blankets and settled onto a long cushion. The light from the oil lamps barely reached the ceiling, but what she could make out appeared to be images of either Greek or Roman deities. She soon realized they were not paintings but rather mosaics made up of tiny tiles.
Despite her tiredness, she remained wide awake as the images above were replaced by those of their host as they filled her mind’s eye.
Sultan Ziyaeddin I.
She had heard of him. As the ruler of the Ottoman Empire, his name had been spoken with both respect and with hate in London. He had been both an enemy and an ally.
What would she be to him?
An image of his face haunted her mind’s eye. He hadn’t tried to hide his scars when she was close enough to see his face. Perhaps he thought they made him appear more formidable. More frightening. Or perhaps he had no idea of their affect on those new to him.
Or maybe he didn’t care.
Joshua’s burn scars had been so bad, he felt forced to hide them behind a mask. He’d had no desire to frighten anyone. For a time, he had preferred not to accept any callers, not wishing to take a chance his appearance might offend someone.
Charlotte wondered at the odd sensation she’d felt when the sultan had turned his attention on her. Even with the scars, he was handsome in a rough sort of way. No amount of brocade and gold threads could soften his obvious masculinity. Usually a man of such harsh features wouldn’t appeal to her.
So what was it about Sultan Ziyaeddin that had her staying awake on this night?
CHAPTER 8
AN INTRODUCTION TO PALACE LIFE
The following morning
“What do you suppose will happen to us, my lady?” Parma asked from where she had settled onto a stack of cushions near a colored glass window. If she pressed her cheek into the glass and stared hard enough, she could see through it, although the scene beyond appeared distorted.
Charlotte was staring into a different glass, an ornately framed mirror hung above the dressing table. All things considered, she thought her appearance no different from when she had departed Wisborough Oaks.
That morning’s bath had certainly helped, even if it had required she undress in front of two burly bare-chested men whose upper arms were larger than her thighs. Both were bald, dark skinned, and unlike the guards she had seen stationed around certain doors, they didn’t sport beards and mustaches. Their fierce expressions were quite at odds with their livery, for they wore loose white şalvar and pointy-toed slippers.
When Charlotte scoffed at the suggestion she step into the small bathing pool with the two men present, the Greek servant who had escorted them to the bathing chamber revealed why she had been chosen for the duty.
She could speak English.
“They are eunuchs, here to see that no one interrupts your bath,” the slender woman whispered in heavily accented English. “Other than the sultan, no men are allowed to see the women in here.”
The servant had then bowed and removed her and Parma’s dressing gowns. She kept them folded over one arm as she stood and waited with a stack of linens so finely woven, Charlotte thought the fabric suitable for a dinner gown.
“Do you have a name?” Charlotte asked in a quiet voice.
The servant gave her a quelling glance, as if she was offended by the query. “Elena. We all have names here.”
“I am called... Charlotte, and this is my lady’s maid, Parma,” Charlotte said, hesitant to mention her title.
Elena merely shrugged, as if she had no reason to know their names.
After they had both been forced to bathe under the harsh gaze of the two eunuchs, Elena took them back to their chamber. When asked what would happen to them, she merely shrugged. “I do not know.”
Parma had been able to style Charlotte’s hair from the few pins that had remained after their ordeal with the pirates. “I’ll look for some more in the trunks,” she promised when she stepped back to assess the simple coiffure.
Now that she was suitably dressed in a lavender day gown and had applied her usual perfume and cosmetics—lip color and faint rouge—Charlotte felt more herself. She considered their shared fate. “Well, if the sultan wanted us dead, he would have seen to it yesterday with that sword of his,” she reasoned. As for what he intended to do with them, she really had no idea.
“That servant was a slave,” Parma stated, referring to Elena.
Charlotte blinked as she turned to face Parma. “How do you know that?”
Her lady’s maid displayed a pained expression as she handed her mistress a fan featuring hand-painted flowers. “Those men with the sultan yesterday... they were Turkish. He is Turkish. Except for his wives, all the women in this palace are no doubt slaves, and his wives may as well be, too,” she claimed. “He probably has a harem of at least a hundred women.”
Swallowing, Charlotte suddenly understood why Parma seemed so worried about their fate. She was from India. There were sultans there, too. In her youth, she had no doubt heard stories of women being captured and sold into slavery. Women who disappeared by the walls of a palace, never to be seen again.
Charlotte wished she had been able to understand the verbal exchange that had occurred between the sultan and the pirates the evening prior. Perhaps she and Parma had been sold as slaves to the sultan. If so, what sort of service would they be required to perform?
Surely the sultan wouldn’t want her in his bed. She was a widow. Although she probably wasn’t too old to bear a child, she certainly didn’t possess the exotic appearance of the few women they had seen since their arrival, their lower faces covered with veils so only their dark outlined eyes and brows were visible. The other was Elena, the Greek servant who had witnessed their bath.
When the same servant arrived a moment later, Charlotte attempted to learn more from her. “Can you tell me where we are? What’s to happen to us?”
The servant shook her head. “I can only say that I am to escort you to my sultan. Do you have something to hide your face?” She made a motion to indicate the space between the top of her nose down to her chin.
Charlotte scoffed. “I’ve a fan, of course,” she replied as she lifted it to shield the lower half of her face from view.
Parma was quick to retrieve another fan from the valise. She turned her attention to Elena. “Should I use one as well?”
“You are to remain here,” Elena stated.
Charlotte exchanged a worried glance with Parma before she nodded and followed the servant through a series of wide corridors to the same chamber where the pirates had unceremoniously dumped her and Parma at the ruler’s feet only the evening prior. She was glad for the fan as it gave her something to hang onto—even if it wouldn’t work as a weapon.
One guard knocked on the door, disappearing for a moment before he motioned for the other two guards to open both carved doors. Due to the pandemonium of the day before, Charlotte hadn’t given a thought to their manner of dress. To the odd cylindrical hats made of scarlet felt. To the black leather boots that bore a resemblance to those worn by the gentlemen who rode horses in Hyde Park. To the curved scabbards that hung at their sides, decorative sword hilts clearly on display.
Her gaze darting to Elena, Charlotte wondered why the woman had quickly stepped away from her. Now she was waving frantically, motioning for Charlotte to enter the sultan’s throne room.
Charlotte turned her attention to the man who sat at the other end of the stone-walled chamber. She would have liked a moment to marvel at the gold-tinged walls, the mosaic-tiled ceiling, and the rich fabrics that covered a series of cushions which lined the Turkish carpet leading to the sultan’s throne, but the appearance of the man himself captivated her.
Ensconced on the simple gilded throne and wearing a blue brocade coat embellished with gold embroidery, the sultan was leaning on one elbow. His attention was on a parchment another similarly dressed man had apparently just delivered. That man bowed deeply before backing away from the sultan. After a few steps, he turned and rushed out the door, his kaftan flying open to reveal a long red embroidered tunic and darker red şalvar.
Charlotte was tempted to watch the man’s exit after he passed her, but her gaze remained fixed on the sultan.
His beard was definitely shorter than it had been the night before. His black-outlined eyes appeared as if they were made of silver and were set in a face that could have been chiseled from stone.
All she had remembered had been his fierce expression as the pirates presented her and Parma. The sharp tone of his voice when he replied to their words. The scars on his cheek. His long beard, streaked with gray. His announcement of his title and name. His perusal of her and Parma as they were led away by the two female servants.
Although she probably should have feared him the day before, she hadn’t. He was no different than a king. She had attended Prinny’s court enough times in her capacity as Duchess of Chichester to understand the rules of addressing such a head of state. As a duchess, she also knew not to cower. To stand as straight as possible, holding up her chin as if a book rested upon her head and needed to remain there as she moved.
Nevertheless, she had been relieved when she realized she was to remain in whatever this stone-walled structure was, surrounded by opulent drapes, plump cushions, ceilings covered in mosaics, and floors covered with patterned carpets. She would have felt fear if she’d had to go with the pirates, for their intentions obviously involved using her to earn some blunt.
When the sultan raised his gaze from the document he held, his eyes locked with hers, and it was everything Charlotte could do to withhold an audible gasp. To display a pleasant expression. To pretend she didn’t notice the severity of the scars on his right cheek.
His shorter beard made the three scars much more apparent.
By no means were they as severe as the scars her late husband had sported since the fire that took his parents’ lives. His older brother and younger sister, too. Nearly half of Joshua’s face had suffered burns, as had some of his left torso.
Charlotte had seen him when the burns were fresh. Smelled the charred flesh. Fought the resulting nausea and vowed she would do whatever was necessary to see to it he had the very best doctor. That he would live to claim the Chichester dukedom as his own.
Even though Dr. Regan hadn’t expected Joshua to live, she had seen to it that the he did.
A deep voice spoke words she couldn’t understand, and Charlotte was pulled from her reverie. The sultan, his dark brows furrowed, used a hand to beckon her, the parchment he held apparently forgotten.
Barely aware her feet were moving, Charlotte was reminded of her first presentation at King George III’s court. She had been seventeen at the time, wearing a ridiculous Georgian-era gown with wide panniers and so many furbelows, she might have been mistaken for a rather large cake. Her current gown’s bell skirt and snug bodice wasn’t much different, she supposed, although it was devoid of the excessive decorations. Coupled with the golden light from a nearby window, the lavender fabric practically glowed.
At the end of the cushions that lined the carpet runner beneath her feet, she stopped and dipped a low curtsy. Her head bowed before she straightened to see the sultan regarding her with the oddest expression.
A stream of what sounded like a scold came from somewhere behind her, but Charlotte kept her gaze on the sultan. His attention went to the source of the harsh sounding words, his eyes blazing with anger as he lifted one arm and made a dismissive motion.
Although she desperately wanted to see whoever it was who had spoken, Charlotte resisted the urge to turn around.
A response came in the form of a murmur—an apology, perhaps?—and she heard the doors behind her close.
The sultan turned his attention to her, and Charlotte had to resist the urge to stare. Had to keep her pleasant expression from conveying her momentary horror.
The scar she had noticed from a distance was definitely caused by a blade, the three cuts deep and arranged so they formed a ‘Z.’
Z for Ziyaeddin? she wondered as she waited for him to finish his perusal of her.
He spoke directly to her, which had Charlotte blinking. Prior to the day before, she had never heard the language he spoke. “Apologies, Your Highness, but I do not understand,” she said, bowing her head again.
The sultan regarded her a moment. “You are English?”
Charlotte’s eyes rounded. “I am, Your Highness.”
He took the step down from in front of his throne and stood only a few feet in front of her. The way his head lifted and turned slightly suggested he had caught a whiff of her floral perfume. “Your name?”
Deciding it would be best to tell him—surely a ruler would have more regard for a foreign aristocrat than a commoner—she replied, “Charlotte, Duchess of Chichester.”
His slight recoil meant he knew enough English to understand her words.
“A king’s daughter?” he guessed, his brows furrowed as if in thought. “No, for then you would be a princess,” he murmured.
“An earl’s daughter,” she said. “The Earl of Ellsworth was my father,” she replied. “My late husband was the Duke of Chichester.”
He clasped his hands behind his back as he processed the information. After a moment, he huffed. “I am Ziyaeddin Sultan the First.” The last word was said with a smirk, as if he found ‘the First’ amusing.
Charlotte angled her head, not about to remind him that he had introduced himself the night before. “Is it true you are the ruler of the Ottoman Empire?” she asked in awe, remembering Captain Popodopolos’ mention of the man over dinner the first night of the voyage. His name had been spoken at the last ball Joshua and she had attended in London as well.
“I am,” he replied, a brow arching in surprise.
His name had also been spoken again later by their youngest son, James. Something about an heir... “Do you have a son attending university in Cambridge?” she asked.
Both of Ziyaeddin’s brows arched, and his expression conveyed surprise. “Two of them. My seventh and my ninth. You... you have heard of them?” His eyes rounded. “Has one of my sons done something so egregious they have earned demerits?”
Even as Charlotte was forced to suppress a grin—did all parents think their sons were causing trouble whilst at university?—she feared he would be disappointed if he learned his name had been said in passing, and not always in a favorable way. “I have heard of you, of course, Your Highness.”
Ziyaeddin frowned. “Followed by a curse, no doubt,” he murmured. “The English were our enemies in the war with Greece.”
“But allies only a year ago,” she countered. “Your name was spoken with respect, sir,” she quickly added. “As for your sons, I have heard no rumors of demerits. I’m quite sure if they had earned any, my younger son would have mentioned it prior to completing his studies. He attended Cambridge as well. Before he set off on his Grand Tour.”
Straightening, Ziyaeddin regarded her as a slow grin lifted his lips. “You will walk with me,” he stated.
“I would be honored, Your Highness,” she replied, once again dipping a curtsy. She expected him to offer an arm as she turned to join him on his way to the door. When he didn’t, she made sure to keep more distance between them, not sure of the protocols in his court.
His hands still clasped behind his back, Ziyaeddin led them down the same corridor from which Charlotte had come, but they passed by the door to the room in which she and Parma had spent the night. When they turned into another corridor, he slowed his steps and glanced back, as if he feared they were being followed.
“What is it, Your Highness?” Charlotte asked in a quiet voice.
“Emir Efendi seeks an answer I am not yet ready to give,” he replied. He paused in mid-step and regarded her with a look of surprise. “How did you know...?” He allowed the query to hang in the air as he rolled his eyes.
“You seemed distracted, is all. Which cannot be helped given your position, of course,” she replied, hoping she had guessed correctly. “Your empire is rather large—”
“Not as large as it was when I inherited—”
“And covers a good deal of ground. It must be very difficult to oversee all the details.”
He blinked as he regarded her with suspicion before he resumed walking. “There is much to do when one is a ruler,” he finally agreed. His measured pace wasn’t hurried nor was it a stroll as they made their way down a long carpeted corridor lit with decorative sconces. “Especially when there are those who think they can do it better when in fact they only want the power and will do it wrong.”
The corridor ended and daylight streamed onto a balcony surrounded by a stone balustrade. He took a deep breath, his eyes closed as he lifted his face to the sun.
