Free The Harem Bride by Blair Bancroft Page A

pounded his fist against
carriage frame—he did not know. Surely Lord Elgin . . .
    But a half hour later, as Miss Pemberton
finished pouring out the whole terrible tale, with wailed
interjections—primarily apologies—from Faik, Viscount Lyndon, for
the first time in his life, knew despair. He had heard many tales
in the last few weeks of the great value placed on beautiful
virgins with blonde hair and blue eyes. In a city the size of
Constantinople, where women were hidden away behind impenetrable
walls, the task of finding her was impossible. She was lost.
    “ Nakshedil, wife of our former Sultan
Abdulhamid—may Allah give rest to his soul—is a Frenchwoman,” Faik
was saying as Jason’s attention returned to the conversation. “She
was taken by Barbarossa’s pirates and given as a gift to the
Sultan. He was so enchanted with her, he made her one of his
wives.”
    “ Aimée de Rivery,” Cassandra Pemberton
murmured. “I have heard the story. She is still at the palace,
then?” she asked, her tone taking on slightly more
animation.
    “ Ah, yes, Miss,” Faik replied. “She is
much respected by the Sultan, who has allowed her to teach him her
language and bring other ways of the French to the
palace.”
    “ Is it possible,” Jason asked, “that
Miss Blayne might be considered a suitable gift for the
Sultan?”
    Faik shrugged. “Only if she is bought by a
man who wishes to gain the Sultan’s favor.” Faik paused, lowered
his voice, speaking to the viscount alone. “Miss Blayne is most
beautiful, my lord. She would bring a great price. It is more
possible her buyer would wish to keep her.”
    “ Should we go to the slave markets?”
Jason demanded.
    Faik’s doleful voice dropped to whisper.
“Such beauty would never be sold on the open market.”
    “ Speak up!” Cassandra Pemberton
demanded. “She is my niece. I
wish to know the worst of it.”
    So Jason told her, somehow finding calm,
coherent words to outline the seriousness of the situation, while
managing to leave some lingering hope. “I will go directly to Lord
Elgin,” the viscount assured her. “He will, I know, initiate every
diplomatic channel that might be useful. And Faik will begin
inquiries among the guides. There have to be rumors about what
happened to her. She is too great a treasure for someone not to let
a tongue slip, bragging of today’s work. I assure you, ma’am,
everything possible will be done. I pledge myself to your
service.”
    For the first time in her life, Miss
Cassandra Pemberton knew what it was to be grateful to a man. This
boy, who had barely reached his majority, was revealed as more of a
man than any she had previously encountered. Her eyes filled with
unaccustomed tears. Her head dropped into her hands, and the sobs
came at last.
    Viscount Lyndon, after calling for Miss
Pemberton’s maid, took his leave, sweeping Faik along with him.
When seated in the carriage, the viscount turned to the guide. “I
am a liar, am I not, Faik? There is no hope at all.”
    “ Sometimes Allah is merciful, my lord,”
Faik intoned.
    There were some who might say God had been
merciful to Aimée de Rivery, Jason thought, but a position as one
of the wives of the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire was far from the
life planned for the French schoolgirl. And it most assuredly was
not the life intended for Penelope Blayne. Yet any fate for a
captured beauty, other than being an odalisque of Sultan Selim the
Third, was worse.
    Jason Lisbourne closed his eyes, rested his
chin on his fist, and wondered if Lord Elgin would be as adept at
locating lost maidens as he was at “rescuing” Greek
antiquities.
     
    Penny roused to the horror of finding
herself encased in a tomb. All was dark, she could not move. Yet
she was moving. The wiggling
and jiggling, the close confinement, brought on a bout of nausea,
which she firmly repressed. She was so tightly wrapped up that
breathing was nearly impossible, and the thought of being ill under
these